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Pete Leon Oct 2017
Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
With your 'c' sounding names and you both being edible,
Well I've got news for you boys,
I think you're absolutely terrible.

Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
Just because you both like soup and a little bit of season,
It doesn't mean you should be so close, it's not a good enough reason.

Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
You hang around in cardboard cartons, talking trash about other ingredients,
Well its just not acceptable boys, and I'm really not feelin' it.

Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
People think you're great, with your complementary flavours,
Well I'm sorry boys, think you're tasty? Do me a 'kin favour.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars
,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)
...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach
- respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?
Meena Menon Sep 2021
Flicker Shimmer Glow

The brightest star can shine even with thick black velvet draped over it.  
Quartz, lime and salt crystals formed a glass ball.
The dark womb held me, warm and soft.  
My mom called my cries when I was born the most sorrowful sound she had ever heard.  
She said she’d never heard a baby make a sound like that.    
I’d open my eyes in low light until the world’s light healed rather than hurt.  
The summer before eighth grade, July 1992,
I watched a shooting star burn by at 100,000 miles per hour as I stood on the balcony  
while my family celebrated my birthday inside.  
It made it into the earth’s atmosphere
but it didn’t look like it was coming down;
I know it didn’t hit the ground but it burned something in the time it was here.  
The glass ball of my life cracked inside.  
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks.  
I saw the beauty of the light within.  
Nacre from my shell kept those cracks from getting worse,
a wild pearl as defense mechanism.  
In 2001, I quit my job after they melted and poured tar all over my life.  
All summer literature class bathtubs filled with rose hip oil cleaned the tar.  
That fall logic and epistemology classes spewed black ink all over my philosophy
written over ten years then.  
Tar turned to asphalt when I met someone from my old job for a drink in November
and it paved a road for my life that went to the hospital I was in that December
where it sealed the roof on my life
when I was almost murdered there
and in February after meeting her for another drink.  
They lit a fire at the top of the glacier and pushed the burning pile of black coal off the edge,
burnt red, looking like flames falling into the valley.  
While that blazed the side of the cliff something lit an incandescent light.  
The electricity from the metal lightbulb ***** went through wires and heated the filament between until it glowed.  
I began putting more work into emotional balance from things I learned at AA meetings.  
In Spring 2003, the damage that the doctors at the hospital in 2001 had done
made it harder for light to reflect from the cracks in the glass ball.
I’d been eating healthy and trying to get regular exercises since 1994
but in Spring 2003 I began swimming for an hour every morning .  
The water washed the pollution from the burning coals off
And then I escaped in July.  
I moved to London to study English Language and Linguistics.  
I would’ve studied English Language and Literature.  
I did well until Spring 2004 when I thought I was being stalked.  
I thought I was manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I went home and didn’t go back for my exams after spring holiday.  
Because I felt traumatized and couldn’t write poetry anymore,
I used black ink to write my notes for my book on trauma and the Russian Revolution.
I started teaching myself German.  
I stayed healthy.  
In 2005, my parents went to visit my mom’s family in Malaysia for two weeks.
I thought I was being stalked.  
I knew I wasn’t manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I told my parents when they came home.  
They thought I was manic.  
I showed them the shoe prints in the snow of different sizes from the woods to the windows.  
They thought I was manic.  
I was outside of my comfort zone.  
I moved to California. I found light.  
I made light,
the light reflected off the salt crystals I used to heal the violence inflicted on me from then on.  
The light turned the traffic lights to not just green from red
but amber and blue.  
The light turned the car signals left and right.  
The light reflected off of salt crystals, light emitting diodes,
electrical energy turned directly to light,
electroluminescence.  
The electrical currents flowed through,
illuminating.  
Alone in the world, I moved to California in July 2005
but in August  I called the person I escaped in 2003,
the sulfur and nitrogen that I hated.  
He didn’t think I was manic but I never said anything.
I never told him why I asked him to move out to California.  
When his coal seemed like only pollution,
I asked him to leave.  
He threatened me.  
I called the authorities.  
They left me there.
He laughed.  
Then the violence came.  
****:  stabbed and punched, my ****** bruised, purple and swollen.  
The light barely reflected from the glass ball wIth cracks through all the acid rain, smoke and haze.
It would take me half an hour to get my body to do what my mind told it to after.  
My dad told me my mom had her cancer removed.
The next day, the coal said if I wanted him to leave he’d leave.  
I booked his ticket.
I drove him to the airport.  
Black clouds gushed the night before for the first time in months,
the sky clear after the rain.  
He was gone and I was free,
melted glass, heated up and poured—
looked like fire,
looked like the Snow Moon in February
with Mercury in the morning sky.  
I worked through ****.  
I worked to overcome trauma.  
Electricity between touch and love caused acid rain, smoke, haze, and mercury
to light the discharge lamps, streetlights and parking lot lights.
Then I changed the direction of the light waves.  
Like lead glass breaks up the light,
lead from the coal, cleaned and replaced by potassium,
glass cut clearly, refracting the light,
electrolytes,
electrical signals lit through my body,
thick black velvet drapes gone.  





















Lava

I think that someone wrote into some palm leaf a manuscript, a gift, a contract.  
After my parents wedding, while they were still in India,
they found out that my dad’s father and my mom’s grandfather worked for kings administering temples and collecting money for their king from the farmers that worked the rice paddies each king owned.  They both left their homes before they left for college.  
My dad, a son of a brahmin’s son,
grew up in his grandmother’s house.  
His mother was not a Brahmin.  
My mother grew up in Malaysia where she saw the children from the rubber plantation
when she walked to school.  
She doesn’t say what caste she is.  
He went to his father’s house, then college.  
He worked, then went to England, then Canada.  
She went to India then Canada.  
They moved to the United States around Christmas 1978
with my brother while she was pregnant with me.  
My father signed a contract with my mother.  
My parents took ashes and formed rock,
the residue left in brass pots in India,
the rocks, so hot, they turned back to lava miles away before turning back to ash again,
then back to rock,
the lava from a super volcano,
the ash purple and red.  


















Circles on a Moss Covered Volcano

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.  





Warm Light Shatters

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My dad was born on a large flat rock on the edge of the top
of a hill,
Molasses, sweet and dark, the potent flavor dominates,
His father, the son of a Brahmin,
His mother from a lower caste.
His father’s family wouldn’t touch him,
He grew up in his mother’s mother’s house on a farm.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation spot on my right hand that he has.

In 1901, D’Arcy bought a 60 year concession for oil exploration In Iran.
The Iranian government extended it for another 32 years in 1933.
At that time oil was Iran’s “main source of income.”
In 1917’s Balfour Declaration, the British government proclaimed that they favored a national home for the Jews in Palestine and their “best endeavors to facilitate the achievement” of that.

The British police were in charge of policing in the mandate of Palestine.  A lot of the policemen they hired were people who had served in the British army before, during the Irish War for Independence.  
The army tried to stop how violent the police were, police used torture and brutality, some that had been used during the Irish War for Independence, like having prisoners tied to armored cars and locomotives and razing the homes of people in prison or people they thought were related to people thought to be rebels.
The police hired Arab police and Jewish police for lower level policing,
Making local people part of the management.
“Let Arab police beat up Arabs and Jewish police beat up Jews.”

The lava blocks and reroutes streams, melts snow and ice, flooding.
In 1922, there were 83,000 Jews, 71,000 Christians, and 589,000 Muslims.
The League If Nations endorsed the British Mandate.
During an emergency, in the 1930s, British regulations allowed collective punishment, punishing villages for incidents.
Local officers in riots often deserted and also shared intelligence with their own people.
The police often stole, destroyed property, tortured and killed people.  
Arab revolts sapped the police power over Palestinians by 1939.

My father’s mother was from a matrilineal family.
My dad remembers tall men lining up on pay day to respectfully wait for her, 5 feet tall.  
She married again after her husband died.
A manager from a tile factory,
He spoke English so he supervised finances and correspondence.
My dad, a sunflower, loved her: she scared all the workers but exuded warmth to the people she loved.

Obsidian shields people from negative energy.
David Cargill founded the Burmah Oil Co. in 1886.
If there were problems with oil exploration in Burma and Indian government licenses, Persian oil would protect the company.  
In July 1906, many European oil companies, BP, Royal Dutch Shell and others, allied to protect against the American oil company, Standard Oil.
D’Arcy needed money because “Persian oil took three times as long to come on stream as anticipated.”
Burmah Oil Co. began the Anglo-Persian Oil Co. as a subsidiary.
Ninety-seven percent of British Petroleum was owned by Burmah Oil Co.
By 1914, the British government owned 51% of the Anglo-Persian Oil Co.  
Anglo-Persian acquired independence from Burmah Oil and Royal Dutch Shell with two million pounds from the British government.

The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.
In 1942, after the Japanese took Burma,
the British destroyed their refineries before leaving.
The United Nations had to find other sources of oil.
In 1943, Japan built the Burma-Thailand Railroad with forced labor from the Malay peninsula who were mostly from the rubber plantations.

The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.
In 1945. Japan destroyed their refineries before leaving Burma.
Cargill, Watson and Whigham were on the Burmah Oil Co. Board and then the Anglo Iranian Oil Co. Board.  

In 1936 Palestine, boycotts, work stoppages, and violence against British police officials and soldiers compelled the government to appoint an investigatory commission.  
Leaders of Egypt, Trans Jordan, Syria and Iraq helped end the work stoppages.
The British government had the Peel Commission read letters, memoranda, and petitions and speak with British officials, Jews and Arabs.  
The Commission didn’t believe that Arabs and Jews could live together in a single Jewish state.
Because of administrative and financial difficulties the Colonial Secretary stated that to split Palestine into Arab and Jewish states was impracticable.  
The Commission recommended transitioning 250,000 Arabs and 1500 Jews with British control over their oil pipeline, their naval base and Jerusalem.  
The League of Nations approved.
“It will not remove the grievance nor prevent the recurrence,” Lord Peel stated after.
The Arab uprising was much more militant after Peel.  Thousands of Arabs were wounded, ten thousand were detained.  
In Sykes-Picot and the Husain McMahon agreements, the British promised the Arabs an independent state but they did not keep that promise.  
Representatives from the Arab states rejected the Peel recommendations.
United Nations General Assembly Resolution181 partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states with an international regime for the city of Jerusalem backed by the United States and the Soviet Union.  

The Israeli Yishuv had strong military and intelligence organization —-  
the British recognized that their interest was with the Arabs and abstained from the vote.  
In 1948, Israel declared the establishment of its state.  
Ground rock, minerals, and gas covered the ground from the ash plume.
The Palestinian police force was disbanded and the British gave officers the option of serving in Malaya.

Though Truman, Eisenhower and Kennedy supported snd tried to get Israel to offer the Arabs concessions, it wasn’t a major priority and didn’t always approve of Israel’s plans.
Arabs that had supported the British to end Turkish rule stopped supporting the West.  
Many Palestinians joined left wing groups and violent third world movements.  
Seventy-eight percent of the territory of former Palestine was under Israel’s control.  

My dad left for college in 1957 and lived in an apartment above the United States Information services office.
Because he graduated at the top of his class, he was given a job with the public works department of the government on the electricity board.  
“Once in, you’ll never leave.”
When he wanted a job where he could do real work, his father was upset.
He broke the chains with bells for vespers.
He got a job in Calcutta at Kusum Products and left the government, though it was prestigious to work there.
In the chemical engineering division, one of the projects he worked on was to design a *** distillery, bells controlled by hammers, hammers controlled by a keyboard.
His boss worked in the United Kingdom for. 20 years before the company he worked at, part of Power Gas Corporation, asked him to open a branch in Calcutta.
He opened the branch and convinced an Industrialist to open a company doing the same work with him.  The branch he opened closed after that.  
My dad applied for labor certification to work abroad and was selected.  
His boss wrote a reference letter for my him to the company he left in the UK.  My dad sent it telling the company when he was leaving for the UK.  
The day he left for London, he got the letter they sent in the mail telling him to take the train to Sheffield the next day and someone from the firm would meet him at the station.  
His dad didn’t know he left, he didn’t tell him.
He broke the chains with chimes for schisms.


