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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)
This year has had plethora of public worries in Africa over broken English among the young people and school children. It first started in the mid of the last months  in Nigeria, when the Nigerian government officials displayed public worry over the dying English and the strongly emerging slang known as pidgin English in Nigerian public offices and learning institutions. The same situation has also been encountered in Kenya, when in march 2014, Proffessor Jacob Kaimenyi, the minister of education otherwise known as cabinet secretary of education declared upsurge of broken English among high school students and university students a national disaster. However, the minister was making this announcement while speaking in broken English, with heavy mother tongue interference and insouciant execution of defective syntax redolent of a certain strong African linguistic sub-cultural disposition.
There is a more strong linguistic case of broken English in South Africa, which even crystallized into an accepted national language known as Afrikaans. But this South African case did not cause any brouhaha in the media nor attract international concern because the people who were breaking the English were Europeans of non British descend, but not Africans. Thus Afrikaans is not slang like the Kenyan sheng and the Nigerian pidgin or the Liberian krio, but instead is an acceptable European language spoken by Europeans in the diaspora. As of today, the there are books, bibles and software as well as dictionaries written in Afrikaans. This is a moot situation that Europeans have a cultural leeway to break a European language. May be this is a cultural reserve not available to African speakers of any European language. I can similarly enjoy some support from those of you who have ever gone to Germany, am sure you saw how Germans dealt with English as non serious language, treating it like a dialect. No German speaks grammatically correct English. And to my surprise they are not worried.
The point is that Africans must not and should never be worried of a dying colonialism like in this case the conventional experience of unstoppable death of British English language in Africa. Let the United Kingdom itself struggle to keep its culture relevant in the global quarters. But not African governments to worry over standard of English language. This is not cultural duty of Africa. Correct concerns would have been about the best ways and means of giving African indigenous languages universal recognition in the sense of global cultural presence. African languages like Kiswahili, Zulu, Yoruba, Mandiko, Gikuyu, Luhya, Luganda, Dholuo, Chaka and very many others deserve political support locally as well as internationally because they are vehicles that carry African culture and civilization.
I personally as an African am very shy to speak to another fellow African in English or even to any person who is not British. I find it more dignifying to speak any local language even if it is broken or if the worst comes to the worst, then I can use slang, like blend of broken English and the local language. To me this is linguistic indicators of having a decolonized mind. It is also my hypothesis that the young people who are speaking broken English in African schools and institutions are merely cultural overtures of Africans extricating themselves from imperial ploys of linguistic Darwinism.
There is no any research finding which shows that Africans cannot develop unless they speak English of grammatical standards like those of the United Kingdom and North America. If anything; letting of English to thrive as a lingua franca in Africa, will only make the western world to derive economic benefits out of this but not Africa to benefit. Let Africans cherish their culture like the way the Japanese and the Chinese have done, then other things will follow.
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

The incidences of ***** **** and malevolent  violence
Against women are maddeningly all over
As the number of lives claimed
And broken with stupidly impunity
Women are not safe in the crazy man’s world,
This and that to protect women and girls
From gender-maniac violence,
Particularly idiotic ****
And other forms of ****** imperialism
And all other forms of beastly violence
In situations of lunacy of man’s armed conflict
Punctuated by most bamboozling de-civilization
In the nature of resolution reads like capitalist utopian ideal
Women have been the victims of lumpen ****** violence
Since the start of the prosaic propertied conflict
While thousands more have been killed after menacing ****
Uhm; Congo, Mali, central Africa, Iraq, Afghanistan,
Kenyan in patients, Eldoret Nandi militia armed to death with arsenal of ****
****** forlorn foreign victims justifying political primitivism
Tortured, abducted, held to devilish ransom
Or used as human shields
Of the perpetrators being held accountable
For their actions, who can pique
When **** of women creates power
Abuse of women in war is as old foolish male avarice
As is the culture of tribal impunity that helps to breed it
But too much is known about the devastating agony of women
And lasting effects of ****** violence on bigoted individuals,
You generation of the serpent; when are stopping **** of women?
You continue ****** fearless devoid of legal repercussions
I do not think your ***** will be blessed anyhow
You ***** my sister because of the very nature of her vulnerability
Because our family is beautifully powerful and politically powerless
But if there was a way for us to make sure
That every single ***** that rapes is
Chopped of and given to victims in compensation
These would make fair claim for justice,
Here at least the signal would be sent
That people-****** will be shamefully accountable
Them rapists, for what they do
Out of Yet flamboyant patriarchal cultures
Where the stigma of **** overwhelms victims
Perilizing Matrimonial and parental loyalty,
Discouraging victimized women
From  coming  forward to  document
Bitter experiences creating  a struggle within a struggle,

