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Duck Oct 2012
Damaged people are dangerous because they know how to survive,
And if you've never been damaged you don't know how it feels to be alive,
See struggle is the sauce that gives success its flavour,
when life kicked you down it was doing you a favour.

Cos it's in your darkest hour, not in prosperity
that you will realise your true ability.
Life dunks you in deep waters not to drown you but to cleanse you.
And that's just the beginning of what it will put you through.
But it's chiselling you down, you won't deflate.
It's not wearing you thin, it's getting you to your fighting weight.
Prosperity makes monsters, adversity makes men.
I believe when you reach the top life will yank you back down again.

You didn't break down, you just had a flat tyre
so get back up and relight that fire.
keep it burning and churning at the pit of your heart
and keep on learning and yearning and never fall apart.

Stare life in the eyes
and say "no matter how many times
my spirit won't break if my drive never dies"
So throw me a burden I won't lose my composure,
It's for this very reason that life gave me shoulders.

Get better not bitter
This weather will wither
I'll turn wounds into wisdom
sadness into spirit
tears to tenacity
I will never quit it

Take a deep breath and concentrate your stare
because a road with no obstacles never took you anywhere.
Check out my YouTube channel: www.youtube.com/duckforpope
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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ
:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
If you've a writer's block,
Keep chiselling.
You'll get relief
When you release the piece.
Poetic T Nov 2014
I turn each off looking behind
For with each light extinguished
The darkness spreads forth
Obscured
Blackness
Dimness
Between the realms, one retreating
The other Greedily filling in,
I walk up the stairs, feeling its
Presence,
Imprint,
Impression
I feel it upon my back
For the light in front Darkness climbing,
Feeling its essence ascending
As it grasps my shoulders, to take me back,
But with a each chiselling upon me
There is just a feeling of presence
Faster I walk,
Cushioned
In
Light,
But as I turn the last essence of white,
Darkness encircles me as I lay quietly
Serenity,
Stillness,
Tranquillity,
I lay motionless, my heartbeat is the
Only presence of sound, my eyes perceiving
All around, and the final darkness I see
Is when my eyes close, and I fully embrace
The darkness, and all was consumed by the **night.
Polar Jul 2019
He carves words he has spoken
Of promises unbroken
whispering into the dark
Chiselling delicately into her bones
With tobacco juice to bring out the tones
Quietly engraving symbols and psalms
Living for the night
Working through to the light
Communing only through dreams
In daylight she's secure
Inside a white Alder tree
Protected and respected
Her spirit flies free
Tony Luxton Mar 2017
The poet's toolbox is
an onerous store for skills
with life and death
and words that ****.
Pandora's box with broken locks.

Hammering words,
chiselling words,
leaving the reader
nailed, *******, glued.

Pulsing phantoms through the brain,
playing tricks, memory ******.
But the writing keeps me sane.
RJVHorton Oct 2015
Shenanigans

Ridiculously unusual
This familiar face,
Peering out of a photograph
Into an empty space,
With the eyes of a child
Where my life began,
Yet with the aging skin
Of a dying man.

Grotesquely beautiful,
This gaping wound,
Oozing its mischief,
Honed and fine tuned,
Perfectly imperfect,
Crafted yet shoddy,
Just a few broken fragments
Where there should be a body.

Extraordinarily ordinary,
I am an unknown name,
Written on a stone
Where all stones look the same,
Where the dreams of strangers
Are too vivid to save,
Archived in a memory,
Concealed in a grave.

Unutterable shenanigans
Of lovers and old friends
Pretentious well-wishers
As my life-force ends,
And kneeling at a headstone
Between photographs aflame
Is me, as a child,
Chiselling my name.

© RJVHorton2015
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
Clinton in Harlem, Obama in Dubai... shop at Watergate Mall till you drool on the lives of others! in sequence the N.S.A. archives, meaning you'd be safer off ******* in Siberia than in New York; oi! i'm shooting a documentary with David Attenborough! get your own Jurassic Park of artificial mosquito insemination!*

