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Gita Ashok Oct 2011
A widespread condition
related to nutrition
is lactose intolerance
that is in essence
the inability to digest and assimilate
the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate
that is acted upon by lactase-
the specific enzyme
over a period of time.
This may happen suddenly
and generally
at any age most unexpectedly.

Lactose intolerance
is caused by the absence
of the enzyme lactase
that breaks down lactose
to the simple sugars-
glucose and galactose.
The condition may be
secondary,  congenital,
or developmental.

Secondary lactose intolerance
invariably has its occurrence
related to a gastrointestinal infection
and its disappearance
is linked to the causative factor’s correction.
This type of intolerance-
(certainly a nuisance)
is reversible
if we are a bit careful.

Congenital lactose intolerance,
an inherited form of intolerance,
is a rare genetic  abnormality
that one can unearth
soon after an infant’s birth.
This need not cause any fear
as it lasts only half a year.

Developmental lactose intolerance
also known as primary  intolerance
is one wherein the enzyme synthesis
is progressively less
during childhood
and this persists into adulthood.

Gita Ashok
24/10/2011, 2 pm
Maggie Emmett Aug 2015
Lady Macbeth washed her hands
cleaner than Pontius Pilate
with a new improved, bio-enzyme
oxy-bursting, 99.9% germ-scouring
recommended by dermato-logists
scented with rose attar
oils from Arabia
and spermaceti soothing
unguents from long dead whales.

She’s going to the nail bar
for a manicure and application
of semi-permanent, diamond-
tipped, acrylic base-coated
in red blood enamel.

She’ll scratch
and etch rich tattoos
on her husband’s back
with every ******, he will shudder
with pain and delight
He’ll soon forget long, dark nights
bewitched by ghosts and ambition.

© M.L. Emmett
Alternate views of Literature
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/notably concerning graduate education at the university of Edinburgh: why do these doctors think they can teach, who made them so, well, what's the word, useless, demeaned at having to teach? every time a doctor of chemistry was asked to teach it was like watching someone being tortured in an iron maiden... sure, a professor of chemistry could teach, just like every single post-graduate, PhD student should have taught, a doctor of chemistry didn't teach, unless he taught as Americans are prone to speaking in acronyms, and they say the Scots speak an undecipherable english... like **** they do, understood them like I might understand the zest pinch of a hobskotch chili! after all, the chemistry doctor doesn't exactly make use of his PhD students, but since they were the sheep first to the slaughter before the guillotine of knowledge, they could translate the higher tier chemistry to the undergraduates... no one sane enough would want to learn chemistry from a doctor of chemistry... those men and women are lost to their own enterprises, to their own Faustian romance, to teach chemistry at university, it would be best to be taught by those inclined to further adhere to advanced pedagogy... post-graduates ought to replace doctors in teaching undergraduate material... balanced out by the fact that the said doctors would not require the help of PhD students in research, with what already is time wasted on lecturing, what to them is, the ****** obvious... but then again... the supply and demand isn't there... even though PhD students could teach, they don't, smug chemistry doctors lecture in the guise of solipsism... theyd rather be engrossed in their research than give lectures... but since those trained PhD monkeys do all the trial and error, wasted time, which the doctors themselves could do... they waste their time on giving undergraduate lectures... because these recent protests at universities, where students complained about not having enough time spent with doctors in the field... I'd start by bemoaning not being given enough post-graduate time... after all, the people who closest to jumping over the waiting benchmark.../