In admitting what has been done to them,
O ! Victims of ****** assault in
**** is so powerful precisely
Because of the stigma in transit
This male a weapon with a long after-life
Is less than the war injury that only leaves  mutations
Dignifying the victim as it does not carry
Psychological and cultural implications ****** robbery
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
islam is really buying into an ideological
warfare
       of creating a historiogical narrative
for former crusader nations...
           the history? it's way gone, past,
in the dust... but islam is probing
        this need to settle old qualms in a modern
narrative...
    i can't actually add to a history
           these days, but i can take up a banner
of historiology, or so i am told...
   and yes, certain words aren't exactly
the standard bearers of who easily you can
rap them...
            you really need to pause and catch
the nuance... or the naiveness in which they're use...
   when i use the word historiological
i think of the past as having necessarily happened,
and in need to happen again, on the basis
of someone else telling me: you have to
inherit this.
            it's no wonder that islam attacks former
crusader nations... france esp.,
          what with adhemar, bishop of le puy,
urban ii grand speech lauching the ***** into
a tight spot... tancred de hauteville...
                 bohemond...
        radulph of caen merely annotated the deeds done
and the words said...
      robert, duke of normandy, and his daughter
adela, quick to **** at Urban's tongue... the truth...
   Islam is really reassigning us with
a historiology, not a history we might be prone
to forget, or be ashamed by...
   it's not doing what the word histiorology is defined by,
not this unearthing of graves, and their deseceration...
you really want to wake up the Nazgûl?!
seriously?
   sure, i can be your necromancer... we can have
total obliteration... just speak enough ****** constriction
to germans, and then point them at the target,
and you'll get a crossbow shock of the event...
     Islam really is warming us up for something,
they're nibbling at us, they're trying to
  really give us the "spark", it's not a case whether i'm
correct in thinking this... it's only that i feel it...
i can taste it... i can stomach it...
     such lovely names, those old crusaders...
Tancred...
                     mind you: peter the hermit's child
crusade...
                       if they came from north of Persia
they'd be drafted as Mameluks...
       le throng! if only there were always
the french incission to state that...
   le throng! you just can't leave youth culture
settle into the urban environment,
you really seem to want that... get pockets
of culture coming from the youth...
     it can't ever be grime from east or south london...
    me? i'm trapped in a library, i actually
built of myself... apparent;y 1 in 10 people don't
own a single book in england...
         the brothers Godfrey, Eustace & Baldwin...
   oh lookie lookie... you're tickling the beast
so just, any minute now and it will awake once more...
    and be cited as having said:
   walking up to me knee in blood and
slaughtered corpse... Harod looks pale the minute
past...
               Tancred... dubbed te Panzer sulphur snout...
are there more gentlemen of my stature on
their way?
        that's me: don't know who's the possessor
of a ***** and who of a juiced up ****...
   but i can bet the niqab does wonders...
   so much anonymity, you don't even need
  internet pseudonym names, no jackx666
or rogerxtra... you just don the ninja and, ooh!
ooh! everything's so flimsy! so airy! flutters
of a butterfly!
               that ***** king in the kingdom of heaven
movie did have a name: baldwin iv...
   and he was a *****...
         you'd accidently sneeze into his face
and his nose would fall off...
   true story, or i'm drunk...
           but my: this wine i made, this homemade
wine? it does the trick!
                 baldwin iv died aged twenty four...
lucky sod, kurt cobain of the medieval ages...
    oi oi... wait wait... ZENGI!
  zengi the heavy drinker! buddy!
fully name? imad ed-din zengi. ah, zengi zengi,
zengi... what tales i have for you...
      i'd tell them, and you'd turn out to be in full
disclosure trying to fake sober...
                        ibn al-athir also wrote something,
does it deserve more a toast or mere chronicler?
the latter will know.
fatimids and sunni caliphs...
              Balak, the dream-inspiration for
Fulcher of Chartres...
Antioch, Tyre, Edessa...
  and that old feverish fox known as the lesser
Barbarossa: Reynald de Châtillon...
         don't know...
   as an ethnic bias, i am of the people that remained
bound to a home near the Baltic sea...
  we also fought crusaders...
the knights templar, die ritter von deutsche haus
beispiel sankte mariam in yerusalem...
       which makes my history a bit different
to the current history...
i have other myths... with
Jagiello... and grand-komtur Brzęczyszczykiewicz...
but you know... hmm... let's go crazy
and pop a pill or two... blues for the upper
and reds for the downer...
what a unique occasion! are you sure
we're not sailing on a gondola in the water-alleys
of Venice singing some obscure folk-song, hmm?!
by now i look like the stańczyk (grand court
jester) in one of jan matejko's paintings,
laughing my *** off as to denote: that i am,
quiet righly: the most amused. ha ha.
Sioux! sioux! pruss! pruss!
     and the crucifix really is a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, that came back,
morphed, as if touching a philosophers stone,
and turned out to be an acronym n.e.w.s.:
north, east, west... south...
   the minute the tetragrammaton touched
the ✝ it came back as n.e.w.s.
      and that really is the most dignifying
Balaam equal compliment i can give...
      but you know, just seeing how Islam is really
inviting former crusader nations to have a fight...
   and i'm spotting this, coming from a region
that also had crusades riddle it...
    but it's true... the crusades around the Baltic coast
never get any coverage these days...
  i guess you can't really make momentum
from a reigion where it's natural resource hidden
in the ground is salt... rather than oil...
    then again, lying about,
reading the book crusades by terry jones
& alan ereira... didn't really make me think much...
   when it comes to the two splinters off
res in: res cogitans,
  i can only think of re-       i.e. reflex
   and re-    i.e. reflection...
     and the tongue these days is so ******* saggy....
i'd take more pleasure eating a bagpipe of haggis
than listen to current rhetoric...
    it's a sickness though, this demand Islam
is making, that once Israel has been established
we forget our cosmopolitan cocktails and engage in
a holy war...
                  but it is the narrative, we're almost expected
to feed into a crusader culture...
      but once again, i'm using a tongue that once
did wield crusading pomp, and i have an
underlining perspective of being on the receiving end
of crusades of the baltic states...
     i really should be jumping for joy right now...
   but given the schooling system in england,
or i suppose the whole of western europe,
i'm part of the schattenvolk...
                how the Lithuanians were so and so...
how the Poles were so and so...
    how i could almost try to seek out the same
linguistic pride of modern Silesians in ancient yore
of Pruß, but come against nothing but the Kashubian
denote...
**** me! so it really was worthwhile keeping
my native tongue, and exploring my ethnicity
and history like a ****-pants 16 year old girl
on a trip in the guise of tourism?!
  oh applause! this is better than milking old ladies
like Liberache might for a fur coat
or a gold-plated toilet!
     ooh... you rascal you...
                 can i please not sound gay now?
i hate how the concept of personnae can creep into
your psyche and give you, the most obliterating
narrative techniques imaginable...
                        but if you ask me...
Islam will not wage war against nationas that did not
succumb to the rhetoric of pope Urban Deux...
        i mean... can you really imagine a terrorist
attack in Poland?
             given that Poland experienced it's own taste
of crusades?
                 well... if it does happen... that really will
wake up something... it certainly won't be multiculturalism....
perhaps this really is merely a **** into the wind...
         my, all this can come out sleep-walking by
simply lying in bed and reading a history book?
             it's a good thing i assimilated on the basis
of merely using the tongue, rather than tapping into
past history of the people, past grievances, past prides,
past symbolism... i just use the language...
    i don't expect to really revolve around being an
adamant west ham supporter...
i just know that i'm Polish in the english language...
   and Islam doesn't really attack
      those who've have the better share of grievances...
whether in the 20th century context,
of going way back, when Israel was about...
             and reading a history book...
   wriggling toward a status of fame is absurd...
     i like the idea of: gently passing by like foam on
top of a cup of cappuccino...
                      someone said froth:
i'm exfoliating with this that and the other guess work
of vocab...
               well... that's that...
        worth noting the many more easily impressionable
young men out there...
                that would rather chop a head
of a person of their assimilated culture, and subsequently
not retain their native tongue,
   and then not play: smack the ******!
    layering over what their ethnicity clearly speaks,
although with a borrowed tongue...
       which is why a slang variation of language
has to emerge...
                it's not a case of slang representing
prior footing, and current footing, but cleansing
prior footing, as current footing, with only
a melting *** to be sure of...
         on the objective basis that's the right thing
to do... you really want to eat a good curry
at the end of the day...
  but sometimes you need someone to say:
me a shallot prior a carrot in that melting *** of spice...
        the feeling is not mutual...
    would i ever eat sand to sharpen my teeth
for a cannibalistic grin?
                         i'm quiet content with merely
dabbling in poached lamb... but if another mein teil
scenario arises... it'll probably come west of the Odra
river.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
for a heart's worth of stone,
will the mind
hardly succumb to
the sponge...
             easily ingested,
yet hardly
          perforated
to give off a worth
of a translation...

                         let alone,
        a chance to print less money,
and more,
postage stamps..
               my heart to no mind
belongs, even if it's the crucible
of my own...
                 the mind goes one way,
the heart, another,
    and by death,
in pristine inversion,
relocated to their former
bearing...

              the heart begins to speak
for the mind,
   and the mind:
"forgets" to speak for the heart...

   my worst "fear" of death,
is that...
   it will never be the akin justification
for taking repose,
   for sleeping...
how,
   somehow death will
                transcend sleep...
and i will be forced into...
        dignifying,
or undignifying dogmas,
based upon the whims from
a dream...
   conjuring...

                    i can stomach
a forever-slumber,
    when it comes to death...
but to have to put up
with...
           fears of dream
being realized?
             cats don't sleep
during the night,
they pretend to,
            you can pass one by,
and he or she is: "snoozing",
with eyes half-open...

                     peering at shadows
of shadows in the daft night,
then...
   also...
                  prying on
the eternal silence of man's
rested set of comforted body
to bid him and his fellow:
a good night...

             audacious, some will meow
akin to the sparrows come morn,
but between the 11pm and the 4pm
mark?
     the house falls silent...
a drunk shuffles...
     itching to tattoo his fingertips
with texture of the wallpaper...
a cat sleeps...

                    i can almost always,
find myself,
   ascribed to a haunting,
           like the atypical english
out-suburb house...
  a house, whereby the natives
care so much for a garden...
but then actually use it...

             glued to their "castle"...
bonsai felines...
ever notice, that they have
eyes, akin to reptiles?
       large cats have mammal
eyes..
   when their pupils constrict,
they are not akin
to their bonsai counterparts,
i.e. reptilian slits?

                   i sense there's a spy...
what was once a serpent,
became a bonsai tiger,
a cat...
    when these felines
are bound to rest
i almost alway find them suspect...

         pandemonium spies...
i never allow myself
to be comfortable in
the presence of a cat,
                spy of: beelzebub,
spie of moloch...
  and the whole milton litany
of names...

               i don't trust them,
they're mammals...
but they have reptilian eyes...
esp. when the pupil slits
appear...
   a normal mammal would
have the same shaped
     pupil dilation and constriction,
like a lion...
but little bonsai tiger over here?

            venus in furs...
reptile in fur...
             i think the dinosaurs did a sly
one on us, when we arrived
with the capacity to breed these
bonsais...
                
         you'll still find the cool kids,
"petting" / more or less: keeping
snakes, lizards, chamaleons,
      spiders...
        i honestly don't think cats
are that much different...
             were you ever fed a deception,
so good,
that you, "somehow",
began questioning the authenticity,
after many years of
convincing yourself it was "true"?

        a cat, a bonsai tiger,
is about as much mammal...
    as i'm a ******* cyborg right not...
it's a reptile, in a mammalian
disguise...
   a bonsai doesn't behave
like a mammal...
     not even a mammal...
that hasn't been domesticated...
esp. a mammal that was been
quasi-domesticated,
    for the worth of cow,
or pig...
             or horse...
                        sly little *******...

i'm suspicious of cats,
and the cats i "own" are suspicious
of me...
       they're nothing more
than a dinosaur remnant of a spine
and a brain in a pickle jar
of lost eye-lids (snakes)...
  with a taste for fashion,
furs, masochism...
                
           cats are deceptive...
looking at their eyes...
they're ******* reptiles!
                        that and the birds...
pseudo-mammals...
                reproducing via
the aid of the reptile egg...

         hell... sure... "it's all about
the bees and the birds"...
more like it being about
the cats and the birds...

    why else wouldn't a reptile fake
"being afraid" / or seek to find a mammalian
reply for: endearing?
  than expand their slit eyes...
into a fully dilated pupil?
           as a mammal...
my pupil either contracts
or expands... it's either
                                    o or O...
a cat's eye?
                        O or ()
    and that's still stating a "compliment"
with the () curvature of the slit...
       that's not how a mammal's
eye should behave...
   fur,
    and as much does for birds...
also with fur, but no female womb,
instead a plot of egg
                    and greedy omelette...