and with a Nobel prize winner
you'd think the racial tensions
would be left a dying count of
surprises by giving five donkey tails
to five blindfolded children
pinning it on the ***** dozen
of the new testament, starting off
with st. matthew in Ethiopia
and the king's daughter trying ****
in the shadow of the crucifix for
the first time to feel both pleasure and guilt;
hence the lacerations in the Philippines
and would-be philistines when interest rates
came about from chiselling-in faces of people
into raw materials:
write poetry within a canvas of permanent
employment,
otherwise jukebox that ****...
come on, let's write mediocre and let's write
without a hint of desperation,
let's fear death... let's fear writing on the fringe,
non-oratory, just there, poetry like
a penny on the pave, a Frank Sinatra sing-along,
raining coppers and dimes...
let's just keep poetry on the knee readied
for the smack for disobedience juggling two
professions, one prog the other pop,
poetry like a penny on the pavement,
rather than an ingredient list for a curry
memorised for a lass a'coming home
for sheer and sweat.
b mafika Sep 2015
No-one wants your bruised heart. They
don't want your sinking eyes,
still sinking.
Don't go to them
with your hot-flaccid arms and legs, at the ready to melt - they
are not concerned with the currency of high-sloped waves.
Or the heavy part of the ocean that speaks
only to itself and the sky.

Realise that implosions, for them,
are silent
and boring - now, you are implosions:
your voice, your thoughts, your blockings, constantly
*******.

But sweep it all under some dusty rug, for you
to trip on later, because they
don't want anything of you that is not happy.
Drain your being of all its depths.
Then continue every day as a sculptor: chiselling
  at yourself until you form a smile;
filling your sockets with sand.
Deception is the art they prefer.
A year of loneliness, and distance and idled youth
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
concentrate on the symbols... the narrative style is that of being pedantically excited, it's put together haphazardly for a reason... the point being to concentrate on the symbols, most notably in the title, by suggesting that returning to letters, there's an opposite to Copernicus' compass, not regarding north and south, east and west... whether it's heliocentric of geocentric, the compass concerning letters and how they revolve and transform, akin to the later stages of summer and the earliest signs of autumn - or the nomadic paths of man, but simply, on a page.