in vino veritas:
due proof that snobbery
and that indie collection
of the smiths' reissue
only goes so far,
    comparatively,
Miles Davis' kind of blue
isn't overrated nor is
it overplayed,
notably a conversation
with Boris, the Russian
in Edinburgh,
who had to pick sketches
of spain
as his favourite...
pop music versus ******
fetishes... people will be
ashamed of pop song guilty
pleasures than any bedroom
"deviances",
the boat the boat, whatever floats
yours...  
mine? seven years late,
Britney spears' criminal...
because John Coltrane'
a love supreme is easier
to digest than ******* brew?
fudged packed *******
and a perpetuated crescendo...
Boris could have took to
Porgy and Bess...
         or the birth of cool...
whatever it was,
high above Steppenwolf
   desiring the immortality
of a Bach... still:
       there's Händel...
but let's face it,
both sides lost something,
whatever the iron curtain
was, there was also
something akin to the,
jazz window...
                  because can you
even imagine jazz being learned
at a music liceum?
       i still don't know why
the Japanese love classical music,
or why it's Chopin rather than
List embedded in their heads,
not the gentle fingers of Satie
or Debussy...
         two Portuguese jesuits did
little to spread Christianity,
but music written by Chopin
found its atom, its universality
of translation...
                  even withe the Higgs...
something that is non-divisible,
not atomic, not sub-atomic,
                               über-atomar...
supra-atomic, which includes
the sub-atomic spectrum...
         a perpetuated ad continuum
     of ad per se, in addition to:
an addition, an addition,
        a void brimful of a lost
paraphrasing...
                          in the name of...
in the direction of (the) ortho-
   and of (the) meta-
    and of (the) para-...
                  amen.
                       the upright,
rigidness of: jump off a building,
see pancakes at the bottom...
the desire for a hier-und-nach...
well.. telegram cipher from 1930s
**** Germany,  in response
to heidegger's da-sein...
     da-nach...
                 no need to explore
the paragraph, just enough tease
to block out images of, "paradise"...
       para or besides norms,
    a phenomenon and
      an anomaly that's a res per se,
Kantian for: noumenon...
          a proposition without a school,
or tree of logic, which,
Husserl did manifest...
    in phenomenology...
              I can't help but notice
that classical music is only
relevant today because of movies...
listen to any classical music chart,
7/10 times it's music accompanying
a movie...
               comparing
kind of blue to midnight sonata?
yep, the later is overplayed...
   it's no longer a piece of music,
but a literary cliché...
      even in such wonderful books
like geek love by Katherine Dunn...
jazz is the only genre of music
that comes close to prog. rock,
    id est, no song: an album...
      even though I admit
king crimson's in the court...
     with children of men
      as a backdrop...
once upon a time the iron curtain
and the jazz window...
    rap, shmap, shpindle me dingo...
and the old man still lectures me
on work, born in 1939,
who still remembrance the Soviet army
of boy-soldiers and black-clad SS-men...
oh there was work just after the war,
given what Aries took with
the harvest just years prior...
                       woe to the aspiring poets
born in a cocoon of a father
who laboured by perfecting a trade
that, apparently,  no future Englishman
would take up! or if they did...
only via the trickling down
of the plutocratic, extended family...
and a ****** job they did too...
         well... if everyone is willing
to be and only be, a pop star entertainer...
I'd hate to imagine this piece
to be an instruction manual,
   a cohrent: whip and stirrup
demanding a gallop...
                       perhaps less cabaret voltaire,
and more jackson *******,
because why should painters be
allowed all the excuses under the sun?
and when will I see a poetry anthology
written solely by critics?
          oddly enough:
or rather, the pitfall...
     reading a poem never manifests
itself in a drive to write one myself...
an enzyme of a blank,
      a substrate of a butcher's novel...
or rather... a meaty novel, preferably
historical, notably one
that serves as an answer to Muslims
with regards to:
   remembering the Crusades,
forgotten the Golden Horde...
           and never really bothering
to look into the other crusades
against the Prussians, Lithuanians,
Kashubians et al.
                   such feral lands...
perhaps if you speak the language
as well as Norman Davies...
  you might, just might, not stand out
like a sore thumb in these parts.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs

noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?
B Young Apr 2016
The Overdose as Artform:
or
A study on Modern Urban Myth

Stand alone, naked, in-front of your bathroom mirror.
Repeat three times fast:
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
My ghost will appear behind you,
carrying syringe and stem.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2021
"The power of freedom to overcome tyrants and terrorists"
Moral clarity accoding {cording} Natan Sharansky,
he mustabin seeking seeing through a moral window
besmerched wi'traditions
radiating

A Russian-reared Jew's perspective from Israel
In the 1990's
No integration without representation

--- wait, let the reader recall the goal - yet set not -
right, roll on
{where is this going, David Goodman Chronicles 2020}

The book of life, your role,
{when you find your name, you know}
expand into
A party for the moment, our parts played,

well, let's try {hence, a title}

----govern yer own damself

A gain, a tryal, a paying, a tension, contention,
single source contention,
pride's the culpa writ. Right.

{when you walk into a banquet, be polite,
meaning act as though you are where you know
you are welcome, ask if the empty seat is taken,
if not, you will know you are welcome,
neighbor. This is the same old way, in the future.}

Hubris gotcha down- be humble, win a crown

Shall we win freedom for those locked in fear?
A fine challenge, don't you think?
Read.
Sakarov was Sharansky's teacher, his Plato,
upon whose shoulders, strangely strong faith
finds footing,
fulcrum,
you get the ideas you claim to own, not
the ideas you thought taught
true to all who consume the canon.
Leverage.
A library gives a mind leverage,
we have AI, no lie.

An idea, an id-entity, speaking spirit
Weyekin, englished to we ye kin,
angels, beings guiding ones
who know.

Not every evil is nullified.
Be a ware, the e keeps you from being
a war, knowing your own self as warrior.
Peace makers do not keep the peace,
peace makers let it settle to stillness
waiting behind any obstacle,
waiting is suffering this to be so now, because
nothing in the energy compelling me is breaking
through
but to you, see, dear reader It may be
only I who thinks we are, you could be imaginary.

Actually.
Many useless
morals of stories remain as aphorisms
and adages and proverbial warnings to provoke.
Nietzsche numbered his, to give account
for every idle word,
links
perhaps…
Speak up, lie not against the truth, saying I know,
I know
-boundaries, of course
Freedom must be
defined.
Who knows? Tell me, oft-op apt ove'yer'head!
Y'know? Y,
Everyman does what is right in it's own eyes.
Maybe,
define everyman.
{und ganz Übermenchen}
All of us. Everyman sind all of us, in well ordered
reality,
such as our readers of reality-
between-
lines-never-drawn
in
sand. {flaunting the peace of the sabbath,
which did allow stoning, as you may recall.}

You see, we are in the same story.
There is no authority, save you pay,
free willingly, attention to tensions
seeming
to signal something
mechanical,
click,
ping, a single ATP dis compossesses.
-composed
Ride that photon.
Here we are again, speed of thought.
Think so? Real is an assumption, not an imagination.