    sure sure, i could have owned
a snake, if a wanted,
    or a tarantula...
   but cats just freaked me out
to begin with...
   that whole fur bit of *******
is an act of subversion...

               as is the whole bird:
feed me a budgerigar clock...
   because the whole beak...
was never going to be akin
                                  to a horse's hoof...

cats, when they're faking it,
turn all O puerile with their pupils...
but then they revert back
into their reptile calculating
demure of the slit ()
                                pupils.

big cat,
                 elephant, dog,
the eye dynamic is either
from o to O or from O to o,
to conscript their allowance
for the traffic of light...
    once again...
      whatever categorical divisions
we have constructed
to process information?

               to me,
cats are the old fashioned
fabble of a hushed variant
of chimera.
emma joy Aug 2013
1/2
It is quite dignifying to imagine
one's self to be invincible, but
at the end of the day
we are all submissive to nightmares
mirrors can't help but reflect despair
in bloodshot eyes.
I have lived on this planted for
3 years and 20 centuries
and I can tell you that
sleeping pills don't work and
buttering burns makes the suffering
more savory.
Fire will always be enticing
and smoke will seem like clouds after a while
you can **** as many mosquitos as you want, but your blood will always belong
to the earth
and when you are drained like sandy bath water you will understand
what it feels like to be curious
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
one might, invariably, drink red wine infused
with garlic to ward off evil spirits -
or as some claim...
50ml of the stuff at daily intervals
is part of a plan for slimming...
  me? i just don't mind the taste...
        like i wouldn't mind a kiss from an onion
or... slobbering into an ash-tray
sort of a girl mouth in one of those sticky floor
nightclubs circa the early 2000s we go into
for underage drinking...
being boys i do wonder what sort of *******
escapades we were supposed to unearth...
it's not like we were Pan-Am stewardesses
readying ourselves for some glitz,
some Ritz... some... thespian shadow-thieving
on the pristine screen...
garlic infused red wine...
it's not so bad... even though it's not mine
since, after all: the best ***** on the planet
is not your own - blah blah, blah...
but lucky for the 500 quid front suspension
trek marlin 5 arrived today and...
tomorrow i go catch the wind...
it feels like being six-teen again...
not that walking marathon distances is
a problem: Pots to herr belly...
from 104, kg, to circa 107, kg...
and that's still more than half...
of what mass-loss ought to "feel" like...
although... it doesn't feel like anything
when the "subjective" numbers come
across the "objective" numbers
but unlike walking...
where time and distance and the dimension
of movement are most pronounced...
a bicycle is unlike a horse
but is like a dog...
somehow...
   a bicycle is most certainly not a car
and a car is most certainly not a horse...
but a bicycle is... not...
it's... unlike a horse...
but like a dog...
that it's not a dog is pretty obvious...
but i'm conjuring up...
concepts like muzzle...
leash... WD40 oil for the chain...
and... enough air in the tires...
since we're not talking a road bicycle and
nothing has to be slender jimmy either...
it's a pristine orange...
the colour does matter, somehow...

when i liked jazz i stopped digressing
into classical...
when i stopped digressing into jazz
i allowed myself for
classical music to become complimentary
to things - complicated...
not that jazz wasn't...
but what it wasn't was that it wasn't
scripted and all that
"spontaneity" revels in exhausting itself
somehow: becomes predictable...

a jazz "us" vs. a classical "we": vs.
nothing so much clearly even remotely aligned
to that...
it was a Friday night and i was this close | |
to gauging my eyes out
after having watched a director's cut of a movie...
it beat the standard bearer...
whichever it was... Ben-Hur or Spartacus...
nearing to 4 hours of...
by the end of it: almost gauging my eyes out...
hardly Pavlov or drooling...
of making me an infantilised *******
sputnik moon-key...

a sense of: culture is dying...
what's predominately being "served"
is cancel is cancel is cancel is...
well... to overcome some variation
of nihilism ascribed to morals...
we found the modern woman in the 1950s
and 60s...
the supposed, modern man...
we'll find in the 2050s and the 2060s...
if we're lucky...
when a somewhat status quo returns...
otherwise: what's on offer is still
a dynamic of "arrogance" / agitation...

my insomniac libido...
my insomnia's insomnia...
why i wouldn't doge a cocktail of
alcohol... 250mg of naproxen...
and something resembling para-cet-a-mole
to switch-off...
i switch off:
i don't fall asleep... always...

complete with a thorough hard-on
i can exactly fathom by diluting it over
a mortal conversation with the opposite ***...
because there's this illusion
and it's stupendous...
etymological relaxation in order?
evidently history is placed within
a self-erasure composite glue...
work around this architecture...

my first... bicycle route...
the tires are pumped up
it took me close to 7 hours to walk
to st. paul's cathedral and back...

then one of those:
write everything via an anagram...
anagram: soul - losu -
                 los - which implies... fate...
losu? implies a possessive article of fate:
i.e. fate itself...
fate's whim...
              i had a dream yesterday...
i'm adamant the person i spoke
with dealt in the term... RESURRECTION...

i think i was talking to a zombie in a dream,
whoever i was talking to...
like the hues of Baltic amber...
an allotment of greens and blues...
tinges of orange mingling with yellows
and ripe reds...
nothing purpose filled like
purple followed: for the clarity of
dignifying mourning...
or an eternal clue for blue...

i was drinking medication!
i was duped!
two variations of grammar to decipher...
what it was i was drinking...

but i'll need to speak something
older than colt hing-leash...
i.e.
  garlic infused red wine
red wine infused with /
                                  by garlic...
it's a slimming elixir... apparently...

here goes! dive!

             knoblauchinfundiert rotwein...
rotwein infundiert mit /
                         durch knoblauch...
if i were drinking my own pīß...
                                         not enough: pish!
                                       pysh...
passer... by...    zilch on a leash...
it's a mix-up between py-š and py-ś...
     no... it's not even remotely related
to                                         π-σζ
ask a greek, though...
whether                           σζ can be coupled
like ae or oe...
                             given... SH... &...
                                            μαμ ση...
even the complexity of the mandarin skeletons
doesn't allow them to conjure up
more sounds behind the letters
that are already: a priori...
left... available...

tangled up in the affair of the "gods": or: not, god...
a mother seeks a supposition of a son...
we tells her...
while at the altar of words...
i began this session with red wine infused
with garlic... i'll end it with some
mulled wine...
the cat's my winged sphinx...
the cat's my winged sphinx...

for the toils beckon me remote...
i harvest a lineage that has to come to an end...
mother dear why you will not be grand...
while i won't be the fathering kind...
like it might not excused
for that thespian reality of....
gearing up to: froth forth at a pronto...
my red wine infused with garlic...

i knew i had to lend an ear to
the deutsche-zunge like
like Wend...
nieme-ludzie.... niemdy-lud...
although their black-forest gateau was
to... die for...
older than english...
this modern leash of...
this isn't the 21st century... is it...
this isn't the century of the culimation
of expectations... is, it?
if it is... where was "ground zero":
this... "Golgotha" of the supposedly
requested hour?
by what hour... are hours worth a count...
that sort of hour-ing, yes?

by the demands of what "suffices":
that i didn't speak with a god...
that i did encounter a chanced audience
with... the ******* choir... yes...
how does that sound...
having smoked marihuana
and having to "somehow" usher in...
something so antithesis of cosmopolitan...
sensible: i came across the god's choir...
but not god himself...
i cowered and started rummaging
occupying a space
before the great altar...
the great altar, so be it...
amen...              i hid under the tablature in
a white cloth...
an F a TH a PH but not a P- (prefix lady
added to the "complexity" of a response...

i met the choir, before i was allowed to
meet the deity...
last time i heard... from kabbalistic sources:
upon meeting the deity the sure
and impeding quest for death:
a clear sky... but a streak of cloud
making a quill be resembled, symbolic...
detailing a quasi-barricade...
between reality, reels, real and the races...

for an audience:
but such details are supposed to be...
confided without a public scrutiny...
then again... given my timing...
timing: not having to father children...
no ambitions of such: deeds... therein imploding...
red wine infused with garlic
for starters... mulled wine to finish it off
with an amnesia of sorts...
A bluebird hovers above rifles

raised in memory of people dying, clasping the cold edges of guns in the absence of their mothers' love.

Cheers ring out for survivors having embraced their triggers hard enough to keep breathing

as a million of last sighs were left united above the bruised treetops sobbing quietly in the burning fumes.

Scattered souls getting bled through eyes are seen among the laughing crowds, widows clutching their children's hands twice

making up for fathers lost in a foreign land.

