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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
Blanca Enigma Aug 2017
I didn't understand how I went from one relationship to the next. I still don't know. I still don't know how I've told so many women I loved them but never really meant it though. I've got this 2 year itch I can't seem to get past it. I've gone from this to that like a **** game of chest but now I'm gasping. I would like to think that I brought some good to them but as I write this down, I know I was never for them. I'm a serial dater filled with commitment issues that I can't fix. Now I'm searching for my next fix like a drug addict looking for their next hit. I'm addicted to the thought of being in love and committed to someone who I already know doesn't deserve to find out the hurt they are about to endure. I'm a *******. Clearly I have too many issues that is hard to change or better yet, maintain.
Julie Grenness Sep 2016
Should I procrastinate now?
I really don't know how,
Time to procrastinate later,
Time is our life manipulator,
Yes, I'll write this now out-of-dater,
Plenty of time to procrastinate later.
Feedback welcome.
Jason Watson Sep 2012
In the shadow of the great oak tree
In a place not for you and me
Found only with great luck
Lived Riley the river duck

You see Riley was frumpy
And oh so grumpy
How she was, was how she preferred
To the point that it was absurd

None of the other animals seemed to care
That she was always holed up in there
Wallowing in a puddle, her thoughts in a muddle
And her dress, in such a mess

On one brilliant summer day
With the sun shining so bright and gay
You see she always thought that she had such rotten luck
For Riley yet again was stuck

For what pickle is so fickle
To make that duck, stuck
What thought so meek
To make this situation so dire and bleak

While all the other animals were outside playing
Riley was inside praying
That she could come out
But the problem was that she was filled with doubt

One morning was particularly glorious
And Riley was oh so furious
That she dropped all her doubt
And she tried for the first time to come out

She stepped out and ruffled her feathers
The power of the sun severing imaginary tethers
And a smile spread across her face  
For she realised how beautiful was this place

For now that she finally stepped out
Of her excuses and self doubt
All the animals greeted her with such zeal
She realised that this must be how it is to finally feel

Now a few days later
According to the official dater
She wasn’t grumpy, she wasn’t dire and she wasn’t a bore
Riley wasn’t frumpy any more

Everyone around her loved her, they couldn’t get enough
For what a special duck she was, being holed up had made her tough
Now Riley had finally learnt to be happy and be free
And there began the jovial tale of Riley of the Great Oak Tree
Amanda Francis Apr 2016
"Don’t meet anyone offline”* I say “They're all weirdos”
Though I’ve been a serial dater and frequent Tinderer for some time.
I couldn’t tell you the number of lips mine have pushed up against.
Nor could I tell you the names of the people they were attached too.

There’s been nice guys and bad boys and girlie girls and “show me your *** toys?”
There have been casual hook ups and dates, movie nights and lets be mates.
There have been people who have felt more at home in my skin than I do
There has been a little bit of everything, and a whole lot of nothing at all!
Brianna Ki Apr 2018
This isn't a poem, this is written from the heart of a hurting girl...

I am that girl, the pure title, and definition of fearing commitment. The funny thing, it’s the farthest thing I ever want to be.

Deep down I see marriage, 2.5 kids, white picket fences, and all the dogs you’ll let me have. Oh yes, it’s a beautiful future there, yet my so-called “relationships” last maybe a few months, because you throw words out there like love, and moving in together, being my rock and everything I long for. Yeah, I might say those words back, I may play along with what our wedding will look like, and that gorgeous ring that adds a beautiful symbol of commitment on my scrawny little finger and its beautiful because deeply that is what my poor beaten-up heart is yearning for. But instead, those feelings of bliss I so wistfully yearn for are replaced with panic and pure distaste for wanting stick it out and stay by your side.

So, what do I do? I run. I am the star of “Runaway from Stability”. Why? If you could answer that for me and fix me, you would probably be a millionaire and sell lots of books on it. And speaking of books, my shelves are littered with self-help books that only exist to make you think that I read them, but I don’t… I collect literature that fuels my fantasy that there is nothing wrong with me.