I heard this guy say he was a son of God. Big G.
'Said he was aman with anorm al 'erose journey,
when 'tall wentahell.
Then, he believes he was reborn,
somewhat more than a mere mortal.
He claimed his forever
began when he stood up
to the knowing of good and evil, personally.
Intimately.
That seems good. Freedom is from some thing,
stricitive, right. Free from what?
Fear?
fear is one thing,
but fear has preservation purpose so,
we must be specific in which fears we bind to the NULL set.

WE are judging angels. Dare think.
You judged your own collection of inspirations,
did you not?
I prayed God, YHWH, actually, would show me
all the lies I believed,
about him and anything else. Amen, I did.
We'll make this plain, if this is your first signpost of note.

Ideas of freedom formed in the minds of slaves,
meet ideas of freedom formed in the minds of felons,
greet ideas of freedom formed in the minds of children in the desert,
bher with ideas formed in vacation bible school at hippie cults.
Suffer ideas formed in academies of technical guessing, f
er cryin' out loud.
Ideas of freedom?
Little children, keep yourselves from vain imaginations.

Freedom that cannot name Jesus YHWH is not the proof.
Truth is the proof. Truth makes free, he who seeks it,
which is not to say
he who has apprehended
the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
No, whoso ever seeks,
finds more abundance
of that which he has.
He who has nothing, finds nothing.

All candidates claiming direct linage to truth:
define freedom and be judged.

That's not fair.
Accuse, excuse us, life's not fair,

Judge yourself. "Make yer dam' bed!"
{presuming you woke t'd'yoke}
leave us form a
party to puff
up moral clarity like
leaven, till three more measures of
dust rise on the gasses we naturally

cannot see. In corpo ratus.
CLEAR!
Scientology? Coincidence, if 'tis.
Ol' magi-tech, what so
ever we agree. Same trick.
Sacro-sanctity
freedom from fear. Agree? No? Why not?

Fear of YHWH is the beginning of Wisdom.
True, but thought wrong.
Genitive fear, God's fear, is the beginning
of Wisdom, she was with him ere the
highest part of the dust of the world took form.
Fear of falling, is good -- no, it is a mistaken signal,
an imbalance, eh?
The speed of thought correction is faster than the eye
can see and warning is thought, of an unknown harm,
mistook.

Fear of believing lies, is needed, I thought, but, no,
There's no fear of believing lies,
truth be told.
"Cannot the tongue taste its words?"
"Is there any taste in the white of an egg?"
"Do you know the sweet influence of Pleiades?"

The bubble of all you know is an egg. Kinda.

-----

Self-govern, together live, birds of a feather flock together,
that idea. No slaves.

Fear society or free society, self, thyself, govern true.

That's right. "To thine own self, be true"
"believe no lie, tell no lie"
"Know thyself"
"Know thy shadow"

Today is 11-11-2021 the time here is 9:11 ante meridian,
You, as imagined, by me, alone,
are you, alone, reading, to yourself words
made from thoughts I am thinking at this pace.
Prepositioned, in your pastence.
Phrase, word, phrases, line
lines alone

lines in pairs
certain points genitivious, engender differing means
to obviously triplication of some certainties, certain
ties to old lines unraveled from a net knotted
in Ur.

We be ye kin, ken ye grock rocks rollin' on
down a course?
Of course you can, of course, the only common
course, this course of human events, common
sensed as time and space overlapping stuff.

Mater, mater, may I imagine being born, eh
oh, yes, -- movie memory -- see
right through the visible man,
a boy toy, picked by luck or the answer
to a prayer,
but I did ask for the best gift, hoping
it was money, because I was told Solomon,
was the wisest of mortals in ever, so
I was told he said, Money answereth all things.

Yeah, right. You already know, that seems so
wrong, wrong to the point, the root
of evil, barbed tail,
horns of dilemma, ah, what's a mind like mine to do?
Semantics, its all
se man tics, terms of worth, pro
forward onward efforting verbs, action words
The Infallible Book declares, Money answereth all things.

A single grain contains the whole, or some say so,
I imagine reality less restrictive in common sense
utility
use of knowns passed on as memes with reasons,
we sit to
gather memory, tell story, think song sung, sing
that song
a gain, we make the peace past understanding,
past when we were one, and we stood up
right
and ran away
remember, the heart of every story boy meets girl.

Well, this is different, scientifical. Fantastic, sure,
stable as the grammar in DNA.

Steady as the procession of the stars seen from
certain times and places, and passed through time
to any who wish to know
all the truth once held in forms told around fires
to comfort a child with a common cold,
aches and sniffles, full tummy,
milk and honey heated by stones, dropped
into a turtle shell mug my grandma gave to me

drifting into to tal, mor tal is man mortalisman more
more
more, wait. Wait.