The bluebird cries. His tears fall to the ground stomped by marching feet honoring those who cannot walk,

screaming every word the bird can't roll his tongue around, too real for his trembling lips to form.

His dropped jewels gleam in the

gloomy day as they let their vibrating voices break the crispness of the morning, pieces tumbling down into the

children of his sobs,

enhancing their strength as they shout out the horror of marching in memory of soldiers; the sadness of cheering surviving armies; the utter foolishness of raising guns dignifying buried boys that would have laughed and run, embosomed their children hard enough to squeeze the sorrow from out their skin, if greed wouldn't have given birth to those weapons.

Their shriek clangs through the streets,

clamoring how this should be a day spent mourning the lost men caught in uniforms brainwashed by altered patriotism, how their ashes shouldn't be strewed into a shatter grenade but planted along with
seeds of harmony on open fields,

how a peaceful world

should come to emerge from the endless graves where their spirits sleep.

The bluebird dives into the crowd, letting his body swirl around the uniforms walking stiffly through the darkening day.

He inhales before whirling down into a rifle held high in the sky,

allowing his tongue

to slide along the words no one marching has ever understood.

Freedom,

he calls. Let

peace

spread throughout the world, carried on the back of every bird floating across the empyrean until the message can be heard chanted from every mountain stroking the earth with its roots.

Let's honor the memory of lost men, he calls, let's learn to love as we now ****.

His voice is drowned by firings in the salute of lost troops. No one hears his last desperate cries, his throat celebrating his own mother who will never again

caress his plumage.

He clasps the coldness of the barrel, before his last breath unites with a

bullet.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
The conservative element in DC
Has something else as priority.
It sure is not you, nor is it me.
It’s a much more powerful constituency:
Those who pull strings do not care
Unless you are a multi-millionaire
And contribute to their greedy cause
Like some kind of Santa Claus.

They keep on doing what they’re doing
******* who they were *******
I would explain it all if I could
But sometimes words do no good.
Behind all the gobbledy ****
Someone is not playing by the book.
Winning with lies is what they are trying
To make the true facts look like lying.

They keep you so confused that you
You believe what they want you to,
So you won’t see behind their wiles
To bring their larcenous ***** to trial.
Dignifying public rumors of buggery
You look away from skullduggery.
A few insignificant happenstances
Eclipse treasonous circumstances.

You ***** about gays and abortion
While conservatives commit extortion
And persecution in Jesus’ name.
To them it’s all a ratings game.
If you don’t care what people feel
You lose all track of what is real.
You turn into a tool for deception;
A dupe of sleight-of-hand misdirection.

As long as things are as they are
We’ll get run over by the clown car
Which is the Congress currently seated.
And as long as they remain undefeated
The rules will leave the deck stacked.
Nobody in DC will have our backs.
Why should they care about our whim
When the way it is benefits them?

We need one item, one bill rules
Or we end up the same beaten fools.
We need campaign funding to be equal
Or each election becomes a sequel
To what happened with Gore and Bush
When backdoor politics bit us in the ****.
The only way change will ever come around
Is to take the loopholes from these clowns.
Maria Mitea Sep 2022
Watercolor Cat, Watercolor Cat,
You are the most wonderful Watercolor Cat I have ever could dream about,
And I wonder, my friend Watercolor Cat, and admire you perplexed and mesmerized,
Tell me, how you know and how you do that you stand up straight and mastered this dignifying posture,
Like a masterpiece,
And these yellow eyes, like sunflowers, while sitting on a such big stone, on a such long road
When you are not a red cat or white, and not even lost, but
Just an easy touch of lilacs that comes with the sunrise and leaves at sunset on the shores of volga,
My friend, Watercolor Cat, when I see you standing up like this with all your pride, sharp years, and flying tail,
You suddenly are the most blue-yellow cat in the sky, like you swallowed the sun with your wondering eyes.
Why do you wonder my dear friend, Watercolor Cat, why do you wonder and look like you are waiting for something wonderful to happen.
Tribute to Russian painter,  Elena Verzilova,
By Jennifersoter Ezewi

Back in the days
People see city as the way out
But recent happenings
Had proved diaspora
As the messiah.

Moulding lives beyond the awe.
Crowning efforts made
With beautiful payments.
Giving meaning to lives events.
Dignifying the last jew man.

Beautiful diaspora:
Thou art so colourful
In your own ways;
Exhuming your challenges and rules
Which flaws men that violates your orders.
When encountering someone who selfishly insists on having the final word:
simply boycott their ******* by not dignifying them with a response,
and maybe they'll be too anxious in their own Mind,
and maybe they'll realize that what they said
really had no ******* place
being the last words,

and by then, it'll be too late.

A lesson in and of itself.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the maxim? well, if you don't like my game, i'll just take my bucket and spades and go to another sandpit to play my game... oh don't worry, you're famous and necessary and acknowledged and c.c.t.v shy. known by the tax office and the home office... sure, you're famous there, and necessary there... with me? something grey, something resembling a square... i'm not even going to **** and **** on you to get to fame, too much dignifying things came my way to wonder about that; i'd love your job as a bus-driver though, i'd love any job to be honest, but every single job just reminds me of school, and none are on offer to remind me of university - better faux pas and loose it all, than gain something belittling and a statistician's daydream of getting to be aged 80: as was the day than the concern for being mortal, was acknowledged by seeing fame revealed that those administering mortality were interpreted as apathetic wrongly: no: got nothing to lose.*

it sometimes happens, you walk into the toilet,
lift the toilet seat up, and just sit on it...
you're simulating the idea that you'll never **** or
take a **** in heaven, a moth flies in, a cat sniffs your head,
the people on television look oh so nice and pampered,
but there you are, sitting on a toilet with no **** to **** out...
so the admiring you comes out... this is the room where
a tapeworm (had i one) wrote my biography? well, it
must be! the common concern for relief on the toilet is
like the unlikely catacombs relief of "great" men...
me on Napoleon's throne, Napoleon of my toilet...
the same **** came out... some alcoholic looked into a mirror
while lifting a glass: bad results,
a few days of nightmare ensued (he never expected
the image to say: i need company) - drink and talk
is fatal - but of all the addictions, alcohol feeds you
enough calories to become super active.                
as i once said: the toilet seat the only throne there is...
you imagine ******* out a million dead, when,
actually, the supposedly million dead
are stuck to the television... but still there you are,
sitting on the toilet, downing a whiskey,
admiring the surroundings: why, a mighty reinterpretation
of the Niagara Falls... as some hate the Marquis,
i read a de Sade book on the tube and find
a bunch of girls giggling...
     encore! papa don't preach! papa don't
     preach!
                       so you're just sitting in
the toilet, there's a horde of dead people
titled: your ****...
                                and oh god it looks oh so
******* pretty!
                               you can just shove a hectare
of daffodils into the image, and drink enough
for your liver to feel the rib-cage and make you
gambling nonetheless: well, either that
or the brain is gone.
   and there were times when we enjoyed pain,
   and there were times when we celebrated it...
   a rare fetish, it was once the rave's dynamo startup!
marvellous, the Prince of Wales just walked
past, and people started shouting: shoot the
quasi Henry! shoot the quasi Henry the eighth dead!
n'ah, that never took off...
                                             appear and be believed,
           disappear and be relieved.
Tommy Johnson Jul 2014
Copyrights and patents
"What up reality?"
"Whatch you got for me today?"
The Marksman ****** on his cigarillo
His voice was distinct
A whirring voice
Vocable word choices
A man of great aptitude
Never blinked, never winced
With acute paranoia
And a metallic nucleus
Daft
He heard voices
Egging him on
Baiting him
Taking ****
Nuisances
"How's the ulcer oh glorious gunman?"
They said
"Hurts doesn't it?"
"Ready to give out?"
"Put that plastic bag on your head and end it"
The Marksman pivoted and headed toward the kitchen
And made a stew of whatever he could find under the sink
And ate it
"Hail to the chief and send my complements to the chef!"
He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger
He was buried and had the most dignifying funeral I ever had the privilege of attending

      -Tommy Johnson
For everyone
So we stopped fighting,
So we had that
Which cannot but mold the heart
To the most dignifying end...
The most beautiful touch of elegance...
But all that, wasn't but possible through pain.