I can dig deep down and do the years of therapy for you and blame my father that never wanted me in his life, who constantly let me down... I can blame the fact I am a serial dater due to walking away time and time again... I can blame my mother, who by the way shares the same fear I do, and you could say the apple falls right next to the **** tree. (Love you so much, mom)... You could blame the men (more like “boys”) that promised me the world and broke my heart after all I saw was them in my future.

Yeah, sure the list goes on with who I could “blame”. But the problem still exists that I can’t change, I can’t get attached, I can’t get hurt. Yeah yeah yeah…. Can’t means you won’t, but maybe that is it. Maybe I won’t budge. Maybe I absolutely won't stick it out despite all the right words I know I need to consistently hear.

And you come along, you’re sweet, you’re understanding, you’re that list my best friend told me to make of qualities we've all made throughout our lives after each heartbreak, after each "I am done dating" of qualifications a man must have before you date them.

And you know what?... I like you... So much, I could even say every ounce of me has fallen for you. But that my inner fear comes up like ***** and that's it! There is no chance holding it down…

I don’t think I can ever be the girl with hearts in her eyes that doodles your name all over my notes at work. No, I won’t be… I used to be that girl that was lovesick with an unrealistic crush on someone.

That little girl won’t come back. I miss her, but she’s not there...

Yeah, I am sure you’ve Googled all the articles that tell you how to deal with a “Commitment Phobic Girlfriend” and yeah, I’ve read them too which spiral my mind out of control how to fix myself. My friends all say the same thing, “You’ve got to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with anyone else Bri!” ---insert eye roll--- So far that’s all I got because this really doesn’t make me happy, and maybe that’s it?

Life keeps crumpling me up and spitting me out and I deem myself a pool of chaos, that I am not really wanted if people knew the truth of how broken I am inside, how much I don’t respect myself anymore because of my commitment-phobia-self-proclaimed-title…

I don’t know why I chose to write this article, maybe because I am not the only one? A cry for help? The attention YOU THINK I am wanting... Ha, no...

At least I can hope I am not the only one who struggles with this battle, and I am sure I am not... But why? Why is it that way?

(Heck, maybe a therapist wouldn’t be a bad idea at this point. YAY! Progress! ---insert another eye roll---)

I do know this, despite everything, I have learned the true meaning of love, (Crazy right?!) Because some of you I have run away from, love me, and always will... You've shown it, you've proven it even. And yet STILL, I believe in my heart I am truly unlovable.

To my friends who know the phobia, the constant relationship hopping, you all love me still, and that's hard for me to wrap my head around. You all are my rock, I love you all so very much. And thank you, thank you for not giving up on me in my train-wreck of a life because I could never do this without you.
It matters not what browser you may use
If you believe they aren't watching you
Doesn't matter cooking to come what may
Your dater is collected by them its true

Choosing a private browser almost a joke
All you do and search goes on their file
Just more human controll getting worse
As time does by for all birth to hurse

There are ways to tell what they all do
With any sense tape up your camera too
All they are doing is really a crime in time
As they collect and assume as they all do

But there are ways to bore them all crazy
Computer stalkers most brain dead lazy
All the main places from google to facebook
Would be  full of unhappy marriages hazy

So rest assure whatever you do its true
Most of then would love to as well do it too
But for them its a job they need to get a life
Collect this you twit might make your day true

https://i.pinimg.com/236x/88/b3/a7/88b3a75f94781d04b0830855f599457f--stalker-quotes-positive-inspira­tion.jpg