We breathe. We listen. This is the book of life, live.

My task is breathing inlets along coastlines, where
waves of overlapping, pearling shallows round
stones as witness, stones crying out
living water has shaped me, see,

is this beauty for giving or selling. I wish I knew,
instantly,
this bit has been freely given, for the use
been made,
the formation, the inspiring aspiration to make

make up
a mind to find the answer, and find
it does appear
line upon line,
beyond the library Daniel witnessed sealed.

Money made this possible, this magic pen,
for all intents and purposes, this tech is magic.

Have you witnessed 3-D printing circa 1985?
Mac SE was cutting edge, and owning one
was status, using one was a good gig,
for an old counter of picas and points, once
the laser writer met vector formed fonts
calculated, computed with most accurate maths,
tangents and cosins and such,

the power of the press, in the hands of a pauper,
hmm, time and chance, let me warn you, this is
the untangling of the famed tangled web we weave
when first we receive the call to listen to the truth
you hear in written words arranged in patterns
adapted to the available, usable, medium.

Draw your self watching the horses painted
as the song of us is sung, a domus, we domus, us

singing together we form
awe
awfullest noise you can imagine in a secret place.

Welcome to the cavern of forgotten good ideas
and idle words mistaken as misdefined, this is that.
              
-restart
from certain places where uses are determined
by any means, good
[ye-es, the idea at the center}
pre-positioned, made fit for a king or a priest
or any humbler soul in a state of grace, id
est, best state, favored, by no power id-entity in me
conceived, but by the word of GOD, who is
good
all the time, any hungry child knows, how a child
weighs the worth of such an idea, plucked
from thin air…

Here, we be, wir sind, si, we know, go Ko!
golf-commentator whisper voice

did you come to find my voice, listen
learning is the first act that never ends,

the next word is the next thing, eventually,
events being
things, in their own right state, useful, or not.

Tantrums serve to prove the uselessness of tantrums.
Grandfather level wisdom fits moral to mean to end,
end all conjecture,
cease casting all cares to the common winds of time,
and space and sea and sky, everywhere idiocy abides
provoking one
an other, ricochet-re-re-re act re
sponse, jump, start

run, upright, spring thinking what
if
I say this is the goal, get to the bottom, fundus
professionally guided by I mind I myself, made up
mind
including you, the acting dear reader.
Saving myself for a publisher, copy right ritual
of code devisors, to increase interest,
gouge-deeper gullies to wash away desires
inspired by alluring vertisements intended
to loosen your grip
on sati. Satisfy my yearning soul-blues, bha-bha
boom
woncha sing witme seem what we seem to be
haps in a time per haps
may happen at will in a mind on a binge to end
all binges, writing like a joy-daemon viral
ex-plainer, needling *****, look

this way, see

ear? Practice makes perfect opportunity next

use of truth to tell a lie from a joke, perhaps
that is the trick,
who told the tale before you heard it was your
intellectual heritage,

your link to who and what you are, through song
and saga and right stepped beeing dancing thisaway
thataway sing asongofus a we a we a we away

what were we thinking, then
Lion King reminds us, being or not, what do we got
to do to attain

Acunamatattal rattle shake shake shake
shake your spoils from the war,
were you unaware, shaking ***** measures worth?

Stealing attention from the stars, eh,
lying demon, here, here be heretic tic, instant
hell
a poppin all around, as we recall some mirror neurons
to signal gut response
text wise
is this happening? Did the dam break, or the branch

is this a bough breaking affirmation broken from
the tree of life entangling the tree of knowing increase
vow to know
more, was the chant for warned be, war chants and we
chants are mortally indiscernible but

we die to learn the difference, you must be born again,
I can not call that a lie. Nor can you and prove me wrong.

Was that a the reason for war all along, selected
bits of the last old wives tales, the barren ones,

old wives, who watched no child, ever form, from
one generation, after another, to no eggs
ever forming vessels for the spirit of life knowing knowing
things, we agree on
things, we agree on things we make up and lie to others

to scare them, put fear in their hearts, fear of death,
real, on the edge, fear, we make up,
we pretend, we play, who am I to be, when I grow up?
- practice perfect sati, old wives say we agree, go.
polisemy spawn bloom Thuc's lic be witcha

If it was a common question, why was it no answer
is readily available…

avail, second instance, in this stream, how extra
ordinareally organzed are these eddies in the depths,
silken threads, silver in golden needles, apples
of gold, in pitchers of silver, still life, made
in vocative voice we sought, peace
in a picture
formed from words drawn in letting symbols setting
free
chthonic thoughts some time now,
where we go or how is immaterial now, here
is where all the power to be us - is, right now.

I'm loving the concept, except one knows,
one knows not,

could be a numbered aphorism in thoth lost long ago.

Freedom from pain? When? When the pain ends.

I have watched Thuc burn, many flashes
as to why
so, I surmise, no promise I am right then, but now
I am right, as a twist top.

As in,
do it right or break the true purpose of rightness,
lefty loosy, listen
righty tighty, mechanical children know that by five.