And I wish you not to suffer more,
The world that seeks to **** your heart mending soul
Never to destroy your grace and beauty.
You little virus! Making one smile
In our times.
When it   is past 2 A.M. we have no use for reason.

       compose the current of the body and listen to its    brunt

when  to  be X-ed for  falling,    hide within  its sallow coordinate.

         gun   the  engine.     Let the  smoke  brag   about   our
  distance   suchlike a probative   burden.

away     from  here      is  the  loveliest   day

     it’s   definitive    to   quit   a resolution:

no    more   of   waste  /    shelter    may   mean   a  contrast between

     most   days  alone      and     some  days   with

     a   dignifying   versus    ---   when  it  is  finally   done,

       see me   through   a jaundiced   eye|

  a   hand     labored  from,  exhausted  and besieged|

         no   longer   someone’s    your   conflicting   a   possible

afterlife  this  one,   and  another one  ---   else between a rock   and
   a  place   leaden
          your      heart     downed   by   its   tending   to    prove

what    object   you    have    no    use  for.

    *you   like  the   sound   of  this,  don’t  you?
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
lady gaga: i like it rough:

what was ever wrong with being tender, treating a body
opposite to one's own like porcelain?
                  never mind...
                     these days i'd rather
be bound to caressing a cat than
touching a woman.
   me? gift to women? a don juan?
**** no!
              ha ha!
                i'm waiting for the comedy
of seeing women age and become
barren due to their cherry-picking
        not having entered a harem...
mmm...
               what now?!
                         conversations with your mother?
me? i already told mine: i know
where switzerland is... and i'm thankful
for their competence in discussing euthanasia...
sure, i'll hold your hand, because i'll
take the same route...
                    i think that's called the serenity
of dignifying something called a: human.
after a while or the years: i just
lost interest with all the ***** *****-slapping...
    i can't remember a ******* wanting
the sort of fetishes these free-women of the western
world want or sing about, or frankly
celebrate...
                     i must be victorian...
a 21st century *jack
? he wouldn't be after
the prostitutes...
                            believe me...
                                after a while you're
just like: whatever... can't be bothered.
                            the totem of jealousy dries up
anyway, given enough time for it to do so...
         an old bachelor? akin to mr. portillo?
   nothing sad about that...
                   it's actually quiet welcoming that a man
could accomplish being a bachelor at his age...
but with women?
                that's just sad... a bit like the fetish
women have with mr. rochester and the madwoman
in the attic... i'm starting to think:
         when's edward coming out with
                                                     entire circus?
oh right: now they can't handle reality!
but they're still into "loov"; beckoning Grimsby!
    this language has as much monetary value
as a penny dropped on the street in Silesia / Śląsk.
Nicole May 2015
Because when you fell, you didn't just fall.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't serene.
Nothing about it was pleasant, dignifying,
honorable.

It was a tangled pulsing thunder that ended in a silent scream.
Rumbles of disgrace.
Tremors of fear.
Echoing humiliation.
Tears bleeding shame.

But the clock...
Life is moving on.
Handfuls of broken glass, shift through the past.
Streaming red, stinging, lost - now which way?

With a bruised heart and battered knees, pick yourself up. It's time now - breathe.
Jozef Vizdak Sep 2016
6th floor balcony
3am
1 finishing cigarette
No hope
Jump you fool
Jump until there's time
Jump until there's enough bravery left
Dignifying family future
Unspoken love's past
Jump until it's over
And the cigarette's finished
You leave the balcony
It's too late
Another chance wasted
Another life fearfully saved
But soul already in hell
nerwo bol:
pier watroby:
nie roby:
traby...
kurva pieklo
zazlenllo!
zas.. za was kurva GAZ!


jebena
przekrzydlo...
jablio
jablo blow *******
and eyes to heaven
poinsed:
as much as christ
is the little big tragedy
of the ******
then let me stage a 2nd crucifixion:
in space:
on the launch...

my two psychiatrists are:
your birthday is on the 17th September:
my work colleague
Chris
sorted me out
while i was rummaging through
my paper driving license...
i have a paper driving license...
i can send you all the proofs:
the English want me out!
they want me out of here!
they want me out of England:
they're kicking me out
with the Syrian Jihadi Brides
they want to task the American
immigration authority
concerning a Mischter Bond:
Baker Street and Liverpool Street
are my two favorite stations
the District and the Metropolitan Line
my two favorite colour:
claret and green...
i needed to weave the New Millwall into this:
claret and pine green...

first ached the liver
like Prometheus the historian
talking about pre-dinosaur times:
like finding something in
a monkey:
the death spiral that even cats fear
cats have nightmares:
if they see a man
being...
courtesan to the insects:
the birds then try to inquire
of the man
who is benevolent to insects:
and in insects the Crown of Creation...
the Kippahketer...

        if christ is X and you are X and that makes
the woman: christ **...
then help me, please, help me understand
the X of the christ to the Y of the man that
tries to relate to him:
in his little miseries and injustices:
hardly bitter:
consoling you:
then spending 7h listening to you sleep:
then i hallucinate your daughter's voice
through you breathing back
and she's playing with the radio
and fine tuning you snoring to a radio station...

of the Scots in London, Millwall:
of the Danes in London, New Millwall:
Scottish dockers unloading
ships then as couriers of the King James
Bible...
said unto the Anglo-Saxons:
a Saxony of all blue: azure: a Reconquista
of the Ancients and Rome
a litany of secrets...

       to reconquer the dead
and wake them from their slumber:
until there will be a friction with christ
because a second wake
would last more than 3 days and
this time there would be no resurrection
no harangue of hell:
what a? harangue of heaven: the heave?!
the air? and the light?

as maria the great grandmother one
who should have been a nun
that one: the first time i bit off some tooth...
and burned a burgundy rose
to the dark shade of bishopry... darkest blood
purple...
alone in the kitchen where she would
sit petulent and in deep prayer
constantly praying:
when my grandmother her daughter
called me: Ancimonek... Ancimonek...

new colours: to compete with the Hammers...
optics:
claret and pine green...
forget the Douglas
and the McCurryMurry...
    gay pride of intellect my oi! oi! oi!
oi!
Aussie Aussie Aussie! hoi hoi'n'hoi! hoi!
oar! my slavish friends!
roar! oar! roar! oar! arbeit macht frei!
arbeit macht frei! oar! wind! sails! sails! sails!
oar!

i'll make this a great tragedy:
i will craft me a mummy chamber
and the anti-cross!
i will craft me a shipwreck
in which rats she
chew...
and crawl with worms throughout
eternity if:
i am to sanctify Golgotha...
the anti Eden...
the Serpent so plastered the night before
that he was probably hangover
when he was crucified
that's why Judas betrayed him
because Jesus lost his Virginity at the Last Supper
with Judas' girlfriend...
so the Roman Soldier kindly asked
while... all guts and hanging:
soaking the sponge
with wine...
so... mate... how was it? having ***
for the first time?
well! ** ** **! my ******* ***... ** ** **...
Jordan Peterson
and New Christianity:
by my gnostic ambition for conservatism
and pagan enforced:
by the Northern Crusades:
bless this father this house and Joseph too...
why doesn't... anyone...
think... about... Joseph...
i'm anti-Catholic then!
i want the equivalent Shrine as the Catholic
Church as is to Mary
the same PROTEST UNIFIED with
the dignifying: not worshipping:
DIGNIFYING JOSEPH!

p.s. n.b.:
admire how the atheists
and evolutionists
fail to
admit to the Carboniferous and
        Permian periods...
even the theologians stopped
at serpents:
well if we are the sun that shines
out of god's *******:
why stop at dinosaurs?
why not explore what
dinosaurs feared
and said: **** it god: send at a meteor:
let us become homeless birds
make you creates cities
but get these ******* alien insects
out: make a cow to govern Beelzebub!
ugh ugh! ugh!

let's revise Darwinism with
the Carboniferous and Permian periods...
of ante- meta-history...
meta-history!
that's it!
Hiedegger was the right sort of alchemist
to structure my development of the 20s
with the antithesis of historiology:
beyond philosophy of writing:
the poetry of breathing
the poetry of seeing
the poetry of reading philosophy...
meta-histtory!
these tired humans these feeble snakes
and poor liars
forgot the horror of the reign
of the insects:
out comes only Beelzebub
there is no lizard:
no pet: at this point...
there are no serpents:
there is only the dragon
and arrogance
and pride
that contains
this darkest of hours when i befriended
the Lord of the Flies
who foretold me of 2000 years
of the Reign of the Lord Mosquitos...
who would call him Jesus Christ...
but in a period of gigantic maggot squirrels...
you think that:
the serpent came with the apple...
because...
he was not: ******* traumatized?!
by what came prior!
didn't the lizard come as a tongue
in the form of a serpent:
and said:
are not these birds beautiful?!
can you name them!
where was god?!
in the ******* Carboniferous and Permian periods!
among the insects:
the devil asked:
has not enough time passed O Lord
for you to come down and
witness and pray give justice
to my patience...
send me forth the best of your abstractions
within the confines of the imitations of men:
who you puppeteer
and then summon to jest as the high courts
of Karma... and Manna...
for there are two like Hugin and Muninn...
Karma and Manna...