terrence michael sutton
copyright  2018
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
those Elm Park girls are crazy... i never really cycled through Elm Park before, only past it on my way to Rainham and the marshes by the river Thames... Coldharbour used to be one of my favorite destinations... riding this beast of a Trek bicycle... compared to my Viking this is a beast... my Rolls Royce... i mean... the tyres alone slow me down... they're a bit like me comparing my hands to the hands of a woman... i love watching my hands and then watching the hands of a woman... i focus on the thumb... i'm about 1.5x her size... if not 2x larger than her... yeah... i looking at my hands now... i could chop off my pinky finger and the knuckle too and i'd be about right... but these Elm Park girls are crazy... you get to the roundabout... three of them see you coming... teenagers... obviously... and you make eye-contact for... whatever the reason was... the loudest of the three, the most plump looks into your eyes, mind you... the rest do too... and shouts out... OI! OI OI! she approves... no no, it wasn't a mean OI... it was a sort of call girls do akin to what women used to do to women they found appealing when they were amongst other men... whistled or hollered... how this is seen as ****** harassment these days, i will never know... i was just waiting for a follow-up to the OI OI! with a: juicy ****... Elm Park girls are crazy...

Bukowski was such a musical snob,
he also preferred classical music,
         he also only turned on the radio instead
of collecting records...
i abhor the idea of a d.j. - i don't like someone
choosing for me what music i ought to listen to...
sure... i like classical music: i was raised on it...
but even i can say: classical music is not eternal...
its association with names of people who
conjured up the notes is not the same as...
for example: Frank Zappa was into Bulgarian folk...
me? i'm into everything Medieval...
i think that Medieval music is joyous...
it's less rigorous than classical music...
    give me anything from the Germans singing
come the 13th century:
ai vis lo lop...
         or... ich was ein chint so wolgetan...
   i'm all ears... and no one can name the man who sang
those songs first...
like no one knows who discovered beer...
i'm pretty sure the first beer was an ale...
since it couldn't have been carbonated...
how much tastier a carbonated beverage tastes
after you quickly take your glug glugs...
you end up drinking so fast once enough chores
have been done that you burp first... then **** second...
ungarischer tantz...
      orbis factor: strange how modern man looks
toward his predecessors as these savage: idiotic brutes...
concerning modern singing "eloquences"...
and those of the past? the purest noble hearts
even among the most unworthy of heart...
this expansion of the mind has left us...

                  but unlike music... one can easily return
to the style of Ovid... poetry with conversational
overtones... not claustrophobic poetry of rhyme...
of rhyme and lyricism...
yesterday i carved out an epic worth over 5 thousand
words... today i feel like relaxing while:
nonetheless typing...

an article came to mind... oddly enough i still do buy
a newspaper once in a while...
the only newspapers worth reading arrive on
either Saturday or a Sunday...
i once implored for a journalistic Sabbath...
to be honest? you could care less for a Monday
to Friday strip-search of history by journalism...
there are only two days worth reading a newspaper
on... a Saturday and a Sunday...