Anglo-Persian Oil became Anglo-Iranian Oil in 1935.
The British government used oil and Anglo-Persian oil to fight communism, have a stronger relationship with the United States and make the United Kingdom more powerful.  
The National Secularists, the Tudeh, and the Communists wanted to nationalize Iran’s oil and mobilized the Iranian people.
The British feared nationalization in Iran would incite political parties like the Secular Nationalists all over the world.  
In 1947, the Iranian government passed the Single Article Law that “[increased] investment In welfare benefits, health, housing, education, and implementation of Iranianization through substitution of foreigners” at Anglo-Iranian Oil Co.
“Anglo-Iranian Oil Company made more profit in 1950 than it paid to the Iranian government in royalties over the previous half century.”
The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company tried to negotiate a new concession and claimed they’d hire more Iranian people into jobs held by British and people from other nationalities at the company.
Their hospitals had segregated wards.  
On May 1, 1951, the Iranian government passed a bill that nationalized Anglo- Iranian Oil Co.’s holdings.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.
In August 1953, the Iranian people elected Mossadegh from the Secular Nationalist Party as prime minister.
The British government with the CIA overthrew Mossadegh using the Iranian military after inducing protests and violent demonstrations.  
Anglo-Iranian Oil changed its name to British Petroleum in 1954.
Iranians believe that America destroyed Iran’s “last chance for democracy” and blamed America for Iran’s autocracy, its human rights abuses, and secret police.

The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
In 1946, Executive Yuan wanted control over 4 groups of Islands in the South China Sea to have a stronger presence there:  the Paracels, the Spratlys, Macclesfield Bank, and the Pratas.
The French forces in the South China Sea would have been stronger than the Chinese Navy then.
French Naval forces were in the Gulf of Tonkin, U.S. forces were in the Taiwan Strait, the British were in Hong Kong, and the Portuguese were in Macao.
In the 1950s, British snd U.S. oil companies thought there might be oil in the Spratlys.  
By 1957, French presence in the South China Sea was hardly there.  

When the volcano erupted, the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.
By 1954, the Tudeh Party’s communist movement and  intelligence organization had been destroyed.  
Because of the Shah and his government’s westernization policies and disrespectful treatment of the Ulama, Iranians began identifying with the Ulama and Khomeini rather than their government.  
Those people joined with secular movements to overthrow the Shah.  

In 1966, Ne Win seized power from U Nu in Burma.
“Soldiers ruled Burma as soldiers.”
Ne Win thought that western political
Institutions “encouraged divisions.”
Minority groups found foreign support for their separatist goals.
The Karens and the Mons supported U Nu in Bangkok.  


Rare copper, a heavy metal, no alloys,
a rock in groundwater,
conducts electricity and heat.
In 1965, my Dad’s cousin met him at Heathrow, gave him a coat and £10 and brought him to a bed and breakfast across from Charing Cross Station where he’d get the train to Sheffield the next morning.
He took the train and someone met him at the train station.  
At the interview they asked him to design a grandry girder, the main weight bearing steel girder as a test.
Iron in the inner and outer core of the earth,
He’d designed many of those.  
He was hired and lived at the YMCA for 2 1/2 years.  
He took his mother’s family name, Menon, instead of his father’s, Varma.
In 1967, he left for Canada and interviewed at Bechtel before getting hired at Seagrams.  
Iron enables blood to carry oxygen.
His boss recommended him for Dale Carnegie’s leadership training classes and my dad joined the National Instrument Society and became President.
He designed a still In Jamaica,
Ordered all the parts, nuts and bolts,
Had all the parts shipped to Jamaica and made sure they got there.
His boss supervised the construction, installation and commission in Jamaica.
Quartz, heat and fade resistant, though he was an engineer and did the work of an engineer, my dad only had the title, technician so my dad’s boss thought he wasn’t getting paid enough but couldn’t get his boss to offer more than an extra $100/week or the title of engineer; he told my dad he thought he should leave.
In 1969, he got a job at Celanese, which made rayon.
He quit Celanese to work at McGill University and they allowed him to take classes to earn his MBA while working.  

The United States and Israel’s alliance was strong by 1967.
United Nations Security Council Resolution 242 at the end of the Third Arab Israeli War didn’t mention the Palestinians but mentioned the refugee problem.
After 1967, the Palestinians weren’t often mentioned and when mentioned only as terrorists.  
Palestinians’ faith in the “American sponsored peace process” diminished, they felt the world community ignored and neglected them also.
Groups like MAN that stopped expecting anything from Arab regimes began hijacking airplanes.
By 1972, the Palestine Liberation Organization had enough international support to get by the United States’ veto in the United Nations Security Council and Arab League recognition as representative of the Palestinian people.
The Palestinians knew the United States stated its support, as the British had, but they weren’t able to accomplish anything.  
The force Israel exerted in Johnson’s United States policy delivered no equilibrium for the Palestinians.  

In 1969, all political parties submitted to the BSPP, Burma Socialist Programme Party.
Ne Win nationalized banks and oil and deprived minorities of opportunities.
Ne Win became U Nu Win, civilian leader of Burma in 1972 and stopped the active role that U Nu defined for Burma internationally
He put military people in power even when they didn’t have experience which triggered “maldistribution of goods and chronic shortages.”  
Resources were located in areas where separatist minorities had control.

The British presence in the South China Sea ended in 1968.  
The United States left Vietnam in 1974 and China went into the Western Paracels.
The U.S. didn’t intervene and Vietnam took the Spratlys.
China wanted to claim the continental shelf In the central part of the South China Sea and needed the Spratlys.
The United States mostly disregarded the Ulama In Iran and bewildered the Iranian people by not supporting their revolution.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.


Edelweiss

I laid out in my backyard in my bikini.  
I love the feeling of my body in the sun.  
I’d be dark from the end of spring until winter.
The snow froze my bare feet through winter ,
my skin pale.
American towns in 1984,
Free, below glaciers the sunlight melted the snow,
a sea of green and the edelweiss on the edge of the  limestone,
frosted but still strong.    
When the spring warmed the grass,
the grass warmed my feet. 
The whole field looked cold and white from the glacier but in the meadow,
the bright yellow centers of those flowers float free in the center of the white petals.
The bright yellow center of those edelweiss scared the people my parents ran to America from India to get away from.  
On a sidewalk in Queens, New York in 1991, the men stared and yelled comments at me in short shorts and a fitted top in the summer.  
I grabbed my dad’s arm.

























The Bread and Coconut Butter of Aparigraha

Twelve year old flowerhead,
Marigold, yarrow and nettle,
I’d be all emotion
If not for all my work
From the time I was a teenager.
I got depressed a lot.
I related to people I read about
In my weather balloon,
Grasping, ignorant, and desperate,
But couldn’t relate to other twelve year olds.
After school I read Dali’s autobiography,
Young ****** Autosodomized by Her Own Chastity.
Fresh, green nettle with fresh and dried yarrow for purity.
Dead souls enticed to the altar by orange marigolds,
passion and creativity,
Coax sleep and rouse dreams.
Satellites measure indirectly with wave lengths of light.
My weather balloon measures the lower and middle levels of the atmosphere directly,
Fifty thousand feet high,
Metal rod thermometer,
Slide humidity sensor,
Canister for air pressure.

I enjoy rye bread and cold coconut butter in my weather balloon,
But I want Dali, and all the artists and writers.
Rye grows at high altitudes
But papyrus grows in soil and shallow water,
Strips of papyrus pith shucked from their stems.
When an anchor’s weighed, a ship sails,
But when grounded we sail.
Marigolds, yarrow and nettle,
Flowerhead,
I use the marigold for sleep,
The yarrow for endurance and intensity,
toiling for love and truth,
And the nettle for healing.
Strong rye bread needs equally strong flavors.
By the beginning of high school,
I read a lot of Beat literature
And found Buddhism.
I loved what I read
But I didn’t like some things.
I liked attachment.  
I got to the ground.
Mushrooms grow in dry soil.
Attachment to beauty is Buddha activity.
Not being attached to things I don’t find beautiful is Buddha activity.  
I fried mushrooms in a single layer in oil, fleshy.
I roasted mushrooms at high temperatures in the oven, crisp.
I simmered mushrooms in stock with kombu.
Rye bread with cold coconut butter and cremini mushrooms,
raw, soft and firm.  
Life continues, life changes,
Attachments, losses, mourning and suffering,
But change lures growth.
I find stream beds and wet soil.
I lay the strips of papyrus next to each other.
I cross papyrus strips over the first,
Then wet the crossed papyrus strips,
Press and cement them into a sheet.
I hammer it and dry it in the sun,
With no thought of achievement or self,
Flowerhead,
Hands filled with my past,
Head filled with the future,
Dali, artists poets,
Wishes and desires aligned with nature,
Abundance,
Cocoa, caraway, and molasses.

If I ever really like someone,
I’ll be wearing the dress he chooses,
Fresh green nettle and yarrow, the seeds take two years to grow strong,
Lasting love.
Marigolds steer dead souls from the altar to the afterlife,
Antiseptic, healing wounds,
Soothing sore throats and headaches.
Imperturbable, stable flowerhead,
I empty my mind.
When desires are aligned with nature, desire flows.
Papyrus makes paper and cloth.
Papyrus makes sails.
Charcoal from the ash of pulverized papyrus heals wounds.
Without attachment to the fruit of action
There is continuation of life,
Rye bread and melted coconut butter,
The coconut tree in the coconut butter,
The seed comes from the ground out of nothing,
Naturalness.
It has form.
As the seed grows the seed expresses the tree,
The seed expresses the coconut,
The seed expresses the coconut butter.
Rye bread, large open hollows, chambers,
Immersed in melted coconut butter,
Desire for expansion and creation,
No grasping, not desperate.
When the mind is compassion, the mind is boundless.
Every moment,
only that,
Every moment,
a scythe to the papyrus in the stream bed of the past.  

































Sound on Powdery Blue

Potter’s clay, nymph, plum unplumbed, 1993.
Dahlia, ice, powder, musk and rose,
my source of life emerged in darkness, blackness.
Seashell fragments in the sand,
The glass ball of my life cracked inside,
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks,
Nacre kept those cracks from getting worse.
Young ****** Autosodomized By Her Own Chastity,
Nymph, I didn’t want to give my body,
Torn, *****, ballgown,
To people who wouldn’t understand me,
Piquant.

Outside on the salt flats,
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure and fertility and
Asexual Artemis, goddess of animals, and the hunt,
Mistress of nymphs,
Punish with ruthless savagery.

In my bedroom, blue caribou moss covered rocks, pine, and yew trees,
The heartwood writhes as hurricane gales, twisters and whirlwinds
Contort their bark,
Roots strong in the soil.
Orris root dried in the sun, bulbs like wood.
Dahlia runs to baritone soundbath radio waves.
Light has frequencies,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet,
Flame, slate and flint.
Every night is cold.

Torii gates, pain secured as sacred.
An assignation, frost hardy dahlia and a plangent resonant echo.
High frequency sound waves convert to electrical signals,
Breathe from someone I want,
Silt.
Beam, radiate, ensorcel.
I break the bark,
Sap flows and dries,
Resin seals over the tear.
I distill pine,
Resin and oil for turpentine, a solvent.
Quiver, bemired,
I lead sound into my darkness,
Orris butter resin, sweet and warm,
Hot jam drops on snow drops,
Orange ash on smoke,
Balm on lava,
The problem with cotton candy.

Electrical signals give off radiation or light waves,
The narrow frequency range where
The crest of a radio wave and the crest of a light wave overlap,
Infrared.
Glaciers flow, sunlight melts the upper layers of the snow when strong,
A wet snow avalanche,
A torrent, healing.
Brown sugar and whiskey,
Undulant, lavender.
Pine pitch, crystalline, sticky, rich and golden,
And dried pine rosin polishes glass smooth
Like the smell of powdery orris after years.
Softness, flush, worthy/not worthy,
Rich rays thunder,
Intensify my pulse,
Frenzied red,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet.
Babylon—flutter, glow.
Unquenchable cathartic orris.  

