imagine this hunger like trans-:
oh so trans...
this hunger like me imitating your pregnancy...
how long did that telephone call last?
i was lying in bed doing
the Zhuangzhi: nothing: non-doing
altruism: nothing is a pronoun:
gender and nothing as a pronoun?
nothing destroys gender
and your confusion:
nothing is the order of chaos
that orders inconsequential nothings
a pluralism of nothing
of little nothings to be an even more potent
nerve centre of nothing
as the self-cannibalism-god...
for the mercy of fame and outlandish
gestures
like: not managing mortality
and not trying to die old...

can't people ******* see a rock star philosopher!
seriously?!
no one can see the rock star philosophers:
at a time of the height of the Roman Empire...
and some outlaws stopped pillagining and ****** women
and sat down drank a little... blah blah...
seriously?!
the Genghis Khan of the intellectual realm:
that guy who would make us believe
that he's the origin: the i am therefore
i don't need to think...
**** me! **** me  Edie! you want me to fall for
this *******! seriously?!
rock star philsopher that could make his early
followers behave like the Mongols at the Library of Baghdad:
the Library of Alexandria...
burned: by Christians....

now go back: and reread what i just wrote:
that's not a request:
your heart was pounding through the first
reading:
i always wanted to explore the genre
of literature whereby people need
to re-read:
manual language:
no schematics: all manual language...
nothing fiction: nothing automatic:
not even poetry or philosophy and: over form
and modus operandi:
style... something essentially aromatic...
must be a sub-genre not yet investigated: proper...

the genre of writing something
so profound:
it ganers:
the reader to be implored
to: RE-READ... what they have just read.

because you love them:
the last mask of Jordan Peterson fell
off at the defence of Jesus Christ:
the glorified... hmm... incel?!
but Jesus Christ didn't die a ******...
that's why Judas
and the fruit was the labour of Magdalene.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
truly... there's nothing quiet like September & October in England... the most glorious months... splendour seems to seep into the air... into the sunlight... it's that time of the year when i start making my own wine & if i might be lucky... Jack Daniels will be discounted to £20 from £35 at the supermarket... it's splendid because my muse returns... i am hurrying around in my mind with letters jumbled up... nothing compares to the months September & October in England... famous as they are... dubbed... the Indian Summer... autumn is so consolidating... i itch with hope for snow... frost... and the eternal night.

oh sure... perhaps those unicorns do really exist...
but a jinx is in my lineage...
all the men in my family would fit
the socratic maxim:
sure... if you find a good wife... you'll be
content with life... but if you find a horrible
woman: a Medusa... you'll become
a philosopher...
i can go through the list...
my now estranged uncle: brother of my
mother... a ****-boy bachelor...
cousins... divorced...
son of my godmother... divorced....
had to battle for custody of his son...
only won because his ex-wife started
to drink heavily...
the wedding was fun... i got so drunk
on Śliwowica (slivovitz) that i almost started singing...
my father's father: divorced... remarried twice(?)
my mother's father: my grandmother...
as much as i'm supposed to like her...
well... let's just say...
she would scold him with words...
sure... he was a heavy drinker...
but worked his *** off in the metallurgy industry
when it was still alive in Poland under
the discretion of the Soviets...
it's painful though...
   i saw him about 3 months before his death...
in that 3 months he was going to die...
dementia complications... blah blah...
i think he just gave up...
he couldn't stomach living with this woman...
i hear Italians and Greeks speak fondly
of their grandmothers...
me? i wish i could... i could once...
but she kept his final days a secret...
with my now estranged uncle...
a week or so before his death he insinuated
that we must have "perspectives":
to look... "perspective-ly"...
i would have ****** off to his deathbed in a second...
i didn't lose a grandfather: i lost a friend...
the hours we spent talking on the balcony...
music life in the graveyard...
our trips to Warsaw & Cracow in the summers
when i was still in school... cycling together...
fishing... his memory of me climbing
trees in the forest while walking Bella...
an Alsatian and Axel the dobberman...
but his death was kept a secret known only until
he was on his last in a hospice...
his death was kept a secret...
   it's not like we didn't call and inquired:
oh no no... everything's fine...
i don't buy the excuse that... to save us the pain
we didn't have to witness his death...
he actually thought of himself as a patriarch...
what's horrible is that he probably
had that gnat of a woman standing over him
as he died applauding his death...
pulsating with venom!
i only have one comfort...
that he managed to read a snippet of Karl Ove
Knausgaard's Autumn...
a snippet about eating apples...
how Karl would teach his children to eat
the whole apple... even the core...
a metaphor for life...
that you'd eat the sweetness first...
but then arrive at... ahem... the complicated bit
of the apple... the bitterness of the seeds...
i only have this comforting story to tell myself...
that he was armed with this metaphor of life...
in his dementia labyrinth of memory:
thank god he saw what i saw:
memory... the most pristine cinema...
after all... movies are boring these days...
- my father: also no luck...
sure... he's still married... but i'm also nearby to
smooth things other... even he complains...
sometimes half jokingly... sometimes seriously...
so i do the cooking and look after
the house...
the garden... making the wine...
but then... he was abandoned by his mother
& father & raised by his grandmother
& her second husband...
thankfully i can channel my drinking habits into
something creative...
however mundane i find it to be...
but i'm sure of it...
there's a jinx in my lineage...
some ancestor of mine must have done something
horrid to some woman that:
the matter will only resolve itself
by me... ending the lineage...
           well... i hope these words can at least
survive for a 100 years after i'm: corpus ******* "christi"...
eh... if Marquis de Sade was bad
at desecrating a crucifix for an imitation
of a ***** with a *******: getting jailed for that
sort of antic... i desecrated the blood of Christ
once by ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...
my own... so what?! if i were in a desert
wouldn't i drink my own **** to survive?!
i still have a little glimmer of... i wouldn't call it hope:
i'd call it... fancy...
that the "juice is worth the squeeze"...
all my luck with women was only ever
associated with prostitutes...
i remember paying for ***...
but i don't remember paying for lies and niceties...
if a ******* tells me i'm smart...
that i look like Bradley Cooper...
i'm buy that... even thought our transaction
was about claiming something else
intimacy...
or that i am a good man...
i much prefer the quote from Dostoyevsky...
the eternal evil that only wishes to will good...
sometimes i miss the mark...
sometimes i'm spot on...
i hear a whisper in the wind:
you selfish man...
  i'd prefer the word obnoxious...
        i don't mind the odd auditory hallucination
from time to time: it's comforting to know
that i'm not truly alone...
egoistic... i can't be...
if i entertain what i'd call the antithesis of
Heidegger's dasein... what a funky little compound:
da: there... sein: being...
there's being... over there... yonder...
        i'm suggesting something more akin to:
presence... with the german words...
jetzt: now... and hier: here...
perhaps i ought to compound one or the other
or both with sein, too...
        again... reiteration... from the time of Ancient
Greece... there's no guarantee with women...
which is sad... i fell in love with the idea
of woman from the time i read Stendhal's
the Red & the Black in my teens...
i actually saw the movie adaptation starring
Ewan McGregor & Ra-kh--kh-el Weisz
  (is it... Raych-el?) first...
                    probably the only movie adaptation
that made me want to read the book...
n'ah... that's a lie...
Dr. Zhivago is on the list...
             as is the Sienkiewicz trilogy...
there's no ******* chance in hell that i'll listen
to those people who cry: you'll die alone!
well sure... and when i do... i hope it's as Caesar wished:
suddenly!
oddly enough... he died suddenly...
stabbed as he was...
        but for some reason i'll have to
battle with myself over whether i employ dignifying
tactics or go full out Nero / samurai...
when all life will lose its meaning...
when i'll give up scribbling these little doodles of
anti-rhyme...
but not today... i have that wine of my own
labour to look forward to... in a week or two;
and as much medieval music as i like!
it's autumn, it's England!
there's no better time to be alive!
i don't own a car... i own a bicycle!
                i'm content in my melancholy...
i have focus... i have curiosity...
to hell with any worldly ambition!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
strange... oh so strange... this liquid fire,
  and the emerging oyster's worth
of tongue,
   and this, this,
thi strange sensation of counting
the number of teeth...
  ah... to touch the lips of death,
to feel one's bones...
complementing the constant
recurrence of: dreaming of teeth -
are they to turn to iron?

i call philosophy the belgian waffle -
please, speak, continue speaking,
continue searching for the ultimate
thought, as scientists seek the ultimate
theory, the theory of everything,
the unison synchronisation -
the final debt paid -
    whether in ratio or in fraction -
feed me...
  