indeed mathematics breeds a different
type of genius,
                                                  as i already said
mathematicians resound to agree:
we're not drafted to do arithmetic -
                we're not sprinters
   or the world's fastest at: 1 + 2 + 47 - 90 + 1056...
because our phonetic encoding
is overburdening and too much
akin to mathematical symbols -
              B and 8
                                     l or I and 1
             6 and b
                                            3 and E
              S and 5
                                           0 and O
   if the Greeks built and Empire
that spanned into England
                               the Barbarians
would have never adopted the Greek
alphabet -
                          but since it was the Romans
that did so... the Barbarians exploited
the latin alphabet -
      as they did...
                                    it takes a different
way of thinking, we're not talking
etymology, we're talking things like:
organic chemistry's electron movement
   diagrams... what is positive in Latin
  and negative in Rune? or... what is missing
in Latin and necessary to remember Rune?
             in between the disparity between
  >                     and                )
or (                    and              >
               we have the resurrected sharpening
of encoding reminders: accents,
              namely called diacritical marks...
         or a game of matchsticks...
from the barbarian crude or chequered
flints in terms of chipped away curving-edges
into talking smoothed-marble buttocks of statues...
   Bukowski was wrong... Caesar won
in the end...
                     Caesar cared less for world
power, his ultimate maxim was:
a sudden death...
                              and he won... he got
the sudden death...
                                 he didn't say: death in
my sleep, but: sudden death...
                  he won, in the end.
         i never stick to rules, me? a minor
anarchist, in terms of the Nato alphabet,
it's Rome rather than Romeo,
perhaps even Rodeo...
             and it's Jules instead of Juliet...
   Aardvark rather than Alpha
         etc.,
                                 or like refining crude oil...
the crude version is written as
     ᚱ but the civilisation of the times wrote
R...                 odd.. they kept only
               U    in crude form          , they actually invited these
northern conquerors because, as one
chisel-labourer said:
                           the elder alchemist
seeking a golden fern leaf
             to turn stone into papyrus
and a chisel into a quill...
              for all the shortcuts i could
have written, i was told that only U as in V
                      was the only available
aesthetic pardon...
                                      thanks to bureaucracy
so many wars were waged,
because they were expected to not be
overly-eager in their duty,
   but make shortcuts, which they didn't exhibit
because they ****** the thumb of power
till the bones appeared... bones i.e. runes...
    all but a little empowerment
                            and the dictator complex
              comes without armies
but pages of paper, and filofax dilemmas
              of schedule;
             and what became a revelation
of excess shortcuts: ᚱ into R
                    ᚹ into P
              ᚾ into ł (orthodox Christians
make the sign of the cross: forehead,
           chest, right shoulder, left shoulder
amen, or: the glue of the trinity -
         liberal Christians make the sing of
the cross: forehead, chest, left shoulder,
right shoulder, amen; the orthodox
wear their marriage ring on their right hand
the liberal on the left hand, as with the
wristwatch... monogamy is so time consuming)
           nonetheless adapting shortcut
chiselling in either stone or wood
                     and the need for the Roman term
beauty: curvature... invited
                       the barbarian adaptation
to the alphabet... as i already said,
had the Greeks moved that far north,
the Greek alphabet would have been erased...
            primarily the problem of ᚦ  and  θ
          ᚠ and φ         (or the liturgy behind
           the silent twins of the tetragrammaton)
                                                 cut each letter
open... entry point of later adaptation of
what the barbarians said: but we also have
crude elementary accenting of the approximates...
   evolving the > into a ) will not do enough
justice!             how easily F can be translated
   and poured into the eyes...
the mystery lies in something that has no
archaeological prospect of artefact...
            mentality lost in how phonetic encoding
evolved is what modernity calls:
                  concerns for mental health...
we can't simply resurrect the mentalities of
the fathers who revised runes into
                                 Latin appropriation
                 by saying: we're ill because this
was never recorded, or that they were ill
because they were ferocious at the time
   and spilt blood...
                                 these hysterics trying
to see how one came into being from the other
is impossible... i just know that
    it took a lot of straight lines
                       curvatures of similarity in Latin
and the ****** of chisel-worked in Rome
who said: quicker zigzag the runic R like
our pedantic variation of U in V
                    but what if i had to chisel in
the word pulverise? V L V?
                                            comes out in
arithmetic - there are idiots either side:
    I + IV + V = X...
                                   i.e. ᛞ, Norse for day,
    or simply d.
                           idiots either side...
oh just because the Arabs gave us numbers
we have saintly camel jockeys?
                                       idiots either side...
some things correlate, some things don't...
             but nonetheless Greek empire building
would have failed had it reached even Gaul...
        let alone Britain...
     i start my history here...
not with the big bang, not with Darwinism and
the monkey... here... among *these
skeletons...
                           it was always going to be a collective
project...
                          which resulted in
revising the Rune ᛟ                         from the Latin o