Pink Graphite

Camellias, winter shrubs,
Their shallow roots grow beneath the spongy caribou moss,
Robins egg blue.
After writing a play with my gifted students program in 1991,
I stopped spending all my free time writing short stories,
But the caribou moss was still soft.

In the cold Arctic of that town,
The evergreen protected the camellias from the afternoon sun and storms.
They branded hardy camellias with a brass molded embossing iron;
I had paper and graphite for my pencils.

After my ninth grade honors English teacher asked us to write poems in 1994,
It began raining.
We lived on an overhang.
A vertical rise to the top of the rock.
The rainstorm caused a metamorphic change in the snowpack,
A wet snow avalanche drifted slowly down the moss covered rock,
The snow already destabilized by exposure to the sunlight.

The avalanche formed lakes,
rock basins washed away with rainwater and melted snow,
Streams dammed by the rocks.  
My pencils washed away in the avalanche,
My clothes heavy and cold.
I wove one side of each warp fiber through the eye of the needle and one side through each slot,
Salves, ointments, serums and tinctures.
I was mining for graphite.
They were mining me,
The only winch, the sound through the water.

A steep staircase to the red Torii gates,
I broke the chains with bells for vespers
And chimes for schisms,
And wove the weft across at right angles to the warp.  

On a rocky ledge at the end of winter,
The pink moon, bitters and body butter,
They tried to get  me to want absinthe,
Wormwood for bitterness and regret.
Heat and pressure formed carbon for flakes of graphite.
Heat and pressure,
I made bitters,
Brandy, grapefruit, chocolate, mandarin rind, tamarind and sugar.
I grounded my feet in the pink moss,
paper dried in one hand,
and graphite for my pencils in the other.  



































Flakes

I don’t let people that put me down be part of my life.  
Gardens and trees,
My shadow sunk in the grass in my yard
As I ate bread, turmeric and lemon.
Carbon crystallizes into graphite flakes.
I write to see well,
Graphite on paper.  
A shadow on rock tiles with a shield, a diamond and a bell
Had me ***** to humiliate me.
Though I don’t let people that put me down near me,
A lot of people putting me down seemed like they were following me,
A platform to jump from
While she had her temple.  

There was a pink door to the platform.
I ate bread with caramelized crusts and
Drank turmeric lemonade
Before I opened that door,
Jumped and
Descended into blankets and feathers.
I found matches and rosin
For turpentine to clean,
Dried plums and licorice.  

In the temple,
In diamonds, leather, wool and silk,
She had her shield and bells,
Drugs and technology,
Thermovision 210 and Minox,
And an offering box where people believed
That if their coins went in
Their wishes would come true.

Hollyhock and smudging charcoal for work,  
Belled,
I ground grain in the mill for the bread I baked for breakfast.
The bells are now communal bells
With a watchtower and a prison,
Her shield, a blowtorch and flux,
Her ex rays, my makeshift records
Because Stalin didn’t like people dancing,
He liked them divebombing.
Impurities in the carbon prevent diamonds from forming,
Measured,
The most hard, the most expensive,
But graphite’s soft delocalized electrons move.  






































OCEAN BED

The loneliness of going to sleep by myself.  
I want a bed that’s high off the ground,
a mattress, an ocean.
I want a crush and that  person in my bed.  
Only that,
a crush in my bed,
an ocean in my bed.  
Just love.  
But I sleep with my thumbs sealed.  
I sleep with my hands, palms up.  
I sleep with my hands at my heart.  
They sear my compassion with their noise.  
They hold their iron over their fire and try to carve their noise into my love,
scored by the violence of voices, dark and lurid,  
but not burned.  
I want a man in my bed.  
When I wake up in an earthquake
I want to be held through the aftershocks.  
I like men,
the waves come in and go out
but the ocean was part of my every day.  
I don’t mind being fetishized in the ocean.  
I ran by the ocean every morning.  
I surfed in the ocean.  
I should’ve gone into the ocean that afternoon at Trestles,
holding my water jugs, kneeling at the edge.  














Morning

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  

Morning—the molten lava in the outer core of the earth embeds the iron from the inner core into the earth’s magnetic field.  
The magnetic field flips.  
The sun, so strong, where it gets through the trees it burns everything but the pine.  
The winds change direction.  
Storms cast lightening and rain.  
Iron conducts solar flares and the heavy wind.  
In that pine forest, I shudder every time I see a speck of light for fear of neon and fluorescents.  The eucalyptus cleanses congestion.  
And Kerouac’s stream ululates, crystal bowl sound baths.  
I follow the sound to the water.  
The stream ends at a bluff with a thin rocky beach below.  
The green water turns black not far from the shore.  
Before diving into the ocean, I eat globe mallow from the trees, stems and leaves, the viscous flesh, red, soft and nutty.  
I distill the pine from one of the tree’s bark and smudge the charcoal over my skin.  

Death, the palo santo’s lit, cleansing negative energy.  
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled a man, woodsmoke, citrus and tobacco.  
Jasmine, plum, lime and tuberose oil on the base of my neck comforts.  
Parabolic chambers heal, sound waves through water travel four times faster.  
The sound of the open sea recalibrates.  
I dissolve into the midnight blue of the ocean.  

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  
I want hot water with coconut oil when I get up.  
We’d lay out on the lawn, surrounded by high trees that block the wind.  
Embers flying through the air won’t land in my yard, on my grass, or near my trees.  





Blue Paper

Haze scatters blue light on a planet.  
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.  
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates, belayed, branded and belled, a plangent sound.  
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor, punctures and ruin burnished with paper, making burnt lime from lime mortar.  
Glass ***** on the ceiling, she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.  
She bends light to make shadows against  thin wooden slats curbed along the wall, and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she makes tinctures, juniper berries and cotton *****.
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
A hawthorn tree stands alone,
A gateway for fairies.
large stones at the base protecting,
It’s branches a barrier.  
It’s leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
It’s berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals.
And lime in the soil.  
She adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
Unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth,
The tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk.  
She adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.  
The lime converts to paper,
Trauma victims speak,
Light through butterfly wings.  
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water
This is what I have written of my book.  I’ll be changing where the poems with the historical research go.  There are four more of those and nine of the other poems.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
well, sure, it's a central american dish...
         taragon... infused rice...
no, wait, that's wrong, i'm thinling
of cheap-*** saffron...
           ah! turmeric infused rice...
    it's a chili con carne...
and i'm looking at it, thinking:
   needs some garnish...
         **** it... cut up a few mint leaves
and dropped a dollop of yogurt
   into the dish...
       what?!
                   what do you imply with
serving a dish, where fresh mint is a garnish?
does the dish sound like any european
might cook, call it a stew and then sprinkle
some parsley onto it?
or does this plate of food, look like something
indian, where you garnish a dish of curry
with some fresh coriander?
  ******... this is american...
     you garnish your grub with mint!
the "apéritif"? hence the inverted commas...
       as in... it's not really a drink...
    what was it?
                 brie cheese...
            which sounds a lot nicer than having
to brush your teeth... as if expecting to snog someone
in the basin of an hour's worth
    of leftover conversation.
china just throws in a bunch of spring onions.
but a chili con carne?
            you garnish it with mint,
  and if it's really spicy... a dollop of yogurt;
and yes, turmeric is the only substitute to using
     saffron...
       no... a chili con carne doesn't sound
great, when the garnish is either european parsley,
   or south asian coriander;
            the north asia garnish? spring onions.
this central american **** (stew) needs mint...
and perhaps some yogurt... if no kashmiri chilies
are used.
Maggie Emmett Nov 2014
Fragrant hot laksa
thick wriggling yellow noodles
creamy coconut
green coriander and lime
eaten with hot chilli you
Non-traditional Tanka for two!
Steve D'Beard Jun 2013
Farewell Govan -
bathed in a baking sun
littered with betting shops
and no win/no fee criminal lawyers
and a myriad of pubs caked in years of libation
steeped in history of industry and shipbuilding
blackened smoked walls etched with gangland symbols:
tooled-up local carnivores who ride shotgun on a BMX
swapping discrete envelopes for indiscreet wads of cash.

Farewell Govan -
you fractured my ribs once in a moment of mistaken identity
I didn't heed the advice to not walk through the park at night
I didn't hear the pitter-patter of adolescent feet
speeding my way in brand new trainers across the grass
but I did feel the clunk of something solid on my head
as the ground rushed up to meet me in a concrete embrace
and watched as 4 bags of overladen shopping spewed out
lying face up spread-eagle in Lilliput fashion
and a mobile torch-app in my face with the repeating words
“Ima tellin’ you man its naw him, its naw him”
I reassured them frantically that I was definitely not him!
as the hooded troupe picked up what was left of my shopping
and even gifted me a couple of cans of super strength lager,
a cube of dubious council estate hash
and an usher to leave immediately
(and think myself lucky).

Farewell Govan -
you got me blazing on cheap beer at the local pub
which had recreated a holiday beach scene
with a hand-written sign that read: Better than Ibiza!
awash with carefree children
and pit-bull terriers wearing bespoke Barbour dog jackets
and brand spanking new Adidas white trainers
purchased from Tam out of a nondescript blue plastic bag
who always passes the day's pleasantries
while topping up his pension
chatting with auld Billy who was in the war (don’t you know)
via the Merchant Navy
and the version of how he was gunner on an oil boat in Vietnam
via the umpteenth pint that afternoon.

Farewell Govan -
your late night shadows harbour an underlying tension
masked with comic humour only if you can understand the lingo
words that are distasteful anywhere else are in fact a term of endearment here
I shall miss the odious vernacular and doth my cap to your spirit
the Salt of the Earth and the Lifeblood of the Community
with at least 40% proof liquids mixed with Irn Bru
purchased at the 24/7 corner store along with a can of processed peas;
one of your five a day.

Farewell Govan -
I go to the sunny side of the Clyde
where it rains just as much
but you don’t get mugged for carrying an umbrella
or asked for the time from a watch-wearing tattooed sailor
and joy-of-joys there will be actual fruit & veg shops
where I don’t have to explain what fresh coriander is
and what you use it for, other than on a pizza;
I was offered dried bottled parsley instead.

Farewell Govan.
Govan - shipbuilding heartland of Glasgow, a hard-man reputation but if you look under the surface you find good people with stories to share
Sharina Saad May 2013
Mrs Sharma is looking busy
Walking back from her yoga class
In Her right hand a bag full of potatoes
In her left hand, 2 kilos of onions
Its a freaking hot day in Delhi,
She stopped a taxi and hurried home
Aloo paratha her family's menu for today.

At home she went straight to her kitchen
Peeled and boiled the Potatoes
finely chopped Onion, coriander, ginger and chillies
Now where is the garam masala?
Here you are Mrs Sharma,
Salt Red Chili powder, Garam masala and some butter
Aloo Paratha with lots of butter,YUM YUM
Lunching at Sharma's home is Splendid
better than Mahesh Lunch Home in Juhu, Andheri.

Let's get started says Mrs Sharma
Let's make the dough
Make two chapati
add the filling to one chapati
and cover it with the second one.
Now Mrs Sharma rolls it slightly and heats it in the oven...

Let's ask Mrs Sharma,
Is food the elixir of life?
Yes very much she said
She feels like she is living for it.
As she spreads butter over the paratha
She says her mantra twice,
Eat healthy but don’t over eat.

She serves aloo paratha hot to her smiling kids
adds yoghurt to Mr Sharma's plate
she is so proud when she says to her family
Eat in moderation and eat healthy..
Smile and let's eat Aloo paratha Mrs Sharma's way...
Aloo paratha is my late mom's favourite..
Meena Menon Apr 2021
The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh.