a Dr. Greg Matos wrote in Psychology today
about the rise of lonely men...
the reply? one from a 67 year old: serial dater...
one from a 28 year old...
i was... hoping for a more stark comparison...
house? will have it... when my parents die...
it'll have to wait...
cook? yes... clean? yes...
     car? no car... i'm "worried about my carbon
footprint" (ha ha.... i thought saving the planet
was a "thing"?), cars are not practical in London...
unless: you're moving something from A to B rather than
merely travelling from A to B...
cooks... cleans... good with children?
i like children...
wait wait... who the who said that cats are
animals best petted by women and that dogs
are a man's animal?
why do people think that cats effeminate men?
you'd kidding me, right?
so you never had the glorious opportunity of...
second time... on the second time...
the first time these two cats... i walked into my bedroom
and found a **** in my bed...
oh you mother... *******... i smacked both of them...
both the male and female...
because i didn't know which one was *******
enough to not do a **** into the litter-box...
i waited... second time: gotcha! you little **** for brains!
it was the male... the larger one...
a tornado embodied me... i stripped off the sheets...
prior to collect the ****...
catching a cat in the act of ******* where he's
not supposed to be ******* is great...
after i put on the washing i returned to him...
oh... now i'm going to wash you... after i smack you again...
you don't **** where you sleep!
he's sleeping where he took a **** right now...
under the shadow... wriggling *******...
washed him and his ***...
then... mummified him in a towel... wrapped it so tight
that only his head was poking out...
by the time the washing was done
i had enough washing-line clips on his freshly washed
body... sitting on a table in the garden
while i hang-up the washing...
then... oh... by then i thought anything would
be a good idea... i took him to the bathroom
and perched him on the windowsill...
plugged in a hair-dryer... started to dry him...
yeah... oh yeah... sure sure... dogs are lovely creatures...
men are emasculated by owning dogs...
but when it comes to cats they are somehow effeminate...
only cat ladies... no devils in the mix
with the likes of Behemoth in Russian literature...
chess playing drunk....
like William Burroughs pointed out...
you ever heard of a cat **** a child?
i've heard countless stories of dogs killing children...
i myself almost lost an eye when my Dobberman
attempted to bite me in the eye...
after i smacked him for biting my Alsatian *****...
mind you... he gave a friend of mine
a nose-bleed for no reason when he bit his nose...
point being... cat's are great... Quarus is my best friend
right now... he talks very little...
i like friends that talk very little...
i don't even talk to him: i meow to him...
saves me the pointlessness some people grieve me with:
i get so annoyed when i need to repeat myself...
third time i'm asked to repeat myself:
you're mumbling... you're speaking too fast...
i raise my voice and people think i'm angry...
i'm just frustrated that i need to say the same thing:
for the third *******, time!
with him? onomatopoeias... which is grand for me...
but this first time i tried to use a hair-dryer on
this ****-lord's ***... i will never forget it...
a 9kg animal... he jumped onto my hand
and gripped it with such ferocity... both the front
paws and their nails and the rear paws digging
into my hand... and the teeth biting into... hmm!
he went straight for the adductor pollicis'...
for my capacity to pinch...
now that i fold my hand i am assured that the grip...
is born without a relationship between
the index and thumb finger... but if i lost my index
finger... i wouldn't lose my grip...
i would lose my grip if i lost my pinky finger...
since grip is allocated to the relationship between
the thumb and the pinky finger...
he was aiming at my pinching capability...
well... he did take a **** in my bed...
and i did wash him in the shower and i did try
to dry him off using a hair-dryer... hair enough...
hmm... i used to clash teeth with Bella my Alsatian...
i don't think it was a dream... i actually think
we clashed teeth once...
dogs are great if you're a child...
but once you get older?
**** me... take them for walks? a cat takes itself
for a walk... they come when they're desperate for
attention... and leave when they're not...
and if they're in your company they're so considerate
as to sleep throughout your shared space...
a cat that's awake is a cat unto itself...
a sleeping cat is a cat unto you:
i imagine they sleep so much because they are
the quintessential architects of dreams...
you project onto them a world that's akin to what
men of old stipulated: a heaven and a hell...
no other animal sleeps so much... well no domesticated
animal sleeps so much...
there must be something in this riddle...
why do they sleep so much:
they sleep for all of us... these Bonsai tigers...
also... why is the lion considered the king of the animal
kingdom? terrible idea...
put a lion next to a bear...
                     the bear is the king of the animal kingdom...

- i find it absolutely terrifying that cats don't
think their lives a waste by sleeping so much...
for a person that usually dreams only sounds
or letters... on the odd occasion will: conjure up a form
of sort... it probably stems from my earliest memory...
of my maternal grandfather... sitting me before a plaything
piano while he sat before an actual piano...
and we played together... i have more access
to memory than to dreams: he was a shadow-form...
a great grey-engulfment...
      but it's absolutely terrifying to see these creatures
(i.e. cats) sleep so much...
it concerns me because then i start thinking
comforting thoughts about death...
i start thinking of death like cats demand
of the deity of sleep more access to sleep more...
being alive is almost being more dead than alive...
cats become alive when they sleep...
double on that statement: as William Burroughs
mentioned: there's never a wasted moment
in the company of cats...
sure... he succumbed to Scientology...
does it matter? i have no ad hominem approach
to this particular writer...