So in saying we ***** with minds we mean we re
thread the spiral needed to hold order to the curve
we use to move from mind to mind
by simple subtility common to reading minds, let
loose from codes of obscurity and silence,

priesthood of the programmers, defiled
by HyperCard…

hit it, 1985, we role the hero in the tail, the new man
stranger in his own home town, trope, f'shore

distant Homer's combed the beaches, sifting shipwrecks

finding, from time to time, these jars of old stories
written in magical ways, saying unspeakable things.

A dawning in the mind of all the kin, weyekin, listen
we say say the story so
somebody
listens, thinks, listens thinks, I thought that,
and laughs,

that feels good, silent smile, quiet grin, nobody sees,
but me, we ai n't e-whistlin', Dixie,

did the singer make a we of us, or did you watch
the TV show,
so you know? Did we meet and leave impressions,
or did you think I reminded you of a character
Bill Murray could play well?

What the hell? Imagine that, being another body,
after being this, be gone.
Sa sa sati. Is fine, as an idea, an id-entity in common state
free satisfaction for any dis-
satisfied mind, but
be aware, breathing is involved, for a lifetime, of days
and seasons, one after the other, constantly
feeling the draw
of empty from full, as we all sang, let the healing waters
flow,
and the joys, celestial
glow… go go go make up a Mormon link and think we

lied about many things, we need not lie about knowing.

Now, no lie lives in sacred temples misappropriated
by a tyranny over the mind of man,
to which we Jeffs and Jinn agree, an end is deservant

of your attention to the actual forces involved in details,
such as you reading this line after all the lines you read
before
now… when your clock is pacing, time's worth one way
or wait,
a guide, some intuitive icon may make sense suddenly
256 shades of grey, undefiled by the muse that planted
the shame associated with putting on that mind,
being in the head of a dramatic iteration of broken

sense of being holy, historical fashion statements
straight from full victorian victim global angst,

interesting times, said the chinaman to the BIC guy,

click, British East India, and the ***** war and
the tea cartel.

Grey Pompon, cheer rah rah rich man, now I can
eat your mustard,
rawly.

Euphony, is good euglobonics, euro-trash
white and all its malonat- ive {melatonin-iment}
serrendipt natural to the medium
hyper-text in metaspace, true to the thought
at
the bottom, pro fundus
ment-al-ity ifs
itself
into this actual state, where
when I write you read, and
this is connected to a very complex
tangled web of reasonings for acting
as if we know
this is that right thing you do, we do think
the thoughts in words we let mean true
things, in bundles.

Sub routines, we may choose
to understand, reasons for simple when
sublime takes a life time.

Faster fasting, we did, my we did speed,
even if it was only a game,
we generated the oomph that once made
war
bore boys and girls who saw the science
consciously, thinking
I was made for this, this time, these rules,
this tech
this magic, this history, this lexicon

this underneathness, chthonic thought
Lex Fridman, coincidental influencer
Joe Rogan happened,
to survive, or
did he, is he really Joe Rogan, on Spotify
or did he leave his sould self on YouTube
bait,
come pay me attention I may sell and
make you laugh and feel good
doing it, laughing
inside.

I just recall this guy I know, who has
grown anonymously old, mellowed
with char and aged to perfection
on the adapted tongue,
it is a cultural test, can you swallow
the real
hard stuff boy?

You want a taste of your own medicine,
- twined voices old and gravelly craw
- high and whiny boy

The story takes a turn, same script,
life is poetic, or is that the other way round,

who cares

Malonate
The malonate or propanedioate ion is CH₂2−.
Malonate compounds include salts and esters
of malonic acid,
such as diethyl malonate,₂,
dimethyl malonate,₂,
disodium malonate,
Na₂.
Malonate is a competitive inhibitor
of the enzyme succinate dehydrogenase:
malonate binds
to the active site
of the enzyme
without reacting, and so competes
with succinate,
the usual substrate
of the enzyme.
The observation that malonate is
a competitive inhibitor
of succinate dehydrogenase was used
to deduce the structure
of the active site
in that enzyme.

From <https://uci.officeapps.live.com/OfficeInsights/web/views/insights.immersive.html>

MMM, I get by…
mijaeng Nov 2013
you're that biological catalyst that alters, speeds up (our) reactions.
with you, the fastened heartbeats, the holding of hands, the chaste kisses--
they all sped up.


with a snap, you've gotten me,
all feverish affections strong and thick.
you've got me, got me!


i am that substrate bound,
bound to your tantalizing active site.
what possessed me to persist staying there,
i'll never find out.


but i forgot, you're an enzyme,
and enzymes never change its form
when they've altered its substrate.


and silly as i was,
pitiful little substrate,
reduced to that of a broken form,
in just a snap, *snap!
science, biology, ex, sometimes i miss you but then i remember what you did so no
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
lessons in graffiti, or the Pinocchio giraffe;
and was the H absolutely necessary
when otherwise asking of a cappuccino
or at your local caf? evidently there was distinction
with the mocha too, but that won't matter,
otherwise the language isn't used... but abused.