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.
This is the next part of Lava.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.why? why?! why would i even be, remotely,
concerned?
    esp. with a story from yesterday
akin to that of a feminist poster being
taken down, that read:

    woman
        women
    noun
   adult human female

because some, sorry... i love the word:
****** / doctor "thought" the word:
woman was endangering
transgender people...
                                                 wow!
looks like the homosexuals are on the attack...
can you be a misogynist and a homosexual,
simultaneously? well... apparently you can!
bravo! encore! encore!
    so should i be bothered when such antics
are taking place in: of all places, Liverpool?
**** it, i'm going to have a beer and watch
the sunset - or at least that's what i thought
a few hours prior.


the **** was i doing, watching channel 4
news?!
      i do remember watching it...
why was i watching it?
     for all it's worth...
                they do a pretty solid job,
**** me, they even reported on Iranians
using instagram...
                        gotta love the Shiites...
probably my favorite Muslims...
   given their Persian background -
proud face, like those native Americans
in the film hostiles:
   proud faces...
                        well... if you're going
to root for someone, root for the "underdogs"...
those Persians were never going
to bow down to the camel jockey Arabs,
sure as **** they wouldn't, and didn't...
ah ****...
  that's the problem with drinking,
and writing at the same time...
   in vino veritas...
     shh... it's a secret...
                    one downfall of drinking
and writing...
                      hmm...
                         ­     really hard to tell a lie...
by god it's hard to tell a lie
while drinking...
     why? there's no fun in telling a lie,
spinning a fictive narrative,
marketing character understudies or
fan-bait...
                a bit like:
Chopin...
                     versus a ******* orchestra...
(yeah, sorry about that...
   oath words, i swear,
   are compiled in the category of and:
i.e., they're conjunctions...
   otherwise i'd stutter, or something much
worse, like a writer's block & ****)...
wait...
   what was i going to say?
ah!
   channel 4 news... sure... it pure left,
globalism, multi- blah blah blah
and further blah to the nth term...
i couldn't believe it though!
   obviously the two stories were going
to be spoken about side by side...
     first... the second arrest of Tony Robinson...
apparently yet another, or another yet:
contempt of court...
     scenes from the Old Bailey...
and, d'uh, obviously,
   Jeremy Corbyn opening a placard of
a sq. dedicated to the far right
    "terrorist" attack on... ***...
  can't remember her name...
    Joe... hey Joe... where do you think
you're going with that gun?
Janie's got a gun...
                   this **** never gets old:
Chris Rea: Josephine...
       i send you all my love,
  and every single step i take
i take for you...
i would never believe that so much of
Van Morrison has that many
  jazzy accents in the oeuvre...
moondance:
   and a crisp, cloudless early
afternoon illuminating the birds,
the blues of flowers and the contract
of the about to shoot
  into embers of होली Holī
envious greens...
turmeric, chilli powder,
     cumin, fading cardamon,
garam masala,
                      coriander...
cinnamon,
           then the masalas:
   tandori, achar, tikka....
    then korma and the sri lankan
powder...
blue indians have their celebrations
in spring,
  i'm about to spectate the celebrations
of autumn... win win...
but that's still not the point...
channel 4 news...
  oh ****!
  Gavin!
   Gavin Mcinnes!
    **** me!
          hmm...
   love the tartan suit...
******* looks plush!
about as much style as matt preston
  (from Australian Masterchef)...
**** it,
   i forgot which of the chicken
wings recipes i am supposed
to make tomorrow....
                               *******!
the Azerbaijan recipe, or the...
oh ****... o.k. i can tell the difference
between the porcelain of the Japanese,
and say... someone from Thailand...
whatever... i'll cook something anyway.
Bard Jun 2020
Go out to the tarmac shove a pig into dirt
Listen to the squeal make sure it hurt
Hogtie'em smack'em on the *** into the van
collect'em off the street and can them in the tan
Ford Transit then we off to the chop shop
The ****** butchers gonna cut some cop
Drag them up feet first arms tied to the side
Hang em up to dry over a reservoir for the gore
Cut the cartery artery while they cry no more
Whats it all for, whats it all for, a long pig cookout
A hairless goat bled out now its time to get guts out
Bleed slows to a drip time to take a head simply twist
Off it comes like pop easy as a ******* croptop
Get your blade nice and sharpish cuz next on the list
Is skinning a cop shave off fuzz into the slop
Then drag a knife from the plexus to the ****
Tie off the **** and yank the excess its painless
**** up and you can try again pick another off the herd
Cut up  again and again plenty of pork to slaughter
Almost ready for the grill party just gotta get meat ready
Detach arms, halve and quarter, keep your hands steady
Time to get out the coriander and chili powder
Hammer with a tenderizer on the counter
Cuts of steaks without any guilt, all free range
As I bite into a roast I make a toast to my rage
That made this deranged cookout, pig liver on toast
With some grits and cornbread as the feds approach
Hundred cops'll will roll on the grillmaster
Hundred shots out swiss cheesed by the *******
Read in the paper a monster cop killer
Killed for fighting the terror with terror
I'm so tired, of listening to the last words of people as cops torture them to death. I don't condone ****** or ****** cannibalism, but I need to express my frustration.
Sharina Saad May 2013
I promised my PATI.. a chapati for breakfast
A plain chapati I passionately learnt to make
Oh.. What an impression I will make...
A marvelous chapati and a glass of milk
I will prepare with all my heart..
A SUPERB Chapati from a BIWI to her PATI..

I am a BAHU.... an obedient BAHU...to my SASU MAA..
Ohh and she will brag ... I am the best BAHU...
The best in India if not in the world...
I am so proud... What a chapati maker I am..
A super BIWI.. an obedient BAHU...
I will make superbb.... chapati...
The whole India will dance with me...
Dance in my kitchen with me....

But my SASUR requested for a Masala Chapati
And he wanted it for lunch... today
for dinner tonight and for breakfast tomorrow..
An obedient Bahu... I am.... A super Biwi I am..
Ohhh ...I am no MASALA CHAPATI maker...
Plain chapati... plain chapati thats what i learnt...

I searched for a recipe... MASALA CHAPATi...
Butter,Chilli and coriander powder..
I cook them all together...
Cumin seeds, vegetablas and GARAM MASALA..
Ohh la la la.... here goes the chapati masala...

Oppss... when everything is set..
My SALI comes to check....
AMMI JI.... AMMI JI... she called..
My MASALA CHAPATI is about to ready...

My pati.. my sasu maa... my sasur and my Sali
We all sit together..
My cooking smells good..
When MASALA CHAPATI is served....
They all smile and look at me...
WHAT?? IS THIS MASALA CHAPATI????
And we all dance on the kitchen floor....
To my family in India....
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata
-
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
it's...
listening to metric - clone (2012)...
sipping a whiskey...
pretending to smoke a cigarette
with an unlit cigarette in hand...
the feel and the texture...
the scent of unlit tobacco,...

and then it's... contemplating...
british and "british"...
              and the caves... and... speaking
a language lacerated...
loan words...
   music of corvus corax... katrinka...
i would never...
listening to such music...
attire myself as: bwitish...
technicalities...
              the prefix will do...
                 anglo-slav...
                         like... those anglo-saxons...
but less specific...
because: you'd have to also call them:
   anglo-pseudo-germans...
          or quasi...
                        i'm not being
specific either... an anglo-slav i am...
a patchwork of guesses...
         serb? croat? slovenian?
       the yugoslav? ukranian?
           russian? czech? slovak?
                    i've just been listening to
some videos of nostalgia...
from the natives circa 1978 and...
nik nak paddy... old man... something...

to associated with the british...
to be british...
  do you suppose... there's a turk these days...
that would associate himself
as... an ottoman?
         i wonder...
         maybe the concept of empire being...
domino... connected by land...
and not scattered like the greek diaspora /
empire...

           the empire of roman?
weird... isn't it? to be surrounding a massive
salt pond...
            while the constant chance of having
your back turned...
seemingly protecting this salt pond...
yes... sea...

- i found the stare of love at first today:
but i was numb to it...
deer eyes of an indian girl -
darkened / riddled by the equator...
while i was... picking three kings of chillies...
some fresh coriander...
cumin powder... kashmiri powder...
and black cumin seeds...

    - i saw eyes and i also saw two
nuggets of charcaol...
   my knees left nothing of the sort of iritation
fo drop everything and swim
against the current like a salmon...

- come mid-thirties and...
   i'm starting to feel comfortable...
with the solo-project... the dodo-project...
looking for signs of: waking up
to what could have been an abortion...
or a genocide into a tissue, flushed down
the toilet: the horror of being circumcised...
without jewish or muslim...
social structures...
         it could be much worse... i could have
been circumcised...
i could have been born with
both a ****** and a strap-on *****:
seeking the ****** st. of tic-tac-toe and
a skipping rope of:
  that i have kissed a man...
that i have gorged on a *******'s
****** like a wrath and love of god...
that suckling to the **** didn't
pose a problem: got choc tinged teeth
and bitter-corn in between...
oh i'm pretty sure she wasn't in love
with me:
             a wry smile while i didn't
speak the "proper" native...

mongrel soul retaining a weird question
about who's who and who's a token
postcard on loan from...
lost from former forged empires...

on my way back home...
   i was... once upon a time...
that sort of guy... loitering... waiting...
making waiting... a ritual...
worth smoking a cigarette...
patience is a religion that's not invested
in peace to all: for all...
     first comes first...

nearing the magic number 35...
it's very sensible of me to state:
it's quiet impossible for me to share a bed...
with anything or anyone except
my shadow...
considering how when i expose
my shadow to sunlight...
mindless shadow pretends to have
eyes... when it crawls into my head
at night: when i sleep...
and tells the alternative story of
the day...

    to be wedded and with children...
one would most certainly need to be coupled
with prospects in one's early 20s...
after the mid-20s... well...
the boat's about to sail...
the solo- / dodo-project is...
  a bit like... with writing being concerned...
one's hope for a career in...
    a chemistry lab...
or the selfless-acts of hippocrates' students...

all very well to love children...
but... ******* them up...
never really becoming that...
nobel prize winning psychologists
with a break-through...
when the whittle cherbus... gremlins...
kritters arrive...
an over-zealous cat meowing / moaning
about curfew is one of those spin-offs
of madness...
talk to me about a babe crying...

- and yes... some people shouldn't drink...
their genetic disposition: ah ah...
their individual metabolism...
they never conjure up the amphetamine
(metaphor) ***** from the lullaby
zombied-out death-cult of sedation...
- and these same people shouldn't pick
up smoking a ritual tobacco stick...
even i venture to call it:
a bullet to the head...

  how is it... to become... selfless?
when... one... has become...
self-realized... past the groan of:
the facts... aged 25 and your brain
should stop... window-shopping
function suffixes... no?

i had an idea for a glove...
with a rubber-band...
to... restrict... the natural laziness
of the hand when walking...
but because i drink and only jargon
poor poetics...
in rage i ripped the rubberband
off my arm... lost to history:
lost to the void...
oh i know how that it feels...
would it have been of use...
i guess not...
     a bright idea in a bucket
of maggots and maggot ****...
is... about as much worth as...
a screwdriver is to a forest of nails...
chisel... n'est ce pas...
i was... asking: grit teeth...
soul... clenching... bizarre objects
of gradations of sharpening...
the obvious square-headed axe...
pulp...
      a whole rainbow of objects...
perhaps a scalpel is the last resort...