unlike with music... you can easily go back
to the writing style of an Ovid...
i'd like to break away from any sort of erotica for at
least one night...
a night such as this when you can pleasure yourself:
because you have the ******* to do so...
it would be pointless to pleasure myself should
i be circumcised... that's what the ******* is for...
my ******* = no need for a woman's compensation
with a the torturous NIQAB... or anything
the orthodox Jewish girls throw at you...

but a lion is not the king of the animal kingdom!
the bear is...
bears are omnivores... bears hibernate...
bears are far more superior creatures to man...
bears are not governed / manipulated by ideas...
faiths... obligations... a lion will require a role
of protector of a mass of land for his harem
of lionesses to hunt and provide for their litter...
bears? loners... they like their own company...
just like a crown, the emblem...
enjoys a head not attached to neck
or a neck attached to a torso...
a bear standing on its hind legs is less intimidating
than a lion growling? a bear: standing on its hind
legs and bellowing out less a growl but
the unleashed summons of pre-history?
    
             i don't think a lion is the king of the animal
kingdom... if he were... then his cousin tiger would
not sneak in his bonsai cousins into our homes...
we'd have little bears running around...
as pets...

gratifying little taste of a day that leaves my
breath stinking of whiskey
while being cooled come this hour
by the wind... with such an expanse of time
before me yawning at my efforts to justify
my existence...
perhaps a life not living... but i'd live it one more
time and tell myself the second time:
to not be so invigorated by a happy:
infuriating anger...
then again: i wouldn't change a thing...
not my stupidity in youth...
not my wizened self coming to my zenith
of mortality... i wouldn't choose to become
a gladiator of the modern sense
by kicking a football between 22 ballerinas
into order to break off to become a philanthropist:
or for that matter: FLAUNT my money...
in order to gain some incremental
gain in status...
i can't be post-modernist when it comes
to the individual: but in how society is organised:
what is societally expected?
i can be very much post-modernist...

for example? i am yet to meet my intellectual match
of the opposite ***...
i haven't... i can't bemoan the fact that
i haven't... the sun rises... the sun sets...
it's as simple as this...
no number of scientific facts will tell me
that gravity is not at work whether
a body falls from a height or whether a body
is standing still...
there's the microcosm of gravity
and a macrocosm of gravity...
the earth moves around the sun rather than
the sun rising with the sunrise and spreads
its glorious ****** and legs across the sky:
life's all the much: pretty much the same...
whatever Copernicus achieved... well...
that wasn't a "faux pas": a trend a... fashion...
Darwinism feels more like a fashion trend
very much coupled with Freudian thinking than
anything... given? men are outside of the natural
order of things... the strong? no... they do not reproduce...
they smart? they don't reproduce...
among men who reproduces?
whoever is most desperate...
and who creates these desperations?
desperate men... today i cycled past a couple...
mein gott! you really have to be thirsty to couple
with with such a beached whale of a woman...
i take care of myself:
i don't take care of myself:
but even i know that there are limits...
concerning the ergonomics of: in transit...

are we? moving, *******, cattle?! cattle seem more lean!
a little taste of starving would do a lot
of good for some of these people...
i don't wish to demean them...
but sometimes demeaning someone comes
naturally... unconsciously...
i think think that's synonymous:
to judge someone "unconsciously" by way
of natural selection...
man was never going to overpower clarifying
nature with, "some": argument that might make sense...
not among solipsism, narcissism, fate, chance...

then again Bukowski was a gambling man...
i don't gamble... maybe that's why i collected records...
moved into dealing with vinyls...
only today saw the Royal Mail advert for
Transformer stamps...
just in order to keep the legacy of my grandfather
alive... i think... i'll buy them...
i liked the original Transformers as a kid...
i don't really like stamps... but he was a stamp
collector...

