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Ek kyk na die wiskunde geletterdheid vraestel
wat uittartend voor my le en skreeulag.
Elke vraag is nog 'n klap in my gesig
nog 'n uur wat ek in 'n warm stort moet gaan sit
om myself weer moed in te praat.

Ek het lankal reeds al die stetoskope
van my kinderdrome ashoop to gestuur.
Die laaste bietjie hoop uit my onskuld gekerf
toe hulle se dat ek die masjiene moet afskakel
en vir my spieel gaan se, dat ek dit nie gemaak het nie.
"Gee eerder op" lui die pedagoog se kreet.

"Jy hou ons terug seun" , vertel jy my
"as jy nou nog nie verstaan nie, sa jy
ook nooit nie. Gee maar op."
Ek was eers die boogseun.
*** verder jy my terug getrek het,
*** vinniger het my pyl op die teiken
af gestraal...
Nou is ek die rekseun... ek hou jou terug
en as jy trek, breek ek.

Jou ekstraklasse was te duur gewees,
ek kon nie my wiskunde angelegdheid bekostig nie.
Ek moes maar terugsit en kyk ***
ander skole met onderskeiding by jou deur uitstap.
Ek kon ongelukkig nie bekostig om slim te wees nie.

Onthou jy toe jy op daardie koue wintersdag
verby my gejaag het en my verskree het
oor die missie en serpie wat my net
aan die lewe gehou het?
Ek is jammer dit was nie jou kleur nie,
maar probeer verstaan...
ek is nie 'n onderwyser nie.
Wanneer jy huistoe kon gaan
moes ek my studentlike pligte uitvoer
en tot laatmiddag by die skoolbly.

Ek is jammer dat my ma werk.
Dit is tog so ongeskik van haar.
So selfsugtig om kos op die tafel te probeer sit
en so my verhoed het om aan sport deel te neem.
Ek weet tog *** belangrik sport vir jou is.
Jammer ek kon nie 'n meningvolle bydra
tot jou donnerse sportregime maak nie.
Jammer ek was 'n nuttelose suurstofdief
, soos wat jy my genoem het.

Eks jammer ek kon nie my punte
bekostig nie. My handgeskrewe take
en spoeg-en-plak plakate was 'n
vernedering tot die vlekvrye mamma-pappa-take.
Linte was in die mode.
Linte en ander oulike beursie plukkers.
Jammer dat ons beursies
leeg was, maak nie saak *** ons
daaraan prober pluk het nie.

Jammer dat ek nie man genoeg was
om myself te beskerm teen nege honderd seuns nie.
Dit is skandelik. *** kon ek so swak wees
dat ek nie eers nege jaar se "ou grappies"
kon aflag nie. Jammer dat ek dit nie snaaks vind
as daar op jou geurineer en gespoeg word nie.
*** kon ek nie lag vir die hilariteit van
asblik skroot , soos kougom en gemifde brood
in my tas en pennesakkie nie.
Ek wens ek was nie so swak nie, dan kon
ek ook dalk myself teen die 14 seuns beskerm het.
Jammer dat hulle my so maklik kon oorweldig.
Jammer dat hulle my kon teister
en rondgooi soos 'n vloerlap.

Ek vra nederig om verskoning,
dat ek daaroor kom kla het.
Meneer is reg, ek is 'n sussie.
Net 'n moffie soos ek sou
kom kla het. Jammer om meneer
se tyd so te mors, dit was verspot van my
om te **** meneer sou iets daaran doen.

Nou is ek ietwat geskend. Menere
en manne het al gesweeptong en asyn
op my kaal rug.

Nou sit ek Sentraal in die kakstorm
en jy wonder hoekom ek nie meer
onder die top 20 is nie.

Nou sit ek hier onder tussen die wiskunde "Jee"
vraestelle en huil.
My enigste vertroosting is dat ek nie
heel onder is nie, en dat jy die hell is
waaruit ek nog sal opruis.

Ek breek vry van agter die tralies.