                         but also adding the marriage
with ö...                  among other examples
come to think of it... looks like a crude upside-down
version of ω                       - of north
             and the hardened determination
(in intellectual pursuits) -
          of the south and beauty, of papyrus
                                   and the awe-ratio
                                                                    composed
of ?                                   as that case
              for democratically asking,
democratically not solving, and passing on
              intellectual inspiration
                        &n
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
well, it was hardly or ever would be a respectable
musicology with  mere rhyme; so we overburdened it
with ideas, those pit-stops of thinking,
those pivots of the former fluidity
that gave us Achilles... long gone
the respectability of not thinking,
so waiting awaiting the respectability of thinking
to un-think the existence of thought
rather than the existence of god...
i say forget atheism, and reading philosophical
books kept till old age of respectability,
those books are nothing but dust by then...
but i'm in agreement with the attack,
for who would want to sing a rhyme with mere echo,
the ulterior ego... to sing for a tennis match
of resounding a# a#, b b, c c, encoding our children
to merely encode rhyming patterns?
for fear of the loss of mimic or replica?
if i were a kid i'd love to rob her majesty's vessel
and encounter adventure than bookworms sneezing
dust for kindred death with Spinoza chiselling
optometric devices on a lesser scale in comparison
with telescopes - Amsterdam seen from a far far away
galaxy; if only you stood there, and experienced
the freedom that prostitutes govern in this city;
if only less legislative powers in your politics!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
he was an idiot for half
a second,
afterwards pride took over,
and he was told to be
the half second all his life...
but it mattered not
to be quicker or quivering,
because all the adventures
of life died a quickened
urban stability of 9 to 5;
strawberries came early from
spain, watered down "juicy";
i wanted acorns in autumn
i got bitchslaps in august;
bishops were in furore...
the idiot danced the clandestine surf
and it just left the koala hugging
a secret of aurora sunrise of the
ayers rock that acted like antarctica chiselling
of the kangaroo yo-yo hunting:
made boo, made orange... made worms
from morning, and early bird fed quote.
PYG's Whisper Apr 2019
I’ve been needing your lies
I’ve been craving your poison
I’ve been missing your demons
I’ve been loving your hater
While I was playing with death
While it was ******* me upside down
While I was freezing face to hell
I’ve been moaning your name
When my hands were trembling
When my soul was jumping
When my veins were twisting
I howled your April’s farewell
Once Azrael was invited
And the sky was open
Then my mind got naked
Your shadow was my only Savior
My voice was resonating
But from your ears was forbidden
My snow capped depth was on the summit of its alp
Pleading you to be its shield
That’s when you threw it into a dark swamp
Claiming that you were lost in a blinded place
Everything was mute and your bones were broke
But I saw you secretly radiating in a crystal ball
You thought I’m nowhere nearer
Was it amusing to fool a downcast lifer?
You were pushing my destiny to its sharp ending chapter
Below the belts freedom was dedicated to a shrewd sinner
Meanwhile I’ve been taken to where nothing left to catch
Failures over the time of my rotten life have built my forgotten grave
Gloomy butterflies surrounded my sick grove
No flowers to bloom no hope to ****
No words to draw no feelings to touch
No time to rush no remorse to scratch
The door of paradise was barely visible
But the clouds drove me to a fiery jungle
I begged life to be my sucker
One last elegiac parting with winter
But death was an invincible fighter
Loneliness was feeding my blur future
Chiselling out my anxiety within four blank walls
Then stirred up a wild storm of toxic fears
Moving on was the synonym of stuck in a rut
A sterile heart gave up on its darned patience
Charcoaled love erased its existence
Dry tears chained to these anorexic cheeks
You shutdown the light you once heated up
Now I’m sober yet drunk on my coma
Trying to perforate your karma
While cleaning up my ugly Fantasia.
Where I was your moon and you were my star
As a poet, I believe that my voice needs to be heard and my experiences need to be written, I used to write about the **** THEY went through, I used to care about THEM, I used to put THEM first and me last, I used to spend endless sleepless nights trying to comfort THEM, write for THEM, slam for THEM. but I never listened to myself, I never dared to say no to THEM in order to protect ME, that's why and how I ended up stuck in a wild war between LIFE AND DEATH. Where only ME left behind while THEY all escaped and enjoyed their victory 'cause simply they ****** all my energy and I wasn't a needy anymore. So I got lost and anxiety took advantage of me.
Many fans betrayed me, and made up stories about me just ‘because I wasn’t available to hear THEIR stories, to wipe THEIR tears and to be THEIR voice of hope, too many FAKE FRIENDS AND LOVERS finally got caught up and THEY shamelessly exposed their true nature and loneliness kept me company.
This poem is all about ME, is all about my battle with my illness last year, it was a result of many years of ups and down, many years of sadness, mental breakdown and depression, nothing is clear nothing is the same anymore and I don't know where am I going from here, the only reality that I can't cover up or deny is the fact that I’m still alive… miraculously..
I don't have anything else to say, I’ll let my poem talk about my biggest disappointments...
Thanks for everyone who still loves and supports PYG's Whisper, I came back 'cause of your prayers and yearnings, thanks for everything.
I can’t promise that I’ll come back the same, a part of me is already dead but I’ll let my pen mess with all the criminals who killed my vibe.
-PYG's Whisper
Andy N Dec 2016
Lost in gutter talk,
The history books
Suggest it was his two brothers
Who took him to the fair
At Longford Park
Boasting of dead fireflies
Instead of fish in little bags,