the more you waffle on off on a tangent,
the more i transpire into a welcome
guise, hidden, bereft,
          i never liked crosswords because
i never liked the thesaurus invitation -
conjure a synonym / antonym with
a cryptic clue... i better puke over all of that
"craft" with beelzebub's *****
    what sort of fascination:
to spew one's digestive ***** into the food
before one's poly-diadem eyes
and then slurp it back up?
well... humanity uses yeast...
   hence beelzebub's answer - you throw
yeast into flour dough, you hibernate
yeast over autumnal grapes,
pouring over them crushed a gallon
of warm water with sugar melted into it...
clarity, murgy see-through waters of
sugar melted in water...
   like the chemical orchestra of petrol
dissolved in a puddle...

i have mine: now let's see yours...

     ah... mention the un-sayable thought?
to endure the silence?
    such reach high above your head (ego),
just mention the application of diacritical
marks...
      and how english has become
so debased as to c u l8er...
   mangled, decapitated souls -
those, befitting dante's inferno, soaked in
sulphur and **** bombs...
      ugly dyslexic things...
              
mind you, i can wake up with a "hangover",
mawn the lawn, do the laundry,
       peel the tatties for hungarian scruffs
and watch the hungarian broth boil...
    and then read a few aphorisms of heidegger...
and manage to count myself a worthy
addition to the current day...
   i have my obligations, never mind the drinking...
you really couldn't compete with me...
i'd drink you under the table and then take
you below the earth, drinking you into
a grave...
                 spoil yourself, you little *******...
pardon my french...
           point being, i'd love to see
what you'd write, having drunk as much as
i have.

on your wits! boyo. on your wits!
make that mental uniform well ironed;
ah... always the multitude of personna -
  as if dignifying the icon of some hindu god.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
mein gott!
trinken im der nacht: im der kalt, kalt
fingerbetäubung winter nacht:
was freude! was genuss!

hier mit mein: liebe der lieben!
Fräulein Bernstein -
       mich, ihr Herr Schnurrhaare...

that's the thing about choosing the right
of suitor... i went out looking for
Athena... i went out looking for Sophia...

all of sudden... they jump from one body
to the next... it's not reincarnation
and it's not incarnation...
it's an archetype modality that i put forth
onto each woman...
what is my return? perhaps the odd old
lady that's curious to me...
wisdom, from an older woman?
i would be a stranger, she wouldn't give it to me,
i trust old men to do that...

Athena and Sophia teach... from a woman's youth...
now... if i were looking for Odin...
if i were looking for Hades...
i'd be looking toward old men...

all of course just an amusement park for my
thinking & looking at an entire stand
of people in a football stadium...
i shopped for "souls" in those eyes & faces
transfixed by something so trivial
that it could only be:
22 ballerinas kicking a ball about...

a game of tennis usually employs a football
team of judges... if you were to add
the ball boys / girls...
a game of 7 rectangles...
no wonder it's not a popular game for
the public to engage with...

oh, the old gods of the fabled Europe...
did they suffer the same fate as
the Semitic gods that the Hebrew deity...
quiet simply ate? like the fate
of Beelzebub, poor sod...
no, i think they just went out of fashion...
as if Odin sent his son Thor (you sure it wasn't
Loki... playing that trick of turning
water into wine, resurrecting poor Lazarus...
send me back! send me back! he screamed)
to conquer the European gods...

i think they just went out of "fashion":
before there was even a concept of: fashion...
before donning animal furs etc.
of the old gods: sure... the Scandinavian
& the Greek ones survived: miraculously...

i have no qualms with the Hebrew god...
it's genius! it has no form... it's purely a god
of the script... a bit like... Thoth...
hmm... theta omicron theta or... FOF...
i could spice it up a little...
given: (ph)ilosophy-O-(th)ought...

Thoph or Photh?
                                 i'm liking this....
it's ideally compatible: the Hebrew deity with
language itself... what with the Hebrews
hiding their vowels like some Europeans
employ diacritical marks...
a caron "hovering" over an S can hide either
a H or a Zed... "magic"!

the suffering sun, tortured on the cross...
what a great banner to march up north!
subdue the pagans... but... no... don't invite them...
scare away their old gods
keep the people at the distance...
howling, chattering obsenities,
gnashing their teeth... when the narrative was
swallowed...
sooner or later everyone looses track of
a narrative of any kind... myth becomes fiction
while... people are bonding over...
journalistic crowd control mechanisms...
fear, scare mongering... miss-information...

let's begin afresh...
for me, the New Testament very much resembles
the book of Genesis...
a Judeo-Greco conspiracy manifesto against
the Roman Empire...
i guess the Greeks despised the Romans
for plagiarising their gods &... since they lost
their vigour, their vitality:
they couldn't believe that reinventing the old
gods could bring such refreshing mana
to a people with no prior knowledge...

what the Romans accomplished by turning
Zeus into Jupiter...
the New Testament is equivalent to the book of Genesis
(insert debate) -
the garden of Gethsemane...
Mt. Golgotha... a book... riddled... with...
metaphor, imagery...
no... oh no... you're not getting off that likely:
you're not cutting corners...
i'm not even going to bother myself
with the Book of Revelation as the Exodus part
of this story...
if you really think i'm going to settle for
the sort of Exodus "you're" talking about...
we ******* via genocide & what not?
you have to remember...
we're talking... circa 2000 years of a Hebrew
exodus from Palestine to... so far north
as to mingle with the deutschemensch &
subsequently conjure up: yiddish!

managing to undermine the Roman empire was
one thing... but thinking that the northern
barbarians could be accommodating...
sure... some were... the Polacks were benevolent...
king Casimir welcomed the Hebs who would
later become Yids to Poland...
prior to world war II kicking off...
the Juices used to brag (as recalled by my
grandfather): wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets... our tenement buildings...
basically insinuating:
you can be homeless if you'd like...

i like the idea of the Hebrew god... why?
Juices are masochists...
they feel a need to be punished by their deity...
hell... the Holocaust happened...
at least they know when they're doing
something wrong...
the Holocaust happened & what?!
no divine intervention?!

i also like the idea of...
a... ahem:

      wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann...

a benevolent SS-man, basically...
i drink, i'll start speaking German, why not?
i'll drink, get drunk, start speaking German
& even if it kills me... will be listening to some
Roy Orbison! Roy! you're the man!
all the plebs can have their Elvis... you're the man Roy'oh!

why... wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann?
well... borrowed from my "late" grandfather...
memories from world war two...
the Russians? colts... fresh from Siberia
or what other *******...
slept in barns with the animals...
rugged smelly... Russians, you know...
but... the Nazis, stationed in my hometown...
home... town-of-birth...
London is my home...

from someone's who dead memory:
i still love how he said the following with
very poor punctuation,
he said it like a German might... compounded
i.e. herrbittebonbon:
herr! bitte bon-bon!
       & the schwarzbekleidet SS-mann would give
him sweets, bon-bon... he would run back home
& put his hands that were stuck together
by the sweets under  running tap of water:
to unglue them... ergo?

die wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann...
i think i look the part...
if i look the part: that' enough... optics is king...
just look the part, no matter whether you fill
the specified role... lucky for me, as a steward
i get to do a little bit extra & engage with
the public...
i have to, i, simply have to:
meditate on a frightening excitment..
how, i put that into practice is... my private
******* deal, savvy?

- guess what, i'm happy people taking up
the classics, it almost feels like the good
old days when...
books like...
were printed in 1967 for people studying
for their O-levels (ordinary level)
of the G.S.E. before... G.C.S.E. *******
came in and standards were dropped...
so... basically people circa 16 years old learning...
Cicero... in Latin... no... not in English...
in mother-******* Latin...
books like? the alpha classics...
the thought of Cicero...
selection edited by S. J. Wilson
(G. Bell & Sons)...
general editor? a Mr. R. C. Carrington, M. A.,
D. Phil., headmaster of St. Olave's School...

sample (why not?)
wait wait, imagine my delight... back then...
an S. J. Wilson would rather put
the title B. A. after this name...
than a Mr. at the front... trans-****** "issues"?!
almost subscript: senior classical master,
Methodist College, Belfast...
sure... sure... have to be doubly sure whether
or not the ******* Irish are literate...
let's check if they still speak Gaelic
like the Welsh speak Velsh...
no? oh... then like the Scots...
capitulated to the English and just retained
their ****** accents...
Scot's a sing-along-because-it's-a-****-up-Friday
and Hibernian are playing Harts...
or some other load of *******...

some people seem to WANT to become extinct...
& the English... the people who conjured
up Darwin and Darwinism...
i'm thinking... these people... espouse...
half-wit ****** Darwinism...
the Dodo project people...
Christian "compassion" (suicide) sort of got in
the way of... the cruel, sane, objectivity
of the origins of Darwinism...
well... is that a sort of... "oops", moment?!
if Darwinism was discovered under
the cloak of Islam... ha... ah: ha ha ha ha ha!
brown people breaking the backs of brown
people...
camel jockeys taking charge of Bangladeshi bodies...
but... no... i will not feed the narrative as
as a reactionary...