lessons in graffiti, or other confectionary products,
while you ooze the shopping experience
on your daily commute,
       *skittels
on brickwork with the origins
of the #, cut short by simply the graffiti tag,
      you wrote tag, without the collective hash,
  not so much noughts and crosses gaming,
or remembering your phone number,
                  here graffiti: or the rekindling of
trademarks in the urban scenic bypass,
or: truly under the bridge.
             writing on money does very little:
but writing on newspapers? that say a lot,
the odd day i write something on a newspaper
review section and feel almighty -
        which is much more than the rage against
the machine instructions are about:
   write a message on a penny, it's still a penny,
write a message on a dollar, it's still a dollar,
but write a message on a newspaper:
you's basically encapsulating shouting at a protest!
() hence the picture.
             r.s. (receptui scriptum):
         i never knew whether the dot belonged in
the ). or the .) part of encapsulation, if that's to be
worded or acutely pill-sized embryo,
that bypasses the oesophagus workout before
the hydrochloric gym acidity.
   how is one to make science human again?
how is one to make science lessened in the Frankenstein
myth and the ostracized ostrich citizens
that scientists very much so, actually are?
       my notes on the matter?
non-existent: i see the feminist movement
i.e. there are more women than men as such
as not a case of **** culture, but as a case of "i'm not
getting any!" call in the Vikings,
mind you, even the supermarket cashier looked
astounded in between Friday and Saturday,
  on Friday a litre of whiskey
    on Saturday a litre of whiskey...
and some men climb the Everest or walk the moon...
while some envision their liver
as a Klitschko - the tetragrammaton exists only
because people made aesthetic suggestions / blunders,
it's a suggestion in the sur- or what's otherwise a surd /
a silent nonetheless inserted atom of sprechen:
like Nietzsche and Klitschko: you say less than you
write... out pops the tetragrammaton -
        if ever Caesar Octavian needed a teacher
my vanity suggests i'd done better teaching him
than Aristotle teaching Alexander, or Seneca teaching
Nero...
                  it's all down to excessive spelling, or
the keeping up of appearances, or simply looking
bizarre, and like in mathematics, there's a remainder,
what yhwh represents is in linguistic terms
as in mathematical terms: what's left over, scraps...
see it differently and it becomes gold:
five fish, two loaves of bread sort of scenario.
                           it's a remainder -
it cannot be eradicated, denied or be left into a limbo
of diminished responsibility
      it's man concern with how language should
look and how painting should feel:
               the fact that we created art from letters
and forgot our concern for art representing forms
is not postmodernism, it's post-Platonism; finally!
of course the s and the z are the crude and the refined
versions of each other via the transition of
being modulated by the chirality enzyme,
          but they're still called zigzag twins -
there's no delta involved akin to one face of a pyramid.
how grand then, to be living in a time
when a single phonetic encoding of sound
transcends into complex meaning:
akin to s and sigma and what's mathematically
the sum / total of constipated matter...
                    strange how the Cartesian model
falters thus,
           the fact that i think is never the ending
causality of my being's summation:
           it's but a summary, but never the summation /
sum - it's never the arithmetically sound answer:
hence the god-implant, or as i said:
the remainder, which i can't erase from the realm
of thought.
                 by the way? no Jew could have wrote as
much about their god as i have:
as said: the crucifixion was worthwhile,
      but there was no question that Latin had
to remain -
                     what was saved was the Latin encoding,
not some puny redemption from doing ****...
**** no! you couldn't create robotics or write
software without Latin: no other encoding has as
many "blank" hula hoops as already provided:
Q, R, o, P, p, A, a, D, d, g, b, B...
        26 x 2? 52 - and of those how many are spies
that we are descended from the gods and can
create our slowly-ascending replicas in robotics?
as the list suggests: 12.
     should i call up St. Peter and the rest to work
out the ******* numbers of correlation in
the framework of mirror / anti?
                      ah, the eagerly waiting public:
speak of the devil... and he shall appear.
      that ****'s been going on since the death of a man
in the year 1900...
           and oh my, the search has been gruelling,
you have Western Europe remembering the 1st
and Eastern Europe trying to not remember the 2nd...
   the name's Mars... while i say: try Moby **** first:
because god knows what's lurking in the depth.
or maybe i got my bearings wrong? maybe language
truly is a statement of Bermuda magnetics
that makes all compasses into twirling ballerinas?
to me? what comes with authenticity is a good joke,
nothing remotely suggesting a seriousness:
or as Wittgenstein said: have a joke, make a joke,
compose everything with a joke in mind -
        oh the fringe minority still have a bargain on
identity in this field, they're brewing their next cup