i smile because: i've turned angry into
funny...
who doesn't have the monopoly on violence:
well... i also do not have the monopoly
on c.c.t.v. -
   little help from coming from
under the iron curtain...
the local seem to be... all ah...
oh so detached... missing las vegas cousins
and...
if i could only allow you...
to allow myself... to fathom...
the maldives of my mind...
a drag of a cigarette... a bottle of whiskey
35cl... you start the bets...
who's about to...
      find prison in solipsism...
solipsism as a mental illness...
as an altruism: as a atheism as a...
genius maddy: spezial neds: youz callz
'em... quivering folk?
what'z that phra-phra-puccino?
    autist-spec:   ah yes! those rare breeds!
spazz-taculars!
i was one misunderstood for one of them...
i took the insult to the grave...
well... i took it to her grave...
by the god of the hebrews and by the mythology
of cain... from siberia came the huns...
the turks... the slavs and the mongols...
only germans ever came from
       afri-*******-ah-hahaha!
they skipped the toll of sanskrit:
the birth of writing...
why? it became complicated...
when beijing was founded...
but sure... a replica tux of skeleton came out
out... fringe kenya and landed in: old delhi...
as many consonants if not more:
down to the core: with the spices...
the unfortunate indians of north
america...
the somewhat fortunate indians
of: south america...
brazil: post-racial mecca...
argentinian beef and...
                             myths of nazis
living to old age...
                 no... oh no... i will not die...
first comes ol' lizzie then comes
my sodden sorry ***...
envelope of a missing postage stamp
of a world: we've been to the moon...
via new york and the leviathan london...
where's afghanistan cave fighting...
the pashtun women of... glorifying
copper and cinnamon / cumin and coriander
ash... and beauty...
how doesn't it sound:
the day the music died:
we sang dirges in the dark...
                 bye bye: may-pole luck with
christ: the advent of...
the crucifix is hanging... ornament piece...
but the... iron maiden isn't...
           it's enough to identify a god...
it's quiet another matter...
to torture him... and... sorry...
but if i were to be crucified...
   sooner me and the comfort of hands...
outstretched... than... hands-tied...
pushed onto a pole: to impale...
lost advent of etymology: slav...
and the lost "e" of paul...
to remind... the crucifix... well...
            to impale...
                       looks like...
the crucifix is missing limbs... it would take...
days... the arms that would be
flapping... agitating an imitation
of a swan breaking into flight...
the two lungs... imitating drowning...
while hanging... extended...
     to crucify... hardly: the affair of...
being... impaled...
perhaps joking: slav(e) gave the clue...
germans: whether orthodox
anglo-ßaß - celtic mingling...
    germs... who's eating what... "leftover"
etymological clues...
we can play this game... forever...
it's hardly the hebrew the original:
indu- prefix of... roaming... or not...
                      
guise them up as the exodus as the fomer
lands of Jagiełło...
the battle of Hastings: blip...
             who am i... but at least in england...
i can speak the language
like some conrad of masovia:
readied to sell the "lesser creatures"
for the... encouraged...
integration to the *****: kneel...
of the baltic pruß...
who weren't... coddled...
the welsh weren't coddled...
they were "told" to... brighten their
day to day... expand...
fathom the easily accessed seas:
expand...
who owned the monopoly of
the baltic sea: as if it were
the bosphorus...
beside... the danes?
expansion of: ****** come together
with a ******: breathing
h. p. lovecraftian h'america...
loot maine and call it... start:
bittersweet apartheid...
not me: i'm still half of Vilno...
and the most remote aspect of L'viv...
no... crusader songs... no crusades: per se!

i used to play video games...
i became... more fascinated
with the romance of: a lost year...
that the school re(a)d... it wasn't in any
fathom of an iota of red:
or a synonym in burgundy:
for the worth of the burgundians:
leftovers of the angevins...
that richard the lionheart
found a love for england...
the island... an abhorring testimony
of youth and no solance...
that old age never found him:
akin to: the needle never found
the mystery of the haystack...

i am not! lithuanian!
common practice of exodus polacks...
paul-lacking:
slav and "e" dribbling...
      like the germanic peoples:
who aren't lingua franca revisions...

    ⰏⰑⰣ     ⰔⰑⰂⰑ...

lingering "blame"... darwinism via
the default...
the monkey skeleton left africa...
arrived in india.. left a schism...
some went to хины
             some went to:         чeнa..

   anglican via: the great mother siberia...
is a mother...
beside the zenith advent of: mother...
muffer: af-af-rye-c'ah'cah!
******* twins to mind the rhodes!

the skeleton left africa...
yes...
   but... the hindu morphed the genesis...
a second time... into writing...
what... phonetic encoding...
beside... the primodial...
   hieroglyphics... from africa... would have...
ever... arrived at our...
emoji internet advent... door-step of
extending democracy / demographics...
central?

the wheel and the square also
left africa with the skeleton:
the arithmetic of bones and muhammad...
but the triangle settled in greece
and became pythagoras...
and the letter: Δ....

    the inter-racial violence of north
h'america... is not... beside the wery bwitish
advent of ****-stan... as... imaginary
loitering of a border: coming to survive
with Belfast-Kashmir...
           that's making priority of...
the written word...
over the skeleton jump-start...
       bypass...
              and the emoji... and... grafitti...
clue out of africa...
never met... the sub-continent of india...
or... the chinese ideograms...
or sanskrit...
but... ******... *** and bounty...
the mongols never made...
crimea... their capital...
hastings was forever a washington's
survival guide...
       that theatre gave the birth
of lincoln and... whitman was...
everything any other poet: including
homer and dante always dreamed of...
that europeans invited themselves
toward: finding h'america in a can
of sardines...
and that the h'americans believed
they found europe... in kent or essex...
or... in books...
or... in loitering... or being...
allowed to be obnoxiously loud...

            like that **** would still stink:
100 years from now...
but yes... the libido of a genghis khan...
i trace my libido to:
how i imitate the people who
check their blood pressure when i *******...
i... genocide my... fractions into
the moloch couldron that's:
beside... the prayers of a...
        tele-evalngelical church of praises!
h'america is nothing new...
it's just better: regarding...
what remains... a solid old.
Lily Audra Apr 2020
I want to prepare food for you,
Chopping leeks and secretly dropping coriander into the pan,
I know you say you don't like it but you never notice and it really adds something,
The radio sings and fills the spaces between the smoke and steam and my thoughts,
I shout you alright, babe?,
You shout what?,
I walk over to the sofa holding a beer you chose and move towards you,
Grow towards you, lean over and press my cheek hard into your neck creases,
Your pulse thrumming through me like a train,
I close my eyes tight and think of all the times I was desperately alone,
In dark rooms in my mind,
Shall we cycle our bikes to the river tomorrow? you whisper into me,
Your breath warm and sweet,
I add salt to the dinner and you pull out a map and our days and nights are woven together by you looking at me looking at you.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
oh i'm pretty sure the anglo-sphere doesn't care much for other tongues... or what happens in them: how they arrived to where they are now... but... sometimes... it comes about by the most curious of circumstances when, the natives & / or their extended family of trans-Atlantic cousins (etc.) start to... mishandle their: zunge... then... something wakes up, that should have been sleeping... in a person who treats this tONG in the confines of: acquisition, rather than something... passed down with: accent... idiosyncrasy... "whereabouts": local "allegiance"...

covert excess drinking:
i'm starting to love it more and more:
i get to play both actor,
a shadow... and fictional death...
all is well when you can
summon the... nerves(?)
to also make a distinction between
making strawberry gelato vs.
strawberry ice-cream...
no eggs more fruit pulp
less cream for the former...
plus... "displacing" things...
you wake up... it's... [there]...
half an hour later it's... "there"...
these spontaneous pockets
of amnesia:
these spontaneous bouts of...
AM... née: SHIA...
how else? Zee-E-E'Ah?
there's another name for this:
SKLEROZA...
it's not an English word...
but the symptoms are:
you get to walk a lot...
it doesn't hurt...
ah... memory... such a fickle faculty...
it's like we were engineered to:
forget in order to: push on
forward and... replicate... procreate...
alas... what if you...
don't want to?
   like an antithesis of
Frankenstein's monster...
who... if written by a man and not
a Mary Shelley would...
play the Sisyphus for a while
and then... do-himself-off...
hanging... stab to the heart
while working out the arithmetic
spacing of soft flesh to ribs...

cumin coriander, garlic ginger
cumin coriander, garlic ginger
cumin, coriander, asafoetida... ginger...

"apparently" it's offensive to call
a dish a curry...
it's more or less just: gravy:
gwavvy...
those blue Indians of Bengal
and elsewhere those Reds
and those Incas never really
drank or for that matter: minded
the concept of yeast...
flat as the platitudes of
Belgian mud or a *******
japati...

it's the middle of the day
i've pickled myself in some 70cl
of bourbon from the night
before and... right
now: with a swiggle and a hum...
i'm pickling...
irritably pickling... some sweet
notes to mind: but otherwise...
sour as a stash of lemons...

and that's fine... because i'm also
thinking about the self-help gurus
and the machinery of:
capitalising on everything:
even death and sickness...

my advice is? read the three musketeers...
my advice: have about 3 maxims handy...
categorical imperatives
or what not...
here are the two that i best behave
under:

Tao: the best way you can help
the world is... to forget the world
and allow the world to forget you...
non-verbatim...

Dumas: the best advice i ever gave was:
to no, under any circumstance:
give advice...
since... if people take it...
will probably regret it...
ergo... blame you for it...

- currently there are two words on my mind...
one borrowed from a list:
parsley sage, rosemary & thyme...
the last on the list... thyme...
not... F-I'm...
thyme... time... thyme... time...
such a delight i have with this tongue:
you can say the same set of syllables
but imply a completely different meaning:
esp. sharpened in writing...
perhaps i was born into a language
that is as clear-cut katakana as no
other European language:
apart from the necessary workaround
of consonant graphemes: just as well as
in English: SHould you CHoose to bother
yourself: with...

i'm still not quiet following the whole
pseudo-grammatical pronoun agenda...
*** is never associated: will never be associated
with nouns in this tongue...
a table is neither masculine nor feminine...
perhaps that's... why pronouns have
imploded?

i'm currently in the process of making
a distinction between strawberry gelato and
strawberry ice-cream...
obviously no eggs in the former...
a 2:1 ratio of full fat milk to double cream...
but the cream needs to be beaten...

slang terms:
LASKA - LAS - forest...
LASKA - a fit: most desirable female...
also a walking-stick...
LODY - ice-cream...
   robić lody - to make ice-cream...
also slang for... *******...
OSTRYGA - oyster...
K'WIAT - flower...
     well... something to counter making ice-cream:
lody... gobble down an oyster?

it's not even that any miniscule variation
of katakana would help...
no stand-alone consonants apart from N...
why N?
always clinging to:
vowel: woman...
consonant... man...
mind you: there is still no concept of ***
bound to nouns in English...
the moon is him
the sun is her...

i'm gently drinking: while also fasting...
the combination with immaculate sunlight...
why wouldn't the flowers be rejoicing?!

excuse me: hrabia: wal-do-dechy
     count: hit-to-the-plank (of wood)...
echoes of expressions of a dead man...
clearly i should know:
born into a language with clear:
Clear syllabic distinctions...
more! added to vowels:                     Ą!

oh... but beside the Italians & the Greeks...
just your European neighbours...
i too don't want to mind the pan-Slavic
movement... some called it communism...
i will never understand what
the Russians were up to...
ha ha... pan-Germanic is sort of happening
while everyone seems: coolly bothered
by something with: an alias...

terrible ideas ought to die...
seems like Marxism is not such a bad idea
if it finds volunteers... zealots to:
revise it... Darwinism does account for
mutations... doesn't it?
like a pig that barks or a dog that oinks...
a bonsai tiger... wait... tigers don't growl...
do they?
they snort apathy or something...
i don't know... i was never placed in front
of one...

murmur murmur... m'hmm something
in the place of: too far away from the sea...
from one wave: to another: mω...
oh... look:
           it's only a double-u if it's an omega-yu...
yule...
    otherwise? sharpen the edges:
v'ah-v'ah: empty the room! Wedge & Whinge
are coming in with a pink-elephant
and five blind men!
should have been expecting a carton of milk...
as you would: armed with a mω a mᵒₒ...

well... at least making ice-cream... ******!
gelato! clearly there are no poultry abortions involved!
is not a sour-note metaphor for...
giving ******* to... a hungry bandwagon
of Pakistanis eager to please
the children of Ing-Land...

   - what a sight! a canvas i have returned to
throughout the day... now:
night has come...
how bewildering to stand in the garden
while two insomniac magpies chase
each others' cackle...
one perches in my eucalyptus tree and
rattles, rattles: cackles... stutters...
so much so that even some poor dog left
in the warm air of September replies
with a bark!

how rare to hear birds tell their presence
in the night...
how rare to hear birds in the night...
how welcome these spies:
they must be either magpies or crows...
it... simply: sublimates their otherwise
cautious presence in the day...
and the magpies cackled in the night
so much so: that even the dog was roused
to bark!