And follicles of lights
In the ghost house
Almost invisible from
The roller coasters
Descending from the sky
Like space rockets
Replacing sledges.  

Crossing the meadows
Blanked in snow
With echoing laughter
The reports stated
Then missing *****
At coconuts stall
Then footballs

Before proclaiming
It was fixed
And gave up wandering
Over to the roller coaster
Leaving Billy stood there
Protesting it wasn’t

******* cheap gobsuckers
Hiding his tears
Turning a perfect illustration
Into a pastoral scene
Of fireworks
Kissing the moon

Tying themselves up
In his mouth
As a attendant said
‘Six shots for two quid, son’
Accompanying over each shot
‘Lower, lower, lower’

Crossing shots over the tins
Like pennies in keyholes
Wrestling with uneven prayers
Chiselling his nerves
Over sweatshop erected fingertips
‘Lower, lower, lower’

Knifing through
His childhood
One shot after
The other
With each target
He shot through.
(According to the history books Billy the Kid was a known hitman in Stretford in the 1970s)
Chiselling away
through a mountain of clay
the mole of a man
lays his hand to creation

I'm watching the,
'if I can build it so can you'
show
on channel two of a faraway
Internet pay as you go station

it's something to do
until
my ship comes in
and come in it will
but until then
I'll be one of those men
who chisel away
and pray for the end
to be quick.
Mark Armstrong Feb 2018
Too old for a visa, too young for the farm
Too straight for the army, too gay for the guards
If you’ve got no calling, no fella, no wife
Have a bunk in the hall at Cape Christ

Walk a dowry down the aisle on a leash and a promise
Hand on holster handing over the hostage
On a dotted line date with a beard-slash-bride
And need a Roman ransom? Think Christ

If you’re sick of the same ***** giving you grief
Don’t lower yourself, turn the other cheek
And if he breaks your jaw, then my advice?
Don’t come running to me, blame Christ

Give the devil on your shoulder a little nibble
Every now and again to keep things civil
And before the tread’s worn off your conscience, right...
Draw a cross in the air and call Christ

What do you sell the man who’s seen it all?
Ketamine, bath salts, Adam and Paul
If sir needle and pipes says he needs a new vice
Pull the spiritual card and play Christ

When you’ve just reconciled yourself with death
And they want a labrat for the time you’ve left
When the doctors too fond of his own **** voice
**** the medicine man, choose Christ

Have you been leading death on a wild goose chase?
Trying to buy some time to clean your slate?
Call a priest around, he’ll set things right
When you’re ready to croak it, plead Christ

The Word rattles in the chests of the last clergymen
Who drop dead like the devil overheard-ye-and
The women look willing while the men look bored
But they couldn’t trust women with the Word of the Lord