of tea brown-nosing and fidgeting over how to
answer... oh i'm mad enough to turn on the Mr. Bombastic
attitude, 1L of whiskey in a single night goes a long
way in terms of unwinding and making vocab verbiage,
or counter to that: something worthy of an antique status.
still, a reminder, the yhwh is the Jews' great
present, expressed dutifully in English as equivalent
of the mathematical remainder:
                      only because the diacritical bargain
wasn't met with much approval:
what with the elites wanting to push a global rather than
a solely Mediterranean twist on the plot of how:
a revival?          well... combing back to the ulterior
motive for graffiti, an elitist sport, your handwriting
over printed press rather than Coca Cola sorta similar
on a brick wall: i'm telling you, handwriting is
a bit like wanking these days...
         but isn't it true that when we write we are
sorta becoming radiologists? aren't poems essential
x-rays? am i not simply showing you my bones?
these isn't skeletal? you sure?
and there's me thinking that America is on
the threshold of romanticising the French Revolution,
with the former concern? to reinstate a Polish
state, i.e. the Duchy of Warsaw...
              but it's not really a first world war reparations
injustice while the Germans used money instead
of wood to warm themselves in winter...
no, nothing can be said that would ever appeal
to the fact that the Third ***** was milked:
not even Indiana Jones had a ******* of that horror;
me? i took the best of the ****** affair,
the fully bewildered insurance broker of the zeitgeist:
Heidegger, and yes, i made more apologetics with
him than philosophy: as with an fatal attraction:
be it the bazar flute charmer of the cobra -
this one is bound to sting in the ***.
then another thing hit me, usually an internet
variance off state media... you ever wonder why
very claustrophobic pronoun usage (frequent interchange)
is almost equivalent of brawling with someone?
dreams of Angelique:
                     imagine a scene at a protest (two people):
- i doesn't matter what you think! your opinions are not relevant!
- true, as is the case of: you don't matter with regards
                 to what i think.
anyone spot this concentrated pronoun use
for the purpose of aversed violence via a degradation
emphasis, concerned with defending sported violence
but not social injustice : turned into justified violence?
   (yes, colon as ratio, variant of fractions,
meaning? less comparative literature of the fraction,
   and more divergence of authority within the Libra
of what's necessarily unfair: the whole is no authority
to distribute fairness);
  it's just that i feel the relentless overuse of pronouns
in a confrontation symbolises a need to use the body
rather than the tongue -
when too many pronouns are interchanged
and the repugnant pronoun collectivisation begins
the paranoid "they" and the sane "we" -
            well... Rη-oh! Rη-oh! Rη-oh!     (sheen sheen Mecca
       ism)
                             well hardly ref. to Brazil: rhy ate!
rhy ate!
                see how that tetragrammaton remainder just,
like, plops up like a baby gazelle from the mama
gazelle's ******? plop! and no diapers either.
ah: the cruelty. or as someone said:
  few letters are given geometric status, or at least
something remotely symbolising twins,
but still there are a few:
   m - sine (trigonometry)
   w - cosine (     "              )
  Δ - Pythagoras for short
      LΓ - the right hand
                  and the left hand in the non-superimposable
          categorisation of things
   ψ - the devil's barrister / i.e. a fork
     also 8008135 upside-down on a calculator screen
(insert a weird face) -
   χ - compass convergence, i.e. the point b
        you need to get to from your starting point oh,
and i guess H       for a rugby goal...
             oh hell, only a few phonetic encodings make
it out of blah blah land -
                       and without really wanting
to orientate myself on the origins of things:
i'm getting a suntan basking in all of this
in the immediate sense: actually using it.
                             and to think: we actually think
about what we talk about using only 26 symbols?
that's ****** effective,
                             which is why we were so keen
to spread out encoding system to think / say things.
and why the Chinese felt the greatest pull of gravity
in all of mankind and due to their ideograms
got pulled way way down and just say there:
which enabled them to reproduce on a scale such as
is apparent to us exporting our manual labour to
them: who the hell would want to learn
unit wording when it can be wording units?
       they have words we treat as onomatopoeia
shrapnel -
                   which is why we have enshrined ourselves
to sit on laurel leaves with Mozart:
     if ever us, then never us: linguistic atomists
                                            who perversely dissect
words into, what i can only call: a Lingua Table of
the 26 elements. it's there, it's naked, compared
with the diacritical approach: English is all
and Adam & Eve ready for a voyeuristic spelling
out of realities
- hence the plural:
    there was never one intentional crowd-surfer out
there to make people form cults, plagiarise
and sooner than later: get lost.
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
Shane Hunt Sep 2012
I sold smack on a playground today