- one glug, two glugs: make it three!
whiskey this cold so it almost resembles some
syrupy liquid ought to be imbued with much glee!
i could make ice-cream all day!

esp. since i have found a most pristine recipe!
i'll be ever the most obnoxious
when i tell you: dear reader
of the difference between ice-cream and gelato...

i think i memorised the two recipes...
ice-cream...
    as a warning: i usually halve the suggested
amount of sugar...
whether that be using raspberries,
strawberries, blueberries...
crème anglaise

mein gott! i'm in one of those rare instances
of life, reality where: *** can be compensated:
or thereby a lack of... an Ava Lauren /
Monique Fuentes...
i like to think of *** like a well-worn...
many a times sat in: leather... arm-chair...
i like that: i don't know what the thrill
with inexperience is... all about...
timid bodies... timid: frail... dolls...
i can compensate this desert of the ****-less...
as a curiosity by some Pakistani who

i could make ice-cream all day...
i'd rather make gelato... but all day...
i could make curry all day...
curry and gelato: i'm your man...

- i abhor sober opinions: let alone sobering up
in the domain of dialectics:
i have enough on my plate with
English: the language...
making no attempt to transcend the Latin script
with any sort of addition of
diacritical markers...
Charlie Dickens: good "sport" might have
included the term: orthography...

one reason leads to another... just bad spelling...
but it's only orthography if...
you apply diacritical stressors...
can have an Empire to rival Rome's with their
alphabet... but can't exactly keep
the neo-gothic Victorian romance
alive... on a mere whim...
look at it! disintegrating into vagabond
graffiti... or... emoji! which is not the same
as breaking away from the kanji in favour
of something more: phonetic...

Koreans & the Japanese are right up there:
on my... ahem "spice" list of ingredients
of people required...
the origins of writing is to: encode sounds...
to write sounds down...
no ideas... not insinuations...
throw the whole bunch of those
sand-******* into a crab bucket and see
what confused :)( comes out... savvy?

sober people and their sober ideas...
always so... *******... serious!
like they mean it... but rarely do they
keep themselves intact on enacting their intent!
i better eat a dollop of whole-grain mustard before
every meal before i deal with:
sober, serious... sen-si-blah... sensible whole lot of them
get the ***** to launch an offensive
on the groovy... gravy... groovy? gravy train...
**** me: it's good to know i'm getting old...
and out of touch...

i get pockets of nostalgia: time... immemorial...
anecdotal evidence that i:
somehow brushed against...
the pain... the strokes... of time...
and made some spatial-coordinate concerns
moving: for-ward...

ice-cream: 5 egg yolks...
bruised by... ha ha... "bruised" whipped to a lighter
colour... some sugar was added...
two cups of double cream... one cup of full fat milk...
a cup of sugar...
your choice of berries: heated up separately...
blah blah... combined... hey presto! an indigestion
pause... relapse...
depending on your temperament...

that's ice-cream... but... gelato! GEE! LA TOE!
T'OH!
no egg yolks...
    2 cups of full fat milk...
one cup of double cream: beaten... whisked...
it has to... half the sugar you're expected to use...
in the berry pulp...
    
i'll need the RRR... why has the trill of the Ar
disappeared in the Ing-Leash tongue:
betäubungzunge: compounded... obviously...
higher tier Germanic... not this... Ing-Leash...
mongrel sort...
so the adjective comes before the noun:
rather than the noun coming prior to
the adjective... i don't want to be asking for:
proper this... eh... proper that...

the exasperated yawns... gags and yelling impositions
of the "liberal" moralists...
like a god finally said: if i gave them
free-will... can "we" just agree that:
they better experience their full: "potential"?
oh i believe in god: but i also believe in free-will...
one counter-acts the other
in the way thus: follows:
to completely have: free-will...
you can't expect a nanny-state c.c.t.v. omni: gwand-p'ah
moment... can you?
there's... sweet & sour...
there's... sweet & salty...
can't have one... without... the other...

my god! genius logic! look for applause
when all the self-deprecating humour dries up...
clap... clap... clap clap...
how can you expect a god...
when... you're also expecting free-will?
you can... no... wait... you can't be a murderer!
Cain... was a vegetarian...
Abel... ably sacrificed a goat... or a sheep...
or two... Cain was a Hebrew version of:
'indu...
so... the northern European mind simply
boils corrupted with: staged logic
and...  the idiosyncrasies of other cultures...
yeah! thanks for the bread... where's, the, yeast?!

you use it?! you... ever used it?!
yeast: you get to say yes a lot...
you allow yourself to encourage to grow bread...
you also make beer...
no? not handy? o.k.: we'll just leave the "appropriate"
answer for the white women folk: people-kind
to conjure up a "properly": response...

ooh... believe me... i can play the grammar game
like... for eternity...
in between being allowed breaks
to do some proper *******...
like... churning strawberry ice-cream...
or making a curry sauce...

i am: SCHEMING!
i'm not going to allow this language to be
left in... *******: tartan: let alone:
tatters... even though it's not my own tongue...
i will not leave it: to... RUIN!
i'd best keep it in runes....

                    ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ...

no... you don't tell me what i am: or i am
not... "supposed" to do...
you settle my score on the fabric of
capital punishment... i die... you live...
but... it's not so ******* simple... no?
leech eats leech...
crab bucket...

she's a... three-dimensional woman...
looking for a... two-dimensional man...
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
i need to write down laughter:
since it's so silent... so covert...
it doesn't really require a stand-up
comedian's solipsism to ****-me-off...
ha ha!
a three-dimensional woman...
looking for a two-dimensional man!
ah ha ha!

goldfish of an ego:
in a muddle of a "think-tank"
of 70cl of... is whiskey...
i could be her grandpa santa
and she could be my selfish elf
quasi dwarf on my knee:
not readied for a spanking:
i'm so turned off by modern *******

time is a concept i'd rather forget....
father Xavier...
i just want to make ice-cream:
or... make the distinction between ice-cream
& gelato...
& curry... i want to make a bucket load
of "that"... enough to make joking remarks about
an invading envy equivalent to match up to
the Ottoman Janissaries...

i don't like being sold the sole impetus
that blatantly numbs me...
a walking abortion: i am...
             find me in my most reclusive spot...
when the  birds... triple the night...
merge with it... allow the: bystanders!
postcard enthusiasts! tourists! begone!
with Essex: alone!
i don't care much fo the western aspect
of England... POMPOUS SODS
THE WHOLE LOT OF THEM!

anything associated with Bristol
i wouldn't feed to pigs...
sure... they might be the most pristine sort
of people:
they're still a people i wouldn't
share food with... sorry... what?!
you might care that i might care?!
how... custard-esque...
how... bewildering...
i... exist?!
                    *******...
really?! does one digest that fat of fact
with a: hmmm...

         SUDDENLY?!
"diatribe of waking shadows"?

forget it...
the postponed death of Johnny Cash
matched up to the "un-expected"
relief of... false claimants oeuvre!
Elvis... ought to have died...
he died... the end!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.on a lighter note, from what you'll find included below... the Rolling Stones or the Beatles? well... as well when asking the question John Coltrane or Miles Davies, or, or... Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven... in the last case? the latter. **** me... he loved music so much that he became deaf... just like Homer became blind; god, i love these famous instances of benevolent reasoning; with its cruel culminating outcome / closure... fate, it would seem... but then the sly nudge by something akin to... well i'm unsure which i prefer: Michelangelo's creation of Adam... or Rembrandt's Belshazzar's Feast... i think (but not doubt) that i'm more fond of the latter depiction.

i seriously only have a couple
of words to make a counter-argument...
this won't take long,
this is not going to become
one of those video tirades
  (Beethoven's ode to joy
is still playing in the background,
and yes, i am moderately sober,
i had to cook up a butter chicken
curry with a coriander
    and mind chutney for the chapaties...
chap chap... bud bud...
you want a stereotypical
Apu from the Simpsons?
just watch Australia's master-chef
from this year,
and look up a guy called
Sashi Cheliah...
    buddy bud bud... you get
the picture; it's his recipe...
   curry all day, curry in the morning,
curry in the afternoon,
curry in the evening,
dreaming of curry)...
internet de-platforming...
isn't it... technically illegal?
       just curious...
because...
             my internet provider cannot
exactly switch off my access
to the internet...
like a bailiff...
   i'm not paying the electricity bills,
so they come, and switch off
my electricity supply...
   what "we're" talking about is
a case of illegality...
   to de-platform you'd require
a service provider to implement sound
justifications...
but then...
   paradox avenue:
    they're not getting the money
needed to be a service provider...
so... i'm only supposed to have
the infrastructure of buying ****
online, and banking online...
   STOP ******* UP WITH THE *******
PLAYGROUND! PUT THE SAND
BACK INTO THE SANDBOX...
PUT THE WATER BACK INTO
THE TRAFALGAR SQ. FOUNTAIN!
it's illegal...
              why aren't the hardware
companies, beating the living **** out
of these software providers?
websites are software,
they're not the computers,
the cables, the workload of Atlases...
****... this is becoming a tirade
worthy of a video...
but Beethoven's ode to joy is playing
in the background,
and i never feel like talking...
itchy fingers you see...
the devil has work for idle hands...
it's illegal...
   because it bypasses the terms
of agreement you already made with
the internet providers...
so what... you can only do so much
on the internet?
these people have paid
for their internet connection!
                 what, a, load, of, *******;
so? ensure they pay less
for their internet access...
  given that a limited internet access
is being implemented...
i'm already past being ******
off at the jukebox...
       now i'm fuming... kettle mad
just around the time when
the water starts to boil.
g clair Nov 2013
For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice

Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within

A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce

a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh

and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth

Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye

Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander

heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock ***'s always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!

And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh

when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash

I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!

Ahhhh!!!!!

*chicken broth
I love discovering that I can cook something as good as that which I can order in a restaurant, and this recipe is as easy as it is delicious! I made this bisque on the 31st of Oct and while it cooked, bragged up a carrot cake ( with crushed pineapple, raisins and walnuts. Well didn't I feel like Martha Stewart!" YES!  This is the best recipe. Just as good as any I have had out. Enjoy!
i love to write poetry with food
the clickety-clack of the knife on the dining board is my metre
the veggies going choppity-chop are the words
the masalas are the embellishments
that lift them to another level altogether
the pressure cooker whistles,
something in the frying pan sizzles
the flavours rise and fill my home
with the smell of cooking
the gravy thickens
the pulse quickens
in anticipation of the tasting
the aromas tease as i’m tempering
a little coriander for the topping
and I’m done!
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   09.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
"There is no sincerer love than the love of food." - George Bernard Shaw.
Just realized that a foodie like me hasn't written any poems about food! Had to set that right!
Edna Sweetlove Apr 2015


Le Grand Restaurant Gastronomique
de Monsieur Merde


Rue Ordure des Anges 69
Conville-le-*****
96969 France


**************

NOTRE­ MENU DU JOUR

~ €500 par personne tout compris ~



LE COCKTAIL DE LA MAISON
"Champagne aux vomissements de chat"
[A giant flute of the finest Cristal champagne with a spoonful of puréed pedigree cat's *****, served with our unique world-famous warm amuse-gueule of fricasséed feline *****]
~

PREMIÈRE ENTRÉE À VOTRE CHOIX
"Le potage aux asperges extra spécial"
[Cream of over-ripe asparagus soup with roasted toads' eyeballs, served chilled, accompanied by our unique home-made nostril pickings "petits chips"]
ou
"Couilles pissées plein d'amour"
[Raw bulls' testicles from organically bred animals, removed whilst the creatures are still alive, thus ensuring none of the precious ******* juice is wasted, lovingly marinated by the head chef, in triple-concentrated bovine ***** from our own Charentais herd of rare endangered species ****** cattle]
~