Geagte skool
Gerespekteerde meneer
Vok jou
en moenie laat jou mislukkings jou
op die gat skop as jy by die deur uitloop nie.
Want hierdie "mislukking" ... skop kak hard.
andenrangs poet Jan 2015
du var ikke den slags
mand der passede ind
i statestikkerne om utroskab
i metroxpress
og du var ikke den slags
mand
med en advarsel
skrevet på ryggen, af en mavesur eks

du var den slags mand
der duftede af kanel
og nyvasket sengetøj og
du var den slags mand
der bar min taske
og lyttede til alle mine ord
og du var den slags mand der holdt mig
i dine arme og tørrede mine salte tårer
af knækket tillid bort fra mine kinder
og du var den slags mand der kunne
sige det med så meget overbevisning
når du sagde at du altid ville være der

men du var også den mand
der gik uden at se sig tilbage....
My rowe lê al spore
Op my palms wat klou
Aan die yster wat my brand
Ń vlam
In die droewe kou
Ingehok, binne my eie land

Tralie hart staan ongeweer
Teen vloedwater emosie
Wat verbeeldingloos probeer
Om te rebuleer teen die seer
In my terugslag verval
My moed. Ek sal dit
Bymekaarskraap
vir ń Volgende keer.

En my vingers trek nog
Lyne en koppel my
Sondag-oggend sins
En versprei my laaste
Bietjie dignity in
Die zoo se trash bins
Terwyl ek nietig gan confess
-"Oh Father I have sinned"
Kom Jesus more weer om
My in my verlore toestand te
Kom vind....
Koop maar ń seisoenkaartjie
Vir versoening en vatsoene.
More sin ek weer.
Eks mos die duiwel se kind
Butch Decatoria Nov 2016
Reticent in his ruminations:

Excalibur sometimes sheathed in stone.

Candelabras in castles of his imagination

Likens not to bloom to vain applause

Uninvited eyes of guillotine judgements

Sensitive as he is to compliment guffaws

E**eks out existence, collecting curiosity & moss...
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i love how a bangladeshi smurf invented the term: camel jockey to allocate the term to arabs and egyptians... mind you... the first amry to defeat the mongol ****? mamluks, like the janissaries in the ottoman empire: most probably european slaves... copper on copper-titillating-chocolate / burnt cinnamon / star anise / bark of aged oak racism is funny to watch, sometimes... esp. when growing up... those bangladeshi smurfs (sorry, they are a little bit, tiny, i watched a couple today, walking past my house in their bangladeshi cricket team t-shirts... what? stating the obvious... 5ft4? but i also liked the egyptian's / arabs retort to: camel jockey... ha ha... bush-monkey! ha ha.

ugh... the dreaded draft, i'm running out of these, thank god...

what is it about, about the fact that my act
of writing does not translate into
a conversation...
   HAVE PEOPLE TRULY FORGOTTEN
THE CONCEPT OF CANVAS?!
**** me... i guess they have!
   once upon a time,
cindarella (post stamp,
and her collectors), snow white
   (postcard) and the frog prince
of writing voodoo to boot...
               now? insomniac messaging
services... the I.M.S.,
              direct, directed at what?
drool followed up by dooooooooooo'h...
****, easier teaching a gerbil to speak
shing qi cantonese: owe'h
          'ong kong...
                    when does an intrusion
onto a blank canvas become a flash mob
without keeping to a discretion
of d.m.?
                   face to face won't do
to these people... scuttling rats also hailed
black death: woe'zzin' me...
                scheisse! schnell! schnell!
capt'n just floated off on a magic
rug,
       we have to draw lots on
flying off on: that ****** bit of material
we scrub out boots on when being
entertained...
   should i take them off?
well... was i offered slippers?!
  no... so why would you...
                    is this Giza, or Oxford?
   all i have is a blank canvas...
                and people really want to attack
the ronin flag?
                       flag what?
                              defeat?
                     ­      *** sober me...
but hey hey... pop song videos are:
KOSHER...
                 see you back in Russia...
     getting the VISA...
                                  or the kebab
restaurant fire-bombed by the bomb...
        good luck and the oil...
plenty of trees in arabia...
         what ******* sell ******* will sell...
   am i to judge?
              no... not really...
i'm thinking about being
a Chernobyl post-scriptum in
the belly... how people managed to see
both autumn and spring in the same park,
rainbow nation, your guess,
   half the trees were decaying,
half in full bloom,
         unless you want me to attest
that as a lie: i hope you dream of my
great-maternal grandmother...
    maybe she will explain it better...
            but this saturated talk of ***
just turns me on thinking about
the upper-hand of the female
mantis, translated into man: divorce laws...
or as the common talk speaks...
       no...
      i heard why this:
you're stupid, this is stupid he's / she's stupid
zeitgeist is all about...
         and those rooted always seem to have
the most obvious solutions to
"complex" urban problems...
      hell...
     to some people this might as well be
tabloid toilet paper worth today
but dead gutter rodent black pearl
ship in the gutter the next day...
        poetry, really has to learn
so much from the journalistic attitude...
i still don't understand
why philosophers are relevant,
parasites of philosophy,
when poets are in a dire need
to compare themselves to poetry,
or rather to make a craft from
poetry-tabloids...
             whatever the classical school
teaches you, whatever contest
there was between poetry
and philosophy, whatever
the ancient philosophers claimed of
poets as being easy targets...
  ooh ooh, OLA!
          you just managed to see
a poet nibbling on journalism...
           whatever the year it was,
yesterday might as well have been
2000 b.c.,
         today might have been
           100 a.d.,
   tomorrow?
                ****... the 22nd century
of whatever year whatever date
or whatever designated climate of interests...
__________