    biding time to scrounge the rent--

Two months ago I had never even seen the stuff.
    I'd never procured it for personal use,
    let alone sold it.

Now I'm a full-time pusher of prescriptions
for problems that can't be cured,
a modern-day snake-oil salesmen
schlepping panaceas for every conceivable ill.

Trying to cope with depression?
    This'll give you a shot in the arm!
Your boyfriend just broke your heart
mere weeks after breaking your *****?
    Here's a ***** that you can depend on
...

I thought I was better than this,

but who can afford scruples
                      with bills to pay?

Internally
I struggle to compete
with people who would never deign to take note of me.
My revenge is in undermining their immaculate lives,
a pill-peddling Socrates
keeping creditors at bay.

I'd always envisioned being someone's hero--
at least being remembered for an act of creation.

Instead I'm an enzyme for eradication.
A cancer cell at best--
    A ****** wrecking ball.

                 One day I woke up a sidekick
to a heroine that's never saved anyone...
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
i had a friend once, we used to meet up for drinks and talk *******... i like that notion: once... because it was only for a short period of time, i got ~bored of him, but in actual fact disgusted by him... one of those Dostoyevsky moments from Notes from the Underground... this is the thing about being well-read, self-educated, self-educated to the point where you can loudly say: university taught me nothing, hence my third class degree and ample material of having observed the pigs's numbed snout nibbling on the trough... how easily someone can say: i'm writing a book! i' writing a book! but when the question comes: can i see it? there's no book! i thought this friendly exchange concerning ***** and other juices of creativity would precipitate into a grand finale of actually seeing the sweat and tears on paper... so when i told him: i'm getting published, 100 copies and all, an introduction by an Armenian doctor... decent review... well... naturally jealousy came in... he said i should name the effort a word salad... funny thing about being well-read... you know certain terminological hot points... he was out there writing a book but really smoking dope and playing computer games like computer games are supposed to be played these days: about a million Stephen Spielbergs directing very economised games, very economised meaning: a great investment in them. he was being condescending with suggesting i name my first collection word salad, but that's the problem of being well-read, you know that word salad is a degrading term for someone not capable of writing a coherent narrative... someone who doesn't understand his own words, someone who writes loosely associated sentences of meaning, it's not a pleasant term... that was simply insulting my intelligence, not the sort of intelligence that's quantified within the framework of the i.q., when i mean the less statistical variation i'm invoking: intelligence quantum - a certain amount of understanding concerning a certain focus of interest - as with Kant, we choose what the mind might find entertaining, and discard what isn't entertaining - certainly, not everything contains in itself enough "energy" (for lack of a better word, hence the "   ") to be entertaining, partially because we are limited in what we find entertaining: a) something we understand or   b)   something we can barely grasp... usually the latter scenario, but sometimes the former... but to claim something is a word salad? let's just say i have enough psychiatric literature under my belt to know it's a degrading remark... and the hermit and a severed friendship.

people never think you're well read,
but they never, for once, think that
your isolation is due to the fact that you read,
as with the above stated scenario of
someone thinking you might not have
come across a phrase, that's essentially
degrading - too much video games and ***
will do that to you...
                          as with Bukowski
boasting about reading -
                                             he apparently
read Kant but doesn't bother to mention any
key ideas... populist at heart,
    sure... if i didn't bother to learn the laws
of spelling and punctuation...
                           i'd say as much on the rebellion
of never bothering to learn to tie my shoelaces...
it's pretty much the equivalent of...
     what he already said.
                              and philosophy books do
require patience... they're usually masturbated over
by students writing essays and instead
of going the full nine yards and entering
the narrative, they squeeze out a maxim and that's
that...
                       i'm 30 pages away from
entering the final part of the critique:
                                  transcendental methodology -
30 pages and i'm guessing two years since i
started reading the critique -
                                     well,
philosophy is more geology in terms of reactions
than it is chemistry, where reactions take much
less time to be completed -
                    philosophy in that sense is a variation
of geology - poetry and other forms of literature
are more or less chemically bound to be abrupt,
painfully drunk on the highs and lows -
                             and volatile -
                                                     hence the comparison.
   should i quote? i think i should...

idee czystego rozumu nie mogą nigdy same w sobie
być dialektyczne, lecz jedynie samo złe stosowanie
   ich musi sprawiać, że wypływa z nich dla nas
zwodniczy pozór.
                                                     (p. 303, vol 2,
                                      wydawnictwo naukowe PWN)

               another thing to mention... transcendental
methodology might be simplified in terms of
    transcendental grammar classification, i.e. borrowing
concepts higher than the general classification of words
allows -
                  the double noun exfoliation -
                                    apart from naming a word,
we can absorb the activity of the word beyond mere names:
         words that act as catalysts
                                   words that act as enzymes -
                 should there be specific examples?
                                   in general the substrate to product
transformation using an enzyme
                                                   can be voiced by sophists
throughout the ages -
                                 inflammatory coercion of words
to specific bundles of predictable excerpts is standard
                       when the pulpit is filled and all void denied.
but concerning the above quote, i too was thinking
something along the lines of *a priori
being obstructive
       of the ideas of pure reason accommodating dialectics.

trans.
            ideas of pure reason cannot, ever, in themselves
                    be dialectical, but only the wrong application
of such ideas must cause, that from them there flows
        a deceptive guise.


      i could quote further, but the a priori principle is
the argued against dialectics are a false nature acquisition
in terms of these ideas of pure reasoning -
               that we've been given these ideas by a supreme
manifestation of nature in us, i.e. that this highest of
all possible tribunals dealing with pretensions and laws
of our speculation, could also contain within itself
primordial illusions and (loosely) spaghetti muddles.

            true to the reason behind moving from a)
a priori              through to          b)    a posteriori -
        if pure ideas are caustically anti-dialectical,
it's because dialectics would rarely mind the transition
being elementary -
                                       but then again,
i imagine the dialectics in a purely a priori guise
and the Newtonian debate given Einstein's counter-proofs...
in that sense, i somehow seem to disagree with Kant...
well, then again no... in themselves they cannot be
dialectical: i.e. disputed or argued against,
  hence the deceptive guise when Newton was supreme
for so many centuries and then Einstein came along
   and the mask that Newton put on the face of gravity