DEUXIÈME ENTRÉE DU CHEF
"Flegme des Dieux"
[A classic "Monsieur Merde" dish: bite-size deep-frozen gobbets of fatally-ill consumptives' phlegm deep-fried in ape ******-flavoured batter, served in a priceless 19th century silver spittoon, with a loganberry coulis on the side]
ou
"Ravioli al vermi semi-freddo alla Pectinale"
[A rare Sicilian dish re-imagined by Monsieur Merde: each "raviolo" of home-made egg pasta contains a living lukewarm baby earthworm, served with our secret "Sauce Mongol stupide", on a bed of wilted coriander leaves and crispy fried freshly-harvested Sicilian ****** nuns' ***** hairs]*
~

LE GRAND PLAT DU M. MERDE
"Girafe à naître, Sauce utérus"
[Roasted whole unborn baby giraffe, with spicy womb-lining sauce, served with pommes purées with a touch of female rhino ***** and Dijon mustard]
~

NOTRE PLÂTEAU DES FROMAGES MALODORANTS
"Assortiment révoltant"
[Selected personally by M. Merde, guaranteed to contain a wide selection of pure-bred, hand-reared, green Géant Normandy maggots]
~

LE GRAND CHARIOT DE DESSERTS
"L'Héraut de la pompe stomicale"
[Including our signature dish "Crap Suzette", wafer-thin slices of vintage dried elephant dung flamed in 1895 VSO *** Napoleon Cognac]
~
LE CAFÉ et LES PETITS FOURS
"Sélection dysenterie tropicale"
~

Les prix comprennent nos vins selectionés "de la Maison de Merde":

Avec vos "starters" et les entrées: Château Pisse de Cheval 1994
[a full Chardonnay flavour with a hint of rampant stallion's ****]

Avec Le Grand Plat du M. Merde: Beaujolais Villages Supérieur 2006
[a powerful and fruity wine with a refreshing bouquet not unlike unwashed Olympic wrestlers' sweat-drenched armpits]

Avec les fromages: Château Foûtre 1988
[one of the most potent wines in oenological history, with a kick like a hippo's ****]

Et avec le dessert: 1946 Greek Muscat from the island of Shittos
[matured in Turkish goats' bladders to enhance its sweetness]

Bon Appétit!

*If our respected clients would like to sit near to the door to the toilets, please ask the Maître d'Hôtel for assistance, but please note there is a €25 surcharge per person for this much sought-after privilege and advance booking is normally necessary, so please be prepared to ******* if these seats are not available.
Shashank Virkud Dec 2010
The wind blows hard tonight. The wind takes every bit of warmth from my marrow and doesn't bring any of it back. No, this is not an art that you have mastered exclusively, as much as that may disappoint you.  

Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like ****, but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.

I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.

Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.

The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.

The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.

In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged. 
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.

I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ******. Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored. 

Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.

Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.

Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.
Kevin Trant May 2010
You left nothing, only the Stevens book
That read:  There is not nothing, no, no never…

Nothing and a yellow bicycle:
Two tires on a rickety frame.

When I do pick up a poem,
It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you,

Softer, informed by everything that spins:
A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling

Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path,
My collarbone’s begun to mend.

The house gets drafty late afternoons
So I learn to cook:

Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander.  
cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds.

Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida
And corriander’s just cilantro.

Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes.
I leave the teakettle to boil.

Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk
Taking lessons from everything bare,

I let in the cold to hear
No stones turned in the drive.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
it's largely based on the introduction, drunk poetry of Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde, or Dave Bowie's heathen albums that can be treated as fully-loaded novels with missing charting song, you can champ the narratives akin to nearing ancient symphonies making Nietzsche more of a German Chopin than an idea formation, excusing himself with too maxims; yep, Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde given Nick Hornby's care for the music in what's a fluke of care for piquant fidelity, country and blues, bought at a supermarket; or avoid both and head straight for Ticlah's si hecho palante.

for some strange reason i woke up early,
usually i miss the morning staying up
till 5 or 6 a.m., like a vampire scared of sunrise,
winter is my most productive period,
summer my least productive,
spring and autumn are seasons when
magic happens, just today the oak tree was
brushing away its flowery bloom
before the fat yoke of chestnuts would fall
a few months later, the spring bloom
of pink or white was already tailored for
the excess greenery of summer, over a period
of two days the flowers withered and
the green leaves appeared.
she once complimented on my cooking skills
and my taste of music, notably *tool
,
i first met her when we got together in the
student flats and two girls were *******-up
frying pancakes... the dough stuck to the
frying-pan... so i said 'you need to put some
oil into the mixture!' hey presto a Michelin star
on my attire rather than Victoria's crux
of a soldier... that's how it goes with philosophy
nothing pompous i promise you,
Plato misquoted Socrates talking about
looking funny at men who sought brothel comforts
(the norm in Amsterdam, no guilt, no tabloid spice,
o.k. o.k. Leo Getz style, 'it's like going to the gym,
she was South American, plump, she had a little nergo
boy fetch beers for her clients, she kept the window
open so passersbys could hear her moan after laughing
at my addressing her genitalia with may i taste the fleshy
floral patterns?
ah ****, didn't work, you get to write
about *** and it just ends up a string of cliché
like philosophy and the maxim - prostitutes and the
Gemini lips, try kissing both at the same time);
i'd be funny-looking at the other route of philosophers,
mainly through the army, i'm all lazy eye cross-eyed with
those *******... (i do "pending" interludes since
with drunk finger playing the keyboard i tend to
delete by accident about 1 poem for each 10, heartbreaking
experience) - lost the drift, i must be in Birmingham:
no river... no flow. standard model always included
rivers for people congregating, in the countryside
a church would be enough, but for urbanity a river...
this phenomenon of canal cities like Venice is
truly staggering, call it the Maldives of the west,
the Maldives of Europe, 100 years from now
it will probably be more than a Glastonbury fashion
statement of donning farmer John's galoshes.
i've lost the plot... fun-*******-tastic!
oh yeah, the pancakes... well after falling in love
with organic experiments i learnt to love cuisine,
well d'uh cooking, my flatmate just cooked risotto
after risotto until i started pulling rice grains from my nose...
esters and perfumes, the smelly ****, like pickled cabbage,
the grand joke of british asians...
yeah sauerkraut and chicken escalopes are the grand
joke, although try shoving asian spices under your
armpits and you'll be walking the catwalk of Versace for
sure (hey man, stick has two ends!)...
it's an escalope and that's hardly the profanity of
a chicken Kiev, also called a schnitzel... but not schabowy...
you know there's this great aesthetic joke concerning
polish graffiti about the orthography of ****** / phallus
in poland? yep, the variations: huj, hój, chuj, chój...
technically they all sound the same,
they're found next to the anarchists' A and swastikas
on communist apartments.
she wanted so so much, i was at the end of the third year,
and there she is, moving out of her student accommodation
to live with me in my private flat (rented)...
i mean, great... but i'm about to sit my final exams
to get a piece of paper telling others i'm qualified...
what a ******* mess: i know a 3rd of examinable material
i was studying i'll fail, physical chemistry is not my
strong point, organic i can ace, inorganic i can do well on...
but she's there, full-on intense teen... it's a juggling
act that requires a clown, rather than a man,
i'm not saying i'm perfect, but there's too much idealism
in her that requires a hefty stash of pecunia bratus
(money trees)... ah i wish, but had i wished it
i would be writing such uninhibited poems...
up-to-speed... on today's menu!
that's the culinary abhorrence of poetry, remembering
ingredients in recipes rather than rhymes,
for example Thai green curry, and the ***** curry,
the former with spoonful of green Thai sauce to replace
the use of lemongrass, and lime leaves,
actually the limes we replaced with lemons,
the Thai sauce was added, the garlic & ginger paste used,
onions, mangetout added last to add a crispness on the bite,
new potatoes avoided, half a jar of Thai green curry paste,
Thai fish sauce, not salty enough soya sauce was added
(both light and dark), coconut milk of course, caster sugar,
chicken (well, d'uh), basil... yes... basil! lemon zest
and rice, chilli powder!
the second curry involved: cumin seeds, fennel seeds,
a cinnamon stick, garam masala, chilli powder,
turmeric, chopped tomatoes, sugar, chicken stock,
chopped coriander... all in all this is a culinary attack
of poetry, it's not clearly an ancient revenge,
but when i was younger i was instructed to memorise
a poem, aged circa 7... the poem in question was
school bell, i didn't get why we had to memorise it,
it wasn't anything spectacular, i protested,
gave an oath in swear words against my classmates,
got told off... culinary principles invoke the need
to memorise recipes rather than poems,
curbing the influence of fast-food outlets...
i rather remember the ingredient lists of dishes than poems...
indeed i did make these dishes today,
but only because i switched the radio off
and inserted bought art into the device:
Tom Petty's and the Heartbreaker's greatest hits
and !!!'s (chk chk chk's) myth takes album.
Softly Spoken Dec 2018
There’s always a bustle here
In my ritual place of ribs and beer
The sharp scent of ginger and coriander
The acrid burr in my nose of seared flesh
Fusion food served around me
But I go for Hirata.. again.
Can’t argue with taste, and it tastes
Korean bbq and Buddha beer
A brief nod to the moments of clarity
As said by drunks
The beer bottle cool in my hand as I reflect
Beads of condensation forming on Buddhas belly
And I’m here hoping for Constant
It’s now my third attempt
In as many months to catch a glimpse
And tonight apparently the stars align
Jupiter and Mercury on the rise
As I walk in
There is a way about him
So much bluff and bravado...
reminds me of someone I once loved
There is a mischief in his smile
Something warm in his eyes
Even beyond his jokes of his ego
Too big for the Room, apparently
I don’t discourage..
He’s honest in a way that piques
So here I am
Third time lucky finding Constant
To my delight he recognises me instantly
“Lucky Buddha for the lady?”
His eyes dance..
I interpret, maybe to much
But believe he’s pleased to see me
So we joke..
We laugh
I watch him get an earful
For not concentrating on the flow
The manager in tow..
and he side-eyes me and winks
Inwardly I hi-five myself for
Timing this so perfectly
So here I am
Trying not to watch Constant flow
Trying not to blush as he looks my way
“I’m too old for this ****” I think
Then feel like a kid
When he throws a grin my way
I regular Wagamama in transit.. for the food mainly... ok maybe not all for the food
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
i've cooked plenty of curries in my life
(in the back of my mind there's this mainstream
narrative that comes to the fore
with buzz-words like: "cultural appropriation"...
so i can't cook a curry for myself
i need someone native of the "concept" of curry
to cook it for me? the use of cumin, coriander seeds...
star anise... cardamom pods is off-limits
for me? like donning a sombrero?
i hate acronyms but, in this instance i'll just
keep it short and shrimp-y i.e. w.t.f.?!)
but what i recently conjured up has become
a... revelation...
i know that the taste profile of some Asiatic
people: the Chinese love their dichotomy of
sweet & sour... as well as sweet & salty...
come to think of it: i like those profiles too:
salted caramel is the next big taboo topic?!
the first proper revelation came to me via...
refika's lavash & hammered beef recipe...
she's on youtube: it's so **** when a woman
as voluptuous as her knows how to cook...
plus the ol' raven hair: beyond that...
it's not that she knows how to cook:
i can trust her to cook...
    not that i was willing to make lavash from
raw goods... i can buy that...
the genius is instilled in the marinate...
what was it...
oh hell... my beard is itchy... i guess at the mere
thought of eating this dish...
sea salt, pepper, lots of peppercorns...
fresh garlic, fresh rosemary (thankfully i have
a garden and i have rosemary in it)
dried chillies (whole or flakes)
olive oil, white wine vinegar...
into the pestle & mortar...
the beef thinly sliced then marinating for
15 minutes at best: the vinegar tenderising
the meat quicker...
fried for 2 minutes or whatever time it takes
until you see the meat pouring out the most
hidden blot clots...
but beef & rosemary?! huh! who would have
thought... i certainly wouldn't have...
sure... LAMB & rosemary...
but beef?
oddly enough the meat works just as well
when topped with English cheddar...
you don't need a Turkish cheese...
but that's not even the end of the story...
of the lavash wrap...
it's the side dish...
the onions! slice the onions into crescent moons...
squeeze them to get the party going...
they must be red onions... some salt...
some more white wine vinegar & let them pickle
for a while... after the "while" add some
sumac (i also add some gochugaru chilli flakes...
for colour and tingling buzz)
SUMAC... topped off with some fresh parsley...
i could be writing about my escapades
in the brothel... but this is so much better...
what's ***? meat you can't eat...
at the end... it's meat you can't eat...
tease it, nibble it: but you're not going to eat it...
i very much like the ethereal nature
of cooking: it reminds me of the time i studied
chemistry in Edinburgh and conjured up
Esters from scratch...
Esters? oh, those scented compounds used
in the perfume industry...
yet today i came across an even bigger revelation...
Indian cuisine? done... Chinese... no problem...
the number of curries i made in my life...
eh... ha...
            hell: even the Hungarian goulash
for a massive potato "pancake"... garnished
with something sour... cabbage most likely...
or at least a coleslaw to off-set the smoky-paprika
taste...
green peppers a must...
of course you need some sprinkle of paprika
on the lavash wrap-up...
for colour: to "combat" the "insanity"
of cheese... & some extra pepper....
& rosemary...