so you run into a cul de sac like
a scuttling rat...
but... you buy your whiskey
at the local convenience store...

           back in the day...
when growing your hair long was merely
a symbol of: i listen to metal music,
*******...
           the time when that was the "thing"...
hell, Butlins... of all places...
i cross-dressed...
      a broad lent me her chanel
chic black mini-skirt little no.,
              and i did...
                        i didn't even have to shave
my legs for the gags...
       ***** or no *****...
             i had the flare and audacity
to pull off the stunt...
     now? long hair? a little bit of make-up
and you're: "trans"...
                     how about meta-******?
i mean there are three directions in
chemistry, in terms of attachment allocation,
closely associated with the beneze ring...
in the name of ortho-, and of the para-,
and of the meta-... oh... right...
**** and of trans-....
           clubbing in essex...
   i wouldn't leave the house
               without some eyeliner...
sometimes, then again,
most of the time...
            jews and russians:
      ripped jeans, eyeliner,
          ready for the edinburgh
club scene... being called ****** before
we even left the house...
    very, very encouraging people...
who probably never heard
of the cure...
                
so you're buying your **** at the conveninece
store... and there's this plump girl
checking you out...
    plump... sure...
every appreciate fine art?
   plump girls were all the rave in
the 17th century, and 18th...
              what's that other word?
ah... corpulent! so many nice terms to
use in synonymity with how
a black man might see a porky:
more cushion for some pushin'...
             d'uh...
                      
but there are some nights, like this one,
where... there's an electricity in the air...
it's warm, but it's also cool,
paradox... the wind is stirring...
  you can listen to the wind play a weird
sort of flute while brushing the trees,
nay... combing the trees...
rustling, just pristine agitation is fixating
a sharpness of the air...
someone of a transcendent evaluation
has sat on a throne...

                    akin to last "night" / dawn,
the internet is switched off...
but you still have a sharpnel narrative in
your head...
                    what to do? what to do?!
ah! ****, no paper...
    i never had a tattoo done on my body...
but i figured... might as well intrude
with some ink on my hand...

   again, if these trans-kids didn't bother
grammar? i wouldn't be playing the
"identity politics" game...
  me, of all people, immigrant 1st generation,
adopting a history not akin to my own...

mind you: you really need a steady / cool head,
drinking on an empty stomach -
and if what cabaret voltaire ever achieved...
with tristan tzara and later william burroughs
of cut-up technique fame:
          i too... who can really appreciate
calustrophobic and all the more predictable
narratives of YA novels?

                   a tarantula might as well have
bitten me, and now, i reflect the sepsis of
disorientating venom, the surge of chaos,
without any gratification of staging
    an uproar of grandeur! just, the basic reality.

- because, even citing the mamluks,
or the janissaries, like a belief in god...
                 to cite certain historical events...
is, and will be, deemed, juvenile...
ambitious... middle-aged man with a *******
train-set model...
or a lego project...
        it's all the same... the "out-dated"
cliff-face hanger...
                             it's either atheism
and the respectable citation of history...
   or it's god, and citing the existence of
mamluks and their victory over the mongols...
what is the respectable citation of history?
the aspect of history without any heroism,
the safety of a history that's purely
bureucratic...
      a "history" a person of the modern times
could possibly engage in / with...

   when the quill became mightier than
the sword, but also subsequently became
a spray-can for the outlet of deploying
graffiti... or scratching with a stone on
a stone face, reminders of the first forms of
writing: designated tattoos etched by stone
on stone...
                              krähekratzer
                     ­         ᚴᚱᚨᚺᛖᚴᚱᚨᛏᛉᛖᚱ
                                ⰍⰓ...
   (some words just sound better
in foreign languages...
violin: skrzypce)
                         ⰍⰓⰖⰍⰀ ⰄⰓⰀⰒⰀⰐⰉⰅ
               ⠅⠗⠁⠓⠑⠅⠗⠁⠞⠵⠑⠗

i'll go a step further... time to fiddle
around with some braille...
  although i do concede...
      if you were blind...
          you must have really tender finger-tips...
no point having played guitar...
play guitar? blind lemon jefferson style?
forget about a chance to read braille...
you need pampered fingertips,
able to tell the difference between
        oyster flesh and a woman ******...