sample: unlike Cicero's Roman Gentleman...
shunning physical labour... me? i adore it...
arbeit macht frei... even if it's merely standing...
minding the crowd... sure... i'd rather cycle for 40 miles
than stand in one place for 4 hours
looking out for some elder perhaps having a stroke
or a heart-attack... my feet are killing me...
after a long period of exercise i feel, sort of, relaxed...
oddly enough: doing something for which you
are being paid: drags you down into Mammon's pit
of suffering... compare that to cycling out of
your own volition... wow... 40 miles is like a breeze...
you feel it, you don't feel it, you feel it...
you don't feel it...

iam de artificiis et quaestibus, qui liberales habendi,
qui sordidi sint, haec fere accepimus.
beginning with... ending with:
omnium autem rerum, ex quibus aliquid acquiritur,
nihil est agri cultura melius, nihil dulcius,
nihil uberius, nihil homine libero dignius...

that last line... i think i can conjure a translation
on a *****-nilly... nothing human dignifying liberty...
loosely...
if Cicero were to be reborn...
comparing the supposed slavery of physical
labour...
to... non-physical labour... whereby there are
two options... getting fat... or...
having to get on the ol' hamster wheel at the gym?
who the ****'s loosing out, &, more precisely,
on what?!

personally... i'd rather be tired from physical labour
& enjoy my free time... than...
do "work" that's all pickled-brain & juice
"inspiring" extension... to then have to...
"enjoy"... exercise! ha ha! the conundrum!
shouldn't those treadmills & exercise bikes be...
producing electricity, rather than, wasting it?
shouldn't people exercising generate energy?
they're not doing anything useful to begin with...
shouldn't they jump on the queue and generate
battery life? wait... what?!
physical labour is frowned upon...
from the time of Cicero...
get fat?! you need a crane-"lift", mate... ahem...
beached whale beauties!

**** me, at least i managed to walk off / cycle off
20kg, down from 120kg to... fluctuations
of 96kg through to 98kg...

haven't the people picked up the classics, though?
last time i heard there was some:
DO
to perform... a virus spoke & people started to
enlarge their... spoof presence to:
DELTA-OMICRON!
oh look... people are relearning the Greek alphabet,
guess William Wallace's uncle is back...
if we're really lucky... we'll get an Omega
"variant"...

coming back to the Hebrew... deity...
what's Y? a DEL implosion...
what's DEL? the up-side-down delta... nabla...
so why is it, "omicron" when the delta variant
could be be called nabla?
oh... right... not many people know about...
said "X"...
what's that? (ch)AOS or (ch)eat or... lo(ch)?

that's what i love about the Hebrew deity...
it's a soul-eater... minor deity eater...
poor Beelzebub... from a minor god of the Canaanites...
to a demon...
a bit like...
the archangel Michael... reduced to...
St. Michael... so much for the suffering at
Golgotha... Jesus / Loki...
oh pity me, pity me...
in the background... Santa Clause was waiting for
someone to inact the: Satan's Claus...

look at it, the tetragrammaton:
Y... the imploded ∇ (del), what happens
when ∇ (del) intertwines with delta?
you get... the star of David...
see... it works perfectly inthe Latin script...
H... one is a surd...
the other... a source for laughter...
what would the mensch do...
without... the Hebrews' definite article?
probably not laugh... i.e. why HA HA
and not... MA MA? or GA GA?!
well... rugby works on goal posts being
H shaped, anyway... so: we're good to go...

ah... W... W is a ref. to trigonometry...
cosine starts from 1 down to 0... through to -1
and then wave? no?
M... starts (sine) starts at zero... up to 1...
back to zero then to -1... wave...
we're talking about a Hebrew god...
it's not like Odin became... the ha-shem's *****...
he sort of... fell out of vogue...

ha ha... Loki oh, hey! hey "Zeus"! ******* ******...
at least i had enough of a ***** bank in me
to not play the narrative of a ******:
and actually **** a *****!
ooh... not comfy... is that supposed to be:
my sort of variation of a, "problem"?
i'mt not even going to bother myself with
the hard-core h'american believers...
that ship, that ship has ******* sailed...
wave, bye-bye... pretend it's the ******* Titanic...
o.k.?

circa 2000 years later, there should be a book...
allowing for the congestion of history
of the Hebrew people moving north...
trusting the barbarians...
it was an exodus 2.0... take it, or leave it...
culminating...
yeah... i "forgot" to tell you...
these people wouldn't be constructing a pyramid...
actually laburing for the construct of
someone's vanity...
there would be a brick... this brick... you'd move to
some random place... place it there... pick it up...
then move it back to its place of origin...
a sadistically ingenious joke... if you ask me...
but no, not building of pyramids...
necrophilia: directly...
nothing... metaphorical...

what other, nuance of the words, among the English?
terms like, orthography,
without an application
of diacritical markers?! what, are,
your, *******, islander, intellectuals, are, on?
Dickensian prose?!
*****... don't be coming from Devonshire...
or anywhere Bristol, slandering Essex...
******* westernlandfotzen!

in the meantime:
let the dolls play with their toys...
lassen die puppen spielen mit ihr spielzeuge!

i have enough time to wait...
fingers like spiders...
space...
       like cobwebs.....
Yenson Jan 2021
when solid truth accost their faces
leaving  vivid double pastings in pink
and firstly glowing the reddening of shamed burning cheeks
comes the white-washed sermon of the born poltroons
its the blushes made by the wintry winds on our pale complexions
they lie to themselves
as if we do not see the truckloads of insecurities
and body full of inadequacies
they carry around in plain sight
some wits laughs
that
that they probably blend in with the snow
and in hiding their vapid and vacuously depraved entities
conned the phrase
as pure as the driven snow
some things are not even worth dignifying with contempt
in my land I do not fight and steal from travellers
and blame my shamed burning faces on the winter cold
or invent tales about a greedy pig stealing food from my child
I have the abilities to earn or make
all I need without rancour or shame
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
the sane impediment of wants...

hardly a concern for
dignifying a will,
a suicide can do much better,
in clarifying the argument...

a drunk bound to an afternoon...
laughter...

what are the shared properties
of a crystal glass,
and....
          water?

oh but i know the grip
of the jealous tongue,
that might suffocate
a joyous heart...

         i'm still bemused...
a glass, ststic,
solid,
       but somehow able
to transcend the mirage
effect ascribed to water...

glass, water,
   water, glass...

    how "seemingly",
"sudden", having to bind oneself
to a "compromise"...

people tend to want
so much,
but then again, will
so little...
       when would
existence precursor
essence?
         when...
   quality always precursors
quantity...
         that wasn't
what sarte was thinking,
was it?

                 existence does,
precursor essence,
when there's a
  quantity "vs." a quality
debate...
            ****...
what is "desirable"...
quality is: essential,
  quantity is: existential...

                   full U-turn
to Moloch, basically,
and then the Moloch disgruntled
sorts,
  
****, far much simpler
for a woman to comply to
the difficulty of the argument,
with an abortion...

how else is water
so dissimilar to glass?
given the shared optics?
i look into a pond,
the fish is "elsewhere"...
if confine my hand to
an observation via a glass,
at the bottom, crystal-clear:

my hand is "elsewhere".

    i must be dumb, or something...
i can't find reiteration
for the argument,
towing a house,
a wife, and a child...
   so either i'm
a ******, a Kantian bachelor
convert, or something...
not exactly worthy of
the fetish expression of
male orientation
under the garment of gambling...
so, what? anomaly?
  someone who began a process
of not being a fan of Bukowski,
having reiterated his
pedantic stability within
confines of a new found
                   freedom of spelling?

****, now i'm not so sure...
   does essence / quality
precursor existence / quantity?
   the same cartesian dichotomy
as before...
an unsolveable quandratic
variant of algebra...
although worded,
                   not numbered....

oh right... the counter-argument
to sartre is wrong...
essence / quality
doesn't actually precursor
   existence / quantity...

      thus, available,
         by a thesaurus compound
construct of a synonym associatione,
like...
   the human concept of law...
jurisprudence,
was ever, never,
shy, beside the suckling at
the ****** of the thesaurus...
    nuance,
   and: only glorifying the objecitivty
of the "argument"
for the per se of "objectivity"...
sure... sure...
only when your passing of law
is objective...
and not inclined
to promote subjectivity / bias;
until that happens...
your current / currency of rhetoric?
hello Zimbabwe:
   sure as ****, inflated,
disproportionate,
   your typical h'american sense
of humour.

— The End —