Unless the Eucharist feels like chiselling a nick
Off the philosophers stone and swigging it quick-ly
Down with a bottle of B
Then I guess it’s not for me
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
if only it were a presupposition,
chicken and the egg,
i before the thought...
some say art and squiggly wriggly,
some say philosophy and crosswords
and establishing a rigid,
unmoveable vocabulary,
contending with: what if
the toils of Sisyphus were marred
by a ultra static boulder?
the toils of thought are hardly
the joys of rest, with authentic earning,
from physical labour,
but since the persistence of
slavery, the butterfly and the tornado...
i have to concede to the notion
of a vanity project...
         the proposition rests though
on cogito pre sum, non ergo...
not from a drop of rain
ever came a hurricane...
    wishful thinking...
    cogitatio est non ad continuum...
organic chemistry,
and the zenith of gastronomy...
because what is Roman bulimia?
men aside, boys and tiger moms...
came the leash an the gorilla
doubled-up on ape **** bonkers...
no Ottoman barber: nothing but
a mohican for: moi!
the comforts of a pension,
the doubled comforts of
the ***** and zizzy tele viz.
shtatwick 5pm Sunday bollocking
of: finally! the Everest of all things
                 mundane!
but it's not art when I say
that the proposition:
       I think, I doubt... I am...
counter?
   I think, I deny... others are...
    i "love"...
mizaru, kikazaru... iwazaru...
came a rigid vocabulary,
     strict and bite whipping
off of a cane...
                     yet the hot air balloon
terminology...
liberal this, conservative that...
hello my name if Bob...
  how did the world suddenly become
focused on a footnote
from the introduction
to Nietzsche's: human, all too human?
i. e.:
             the excavating proposition
aligns a precursor (thought)
with a cursor (probesein... statischsein),
yet the libra of extricates
lays foundation on:
    a cursor, without an authenticity
of a pre-cursor...
or rather, th cursor curates
stasis, rather than vehemence
of a said, definition ascribed to its
propagation...
potocznie:
when people say they are liberals,
or conservatives,
they do not express a thought
designated to satisfying an observable
liberal / conservative...
a mistrust in political agents
has become translated into
a mistrust of media agents...
and as such, both are byproducts
of a thespian over-saturation,
a mob-pop mono-kultur...
               sentences become like crosswords
when a rigid vocabulary is found...
the dust already settles,
on the rigidity of:
not the nostalgia of a time,
but that,  of a... naive idea...
counter to the delusion...
that the ontology of man...
is trans stasis...
                  as a proposition, within
the framework of the collected
arithmetic of ergo....
   cogito comes prior to sum...
         ergo, id est: subsequently....
but as a preposition...
      ▪cogito *** sum...
      thought comes *with
being,
in that the simultaneousness is
intra-changeable...
    mutually exclusive...
                  rather than inter-dependent...
mutually inclusive...
   for all the artists...
and why would I suddenly
write you a Slaughterhouse 5...
   had I not stuck to the complexity
of chemistry, allowing myself
the remnant of humanity in me,
to say: and this is how you think
about stupid ****,
rather than do, even more, stupid ****?
and to think,
close proximity wording,
Heidegger, german existentialism
above the french,
and... whatever the hell
the anglo-impetus implies...
          chiselling at Chiswick
a prefix battling over milimetres
of meaning...
     told apart...
                luckily with
hard copies of books...
  people don't have the audacity
to leave comments...
      unless other the phone,
and not anonymous...
perhaps as members of a book club...
   the best introduction to philosophy
still resides with Bertrand Russell's...
let's face it...
   the man died with
the sort of schoolboy stamina
to regurgitate.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
hard to write poetry these days:
when it's a monopoly of lies...
and like a homeless man
had explained his predicament
to me: my mother told me
to never tell a lie...
         as original as the sin
as original as plagiarising
and you will be like the gods,
knowing the diffrence,
between good and evil
;
even I can undrstand the
subtleness of an ingenious lie...
but not when it's obvious,
and esp. sickly-candy-choking
and all but: a depiction
of a desperate loss of idealism:
that synonym of innocence...
who is to say that
German Idealism,
           was not the awaiting
guillotine hanging before
the 20th century Mongolian
         repaganism of the Germans?
echoes of the skull pyramids
of Baghdad...
        tsunami of fame
              bulging against the immovable
rigidness of a people in number,
some listening to BBC 4's the Archers...
a past time worth the attention span
of one summer month...
          whatever this Anglo Idealism
is brewing, the scenes of
the aftermath are alredy
poking their Hydra heads through...
the aftermath is premature
unlike that of German Idealism,
which took, so much longer
to precipitate...
        hardly a reason to write poetry,
better start calling it
excerpts from a book
that doesn't exist in head,
print or tattoo...
          and never will...
              too many tornadoes
skim reading the horizon to
be both hysterical
and cool groove Aspen thrill
loaded Luke...
            but this blatant lie:
          that has as much originality
working behind the scenes,
as a dog's bark has
consonant clutches of the crutches
of canines, supporting
the uniform mammalian vowel
construct of exercising ba thing vowels...
catching shrapnel, chiselling
bone and exfoliating wet lungs...
     cul d sac of minds and
tongues working on an already
overworked canvas of people...
     as much as excavating the origins
of a handshake,
     when calibrating
the persistent script of Romans,
    who, apparently only survived,
sombre and delinquent,
and should they remind the current
people of their bulimic ******,
      no more in question as to why:
no laxatives were used,
other than the "name"
  of the father (index)
         and of the son (middle) - fingers -
shoved down the head of the osesaphagus
to agitate it,
like a seagull chic might agitate
its parent to regurgitate
partly digested food.
it's building itself and building up from the ground
the only sound is the sound of machines,

I have dreams within dreams of machines making machines,
a nightmare of spare parts within a nightmare of no living creatures,
machines chiselling features of machines which are the creatures inhabiting my dreams,
and sometimes, the screams of machines giving birth to machines in the worst of my dreams seems unbearable.
nivek Dec 2023
chiselling a moments randomness
to form from granite some act of love
in this ashen beating heart blood red
that will finally run dry, run dry
run dry until all loved out be dead.
We should be making a tapestry,
a bit like the Bayeux one
but perhaps one that shows
real history
or
painting on cave walls
as cities fall,
maybe
chiselling into stone
the names of all the boys
who won't come home,

we should be doing something.
What is left are the echoes rebounding in the scaffolding, in the crumbling of monuments, in the taking of the sacraments and they are ringing out Hosanna in my ears.

advancing years?
and that could be so,
but the years make
no
advances unto me.

I may be lost amongst the sages
chiselling words out from rock faces
or it could be just a dream.

If I have loved you and
not shown it
then
the blame is mine
I own it

this is me and
all I'll be
is all in
everything I see
and I see
everything I want
to be in me.
His eyes became brittle
spittle
running down his chin
he
wants to move on
but
doesn't know how
to begin,
so
he spends the day
chiselling away
at his memories
trying
to forget.

— The End —