well you can't exactly call a stew a curry
a sauce or jue... it's not  juice if it's a juce...
some "chew"...
esp. not in the Persian cuisine...
pity me at me at my self-wallowing in being
cosmopolitan on the outskirts...
i'll take one step into the night
and i'll be met with the resounding
presence of foxes...
i stopped being bothered about BWV 988
being just a cliché...
which it of course is...
so many pieces of classical music were once
beautiful...
now... in the gulag of the muzak...
they have become: morphed...
hardly stand-alone pieces of music...
moonlight sonata being the "other" over-emphasis
of needing to match-up to the demands
of / for mass consumption...

i hope this doesn't read like some foodie
blog... every time i want to replicate a recipe
i have to scroll down through so many
self-congratulatory deviances
from the narrative... none of these food blogs
seem stressed about giving out
what's needed:
the list of ingredients... eh... the methodology
doesn't really bother me...
i always miss the click-of-the-button
where i can simply get to the knitty-gritty...
there's always "some story"... some care to grasp
at some "authenticity":
it's almost like rereading Wittgenstein and
his focus on tautology!

come to think of it...
i watch out for tautologies...
like i watch out for metaphors and misnomers
and the... ahem "air quotes":
you can't stretch it as far as a metaphor?
then we'll be stretching it into a misnomer
status...

FESENJAN...
it's not like the Persians were not knocking
at "our" doors since... perhaps time immemorial...
what about that off-shoot tribe of Aryans:
the Sarmatians settling in the basin
of the Vistula?
funny... the concept of the Aryans...
that the Germans espoused it...
while... historically... never mind...

it's not a curry! it's a Persian stew...
i couldn't fathom it at first...
you make a walnut paste...
you toast 'em...
salt, pepper, sugar...
some of the usual suspects appear:
like cumin...
cinnamon...
    but then you get:
pomegranate molasses...
and fresh pomegranate seeds to garnish... with...
you also use fresh parsley instead of coriander...
only one tablespoon of tomato puree...
some ground almonds...
a pepper: which, along with a can of
chickpeas somehow, "somehow" managed
to disappear in the sauce...
garlic... sure... ginger? no...
onion... yes...

         i knew that Persian cuisine tickled
the sour fancies... but i never knew to what
extent! zest of a lemon: juice of a lemon...
no aubergine... this time...
turmeric: the peasant's version of saffron...
no difference... you can sprinkle some of that
anti-bleach magical dust and it works
just as well as a pinch of saffron...
but we're talking about the sauce...
cinnamon i already mentioned:
even though you can use acacia bark as
a substitute... pepper: already mentioned...
honey...
imagine my shock: no mention of a canned
lot of plum tomatoes...
******* roasted walnuts...
pomegranate molasses...
tomato puree...
ciućpajza...

this wasn't a curry... walnuts, though... when roasted?
ahem... "cultural appropriation"
of the Indians using cashews... & almonds
in their Korma... but walnuts?!
hey presto... some Turkish ingenuity combining
beef with rosemary!

is my native tongue a dodo lingo?
i'm just... wondering...
perhaps with the omnipresence of English
we'll all be savvy cosmopolitan nomads
by the end of this century...
i still manage to squeeze in a word:
or two... into my currency of the current:
lingo... but... the point
of: no one's speaking it beside me...
it's not a rhetorical question...
it's not even a question to begin with /
per se... it's a... vague obligation to:
some mustard seed metaphor sort of "power"...

youtube used to be such a fun website...
until the wallets started rummaging
hyping up...self-tutorial videos of make-up:
cover-up...
it used to be (this)... now it's... )this(...
sure... don't blame women...
it's not like Helen wasn't fabled for gearing up
a thousand ships...
Eva Braun wasn't Jewish... no no!
she wasn't... wi- do you really need the suffix
-nk?!

a grammar school playground filled with only
boys... hey... presto!
a girl comes in...
        what's going to happen?
the worst things... imaginable...
i'm giving birth to a shadow...
she's curious about giving birth to the gambit
of: more time... please...
i can be done with all of this spectacle in
a moment... she needs this misery to continue...
come to think of it...
i don't think the supposed
"forbidden" fruit of Eden did anything to Adam...
i think the fruit was a placebo...
he just towed his ******* ******* along
to experience the wind & the dangle...
whatever the metaphor of Moses implies...
ignorant of dinosaurs?!
seriously...
there's a talking spine of a t-rex...
there are the crocodiles of the Nile...
there's the imagining of a large fire-breathing lizard:
a dragon...
oh sure... the idea of dinosaurs wasn't somehow:
unconsciously implanted into us...
dragons precursor the discovery of dinosaur bones...
don't they?! don't they?!
imagining dragons precursor our discovery of
dinosaur bones!
no?! no?!
hell-oh... Pandora... how's tomorrow?
oh, right... can't say... just like today then?!

since the usual quest of bypassing the atypical
gatekeepers has been... quenched...
i'm no Tolstoy...
western democracy is worried about democracy
per se:
ooh... something terrible is bound to happen!
some terrible has been happening since
time immemorial...
it's only inflated:
in a society bound by glorifying sociopaths &
psychopaths...
the fakery escalates... so much of this culture
is bound to celebrate: hardly the opera singer...
hardly the poet... forever & until more
the Thespian... you know what happens to a culture
where only one art-form is given:
too much attention it deserves?
there was that period of time when
poetry was celebrated... when the western
letf-oids seemed rather... refreshing...
what now?

           let's go back to civilisation based on
the motto: we need carrots!
we need cabbage! we ******* need root vegetables...
oh forget the fruits...
that's not important for us...
winter is coming: a warm winter...
to borrow a phrase:
how can there be any hyperboreans:
what eternal sunshine?
i think of an eternal night...

               when i think of the wind:
there's not one... there are 8...
the wind from the north... south...
the wind from the north-east...
the wind from the south-west...
i count 8 winds... if there aren't 8
then we have a lemniscale...
a lazy: reclining 8... or a beta metaphor: B...
no?
the origins of numbers are all Hindu?!
sure... the letters too?
i can... rewrite the origins story
of numbers using only Greek or Roman letters...
with hindsight it doesn't punch-up
but... proud retardations of borrowed
cuisine aside...
L: 7
4: G
      mirrors! mirrors!
9: P
8: B
1: I(ota)
3: E
2: Z
5: S
6: b...

we didn't march across the *******
Siberian tundra
arriving at the Caucasian
peninsula for no ******* reason?!
we also managed to drag along the tribes
of Mongols... Turks... that settled in this grand...
continental funnel...

i learned "numbers" from Sanskrit...
i suppose the letters too?
like... ooh... i love how Hangul was
conjured...
   Sejong the ******* Solomon...
Abraham... St. Cyril...
   i always thought that Cyrillic script
was a cheap-*** variation of Greek...
sorry... it looks: looked:
will forever look: sort of shabby...

this time round: the devil didn't come round
with either fire or sulphur...
smoke & mirrors...
smoke & mirrors: Kowalski!
Lora Lee May 2017
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
           silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-*****
                     journey
manifesto of life
        I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
           turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
                of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
           bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me


In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava

Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
       freedom's call?

I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
                fall
Prabhu Iyer Jan 2015
The many voices of the evening

                   gramophone the sky voice the cell phone
                   the tablet  the notebook, that monotone
                   observer of mutations purveyor of maladies
                   the persistence of memories, pale pink light sink

burning in the fires lighting up the skies

                   an old pang, smitten clang, the pain balm
                   mug-life, pen-knife, kettle-strife, all the sheaves
                   them echo-songs that haunt the drill-wells
                   that are cut wounded and wear fetching

chants, to an yearning oblation

                  bay leaf, curry leaf, yes, them colander coriander
                  there's a rhyme of charlies, looping from
                  our holy wars to now our holy hours with
                  the ombudsman, the omniman, the only God

who used to thunder for the ****

                 old Zeus, the Lord of Betelgeuse, him who we
                 called dead, exhumation, exculpation, exaltation
                 an ancient loneliness that calls from the nether
                 depths, now science, now freedom, now pagan.
Have you watched Charlie Wilson's war? It could ring a bell to why Charlie Hebdo was so long coming. Though the piece has a lot more, just mine the memes away...!
Michael Stefan Feb 2020
The scent fills my kitchen
Powerfully of garlic and cumin
Crockpot steaming as chili heats
With the aroma of coriander
Wafting to the neighbors
As the lamb begins to broil

The kitchen is awash
As the fragrance of yeast grows
sweet bread baking in the oven
Cinnamon and nutmeg
Dance a pirouette delectably
As apple pie cools

This kitchen is alive
The delights that we shared here
We made love once
It was on a cold night after dinner
Right there on that counter
Currently occupied by flour

This kitchen has grown cold
Only salt and pepper do remain
like sentinels to lost times
The microwave dings
It's all I use since you left
TV dinner turns to ash in my mouth
One thing that is the most painful after losing someone is being reminded of them in activities that you used to love.  Sometimes it's a growing feeling that slowly coalesces into something that makes you weep.  Other times it hits you like a freight train out of nowhere.  Sometimes we don't realize how integral to our daily lives and relationships something as simple and common as cooking can be.  If you are going through this hold on strong.  You'll get back to cooking soon.  I hope you enjoy the poem.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
when some said hello
some said ha ha,
said holmes without sherlock to signal a sighting
in signature of fingerprinting a shake;
but some said hello,
some shook some with stipend erased freezing;
after all... the doctor allowed a carcass to instil a freed numbness!
a clown frowned attempting to be picky with laughter
mascaraed, and then all hell ready to be hibernating yawned
ready from the hyperbole excused ******* a tadpole into thinking of frogs.
oh we loved the laugh the pouch of orange juiced pulled apart and pulped
into skins and skinny; we were all ready for a hajj there and then!
ha ha! make that scented with coriander!
Hello Sayer Mar 2012
Kinesiology is the new brain surgery
Preferential treatment
A Martyr for your sugar gene

Cat fights
Bud lights
Hookups and straightened hair
This is the new Jesus

Wouldn't you know
It's the jocks and the nerds again
Over and over until
you've lost all your friends

To a horrible incident
where you decided to be free
This is why you will always
Be better than me

Projectile *****
Thesis on emesis
I am so green
I am peridot and coriander

Caring about what they think
Watching all the popular shows

Does and stags
Waving flags
Pre-packaged beliefs
Artificial older sister
Looking down your nose

You are so humble
You are so polite
It's the other person's fault
When you get in a fight

But most of all
You aren't racist
You aren't racist
There's no way you're a racist
About a person who I think is more automaton than human being and who is seen as much better than others because of her artificial bland mainstream nature.  Might make this into a song.
Thomas W Case Feb 2021
It
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.
brooke Jul 2014
I should tell him all
about how I am 75%
of everything he does
not want, but I need
to believe that I am
made with sea foam
with pollen for blood
with coriander seeds
and pomegranates
that to someone
else I could be
all of these
things.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014

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