krucze drapanie
hmm... devangari:
Ђ / Ⰼ - dj' -
                   त - how similar...
is that?! what the hell is wikipedia proposing,
with regards to, origins "unknown"...
indo-european?
the mongols just showed up from...
"nowhere"?
       Ђ | त                    eh?!
t'ah... elsewhere dj'...
                         otherwise idjota...
idiot...
                          elsewhere
                  id'ȷota...
              yo yo... no "j"ehovah's witnesses...
sure, no **** sherlock,
   i counter the anglophone origin story
rooting me back in h'africa...
             i take my origins in the land
of the 10 spices... india...
  land of the bangladeshi smurfs...
cinnamon, cardamom,
cumin, coriander,
                  i'll give you ten...
don't worry...
                     chilli...
              anise...
                           turmeric...
                           little mini-people scuttling
along like norse god mythologies
akin to the dwarfs...
   more cullinary skills...
less of the metallurgy...
   wizards at the end of stirring spoons!
fenugreek!
                 how many is that? 8...
i don't want to cite black cardamon
(since it's such a potent spice)...
                      mint! **** yeah, 9...
   hell... the cocktail... garam masala!
10!
            well... if the 'ebrews have their
10 commandments,
and i have my *******,
and am still able to *******
while dilating my **** donning
a *******...
   and i place my origin story in india...
rather than africa... then we're settled...
the bagladeshi smurfs can call
arabs and egyptians camel jockeys...

    i haven't finished though...
just like that one night in st. petersburg
with a ***** that, really needed to be ******
over a period of 7 hours...

    will i use more rudimentary language,
deviating from "slanderous" words?
will i?!
               so it's either "tourettes",
dyslexia, or a writer's contipation?
because, by now, "block":
truly implies... the already mentioned.

i never came from africa...
   india is my posit of origin...
and never mind the celebration
of the roman instrument of torture...
the crucifix... i found a better crux
of "all" beginning and of all "end"...
some "random" german...
            dasein:
i'm tired of bashing the germans...
bashed enough, bashed just enough...
bashed: enough!

   when citing credible historical events,
akin to a belief in god,
akin to premature depression and
dementia...
       all... huddling under the same
torch lit roof...
                  it, just, ****** me, off...
oh sure, sure,
most likely...
before some of us bypass the age old
editorial "compromises",
and write what the hell we want!
before that? heavy cencorship...
       just so... the "overlords"
can muster a "plan B"...
                     sure, all is certain!
but who is to address the "real" problems?
ol' Lizzie is going to be fine...
i'll still drink ms. amber...
realizing... ****... am i drinking mz. amber...
or is this watered down
dog's soap ****?!
                  you never know...
i might as well be drinking
prince *****'s shower water!
this whiskey is starting to taste of soap water...
i'm having it, i'm chewing on about
12 12"****** per day just to keep
the Venetians gagged...

   prop me up... ***** starter...
******* mongrels ******* smurfs!
blah blah blah!

             i already see "too many"
english idiosyncracies in the english language
to begin with!
   why would the transgender activists ever attack
grammar?

the current gilette fiasco?
just grow a beard, men, just grow a beard,
problem, solved.

                 want the vox-office senario?
eh? eh?

                 the gender discriminatory
               ontology of nouns...
              what? cite rocky balboa
contra ivan drago.... you... beta male...
*****?!
                     you attacked nouns,
by, enforcing the stature of pronouns...

i like to call it: the pronoun deragement
syndrome...

                     gott! mit uns!
                             Gustavus Adolphus...

how many, "differences",
are to be found, and bound,
to the english tongue?