i'm thinking: brothels...
  or like in Japan the ラブ ホテル
             (rabu hoteru)
                            what's the ****** difference?
i'm thinking: syllables... rather than atomised
lettering... there's so much of my thinking that
is incompatible with a woman...
even at work... i can talk, with women...
but i have yet to talk about something
that truly interests me...
i just... fake it... if women fake ******* during
***... i fake interest during conversation...
obviously i've seen and heard the "hot shivers"...
outside of work women are just passerby daydreams...
i'm not lonely: i sometimes get an auditory hallucination
from time to time...
a hallucination that... upon changing the tongue
of my thinking: addresses me with my name...
lonely?! i'm... not... alone!

but i am yet to have a conversation with a woman
i'd find suiting my interests...
it's usually talking about cartoons... the past...
and their problems... it's always talking about their problems...
rubber ear says: in one out the other...
my patience is stretched...
in that hierarchy of:
people who talk about other people...
people who talk about themselves...
thirdly? people who talk about ideas...

i'm so unlucky to be wanting of someone of the third
category...
not yet... and probably never...
Medieval melancholic songs sooth me...
at least i'm not one of those modern men
so quickly jumping on the route of despising women
akin to Jack the Ripper style ******, pillage...
i love women too much...
the women willing to be loved as best they can:
if by sensuality alone and no lazy Sunday afternoons...
i'll take that... if that's what the fates decided...
i can enjoy music and literature and artwork alone...
happily...

i was a romantic once... mein gott: i was just a naive
romantic... what was it that robbed me of my romanticism?
mystical Islam? Gnosticism?
Kant? the existentialists?! Walter Sickert?!
probably none of the above...
only today i couldn't stop laughing... a ******* cat for company...
well... if you really want to perform well during
*******... and the *******
of you arching over a woman doesn't tire you
but rather invigorates you... you need to do?
press-up! no... **** going to the gym...
what i learned from rock climbing...
what i learned from cycling and what i learned
from swimming...
never trust a man with biceps... hands... thicker than
his legs to be of a natural disposition...
he's juicing himself up...
i should know: i used to walk marathons
and cycle twice that length...
your legs are naturally thicker than your arms...
unless you're a gymnast...
but a gymnast is not... is not... someone who simply
goes to the gym for aesthetic reasons for ****** appeal...
most of these guys look the part...
but pit them against a profession like roofing
and... all that "supposed", ahem, "muscle":
if ******* cotton-candy!

   operatic(s) of optometry! the deceptive: it looks like...
but? actually?! it... really isn't...
you couldn't ascribe an aesthetic that's pleasing
for a man, more of a joke...
should a man's hands be much larger than his
legs in girth... impossible!
it's unnatural: perhaps pleasing to a woman...
but between men... it's no testimony for him
to be able to fulfill any serious manual labour:
rigour... it's a doped up aesthetic...
it's hardly practical... lifting weights in the gym
is not maneuvering weights around a construction
site... i ought to know...
i did my joyous worth of it...
it was! joyous!

i was allowed to abandon my mmd and justify
the existence of my body as detached from ever having
a mind...
by tonight i'm being soothed
by... Kyrie: Orbis Factor...
a time of: when men were men and women
were women...
even now i tense the muscle in my legs...
and think: i could walk 30 miles in one day...
rather than do 300 press-ups before i'd turn around
and **** about 300 ******...
for 30 minutes at a stretch, of each!

but that's tonight... tomorrow: there might be
some other me of me that i'll have
to bring a challenge to!
jacob charles Dec 2020
They say an hourglass is a shape
Bend time break the glass seal it off with fate
In the Spirit sitting crossed in vape
No loss no mistake take one take
What’s your going rate jake
He runs it even if I’m sitting glad you asked pape
Brash faint asking why they act like they can’t pray
Wisdom pre-dater because of Him can’t act prey
Learned a lesson is a past phase
The Word is the only pass phrase

— The End —