                    θere (d'er / F),
          although (al'V'ough),
                          θey (V'ey)
                   ex-xenon
   (eks - zee / zer / z'enon),
and what is a chemuical compound...
                to θink...
is to not mind φilosoφy....
                                        
           ­               gender pronoun neuter?!
seriously?
             i thought that nouns were
gender discriminatory?!
  Paris! male!
  kundel! mongrel, male!
*****! female!
                  sroka! (magpie) female!
kruk! male!
                  dzik! male!
                       gawron! male!
              there are so man discriminating nouns...
in each and every language...
pronouns?
   low hanging fruits!
                              a-the-ism...
           do their own natives know...
the native spreschen?!
       the article rules?
the english nouns are not composed
via genders!
         who's to who in terms of "revising"
the retarted "revision"?!
sorry... but certain words just sound
better in a foreign tongue...

            sroka sounds much better
when "coinciding" with: magpie;
beside the point...
here's my hand,
on https://www.minds.com/mateuszkonrad.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
how did it all come about,
this short-hand evolutionary observable
family,
  how the greek letters lost
their names, and became musical
syllables, in the roman castrato
sing-along...

    how α became a,
   how β became b -
    however did γ become g?
   dpbgq...
         how δ became d -
      how ε became e -
             how ζ became z -
how η became n -
     θ & φ became neither thought
nor philosophy, or the point -
how ι gained a head with i -
how kappa remained, κ or k -
how lambda (λ) became L -
or how Γ met the mirror -
      laughter eta eta eta...
  how from mu came em...
      and from nu came en...
     from ρ (rho) the p -
and from chi (χ) the eks (x)
ψ (psi) + π (pi) came the p (ee) -
o remained o - omicron -
       stern sigma (Σ) into smoothed S -
   τ (tau) remained true to tao
of the latin t -
         the υp of upsilon remained u -
even though more about
exfoliating the nu (υ vs. ν) -
   and sharpened the ω into w;
with ξ (xi) the "11th anomaly* of Q...

ars geometria, the post-scriptum
of cubism: that imploded cube.

modern art: everything about perspectivism,
modern art can be accounted for
being beyond the standards "expected":
if you only take into account
the meagre outputs of architecture...
for all the l.s.d. consumed during the 1960s,
we have edinburgh's appleton tower
to show for it...

flaky mosaics peeling off...

  i still can't believe that psychology
retains both the latin word, as the german word,
from ego through to selb,
    ego: inhale -
       cogito: exhale -
but as anyone suffering from a mental
illness -
    ego: exhale
     cogito: inhale -
    res vanus = ego per se -
    res cogitans = ego ut nihil -
      nihil qua sum omni -
slouching away from "narrating",
      mental illness and the automated
narrator -
    the enforced unwelcome thought,
and as all thinking that's not welcome
is, and passes us, and as our egos
cannot become turtles or spiky defensive
hedgehogs,
  automated thinking becomes
painful -
             mental illness is all about
the automation of thinking,
forced thinking,
  well... it's just "thinking"...
  
the irony via this medium reveals:
              to not think, is to actually think.

and then in classical orientation -
plato would have been a darwinist -
he would have settled for forms -
the history of **** silimilus -
        
but perhaps aristotle would have convened
on the linguistic evolutions,
esp. from greek to latin...
      how ω became w which later became
ł & even later (л + λ) -

i can only admit one truth these days:
history has become crushing -
    it's crushing day by day -
whatever system in place -
  man, the eventuated hoarder -
if not by hoarding and filling his home
with "antiques" or worthless junk -
still, man has become a hoarder -
                     a hortmensch -
whether in objects, or whether in
history, grievances, respects, prides,
and failures or successes -
it's so exhausting to hoard so much,
whether under a roof of a house,
or inside the cranium and a receding
hairline...

history is a crushing dead-weight -
it becomes a blessing
   having drunk the previous day,
and not remaining some minor details,
but then, comes along dates,
like in england, 1066, 1914,
  1997... 1966...
               does all this history even matter,
given that,
  we're currently talking about
a genesis, where so much more
unwritten history took place,
than in the current year,
   of the supposedly written history?

i'm just asking for a zoological
invocation of historical content -
for there is but one historiology -
it's most certainly zoological -
       but even then: it's a crushing
dead-weight of what is needed -
        rather than what is necessary;
who are these censors of history out there?

i wish it was a different history
of existentialism to begin,
   once it arrived to england from the continent,
from denmark, germany & france,
the only answer to these thinkers came
in the form of psychiatrists,
notably r. d. laing -
  it's so sad to have spectated this,
how existentialism in england became
rooted in psychiatry,
as if reading books was somehow a psychiatric
affair...
        continental existentialism,
died the sad death of its influence -
both at the hands of english psychiatry,
and french postmodernism
(the deconstructivism of derrida) -
but you can't ignore why
only psychiatrists took interest in
the movement...
                these days?
everyone's suspect -
           and everyone is: the usual type.

— The End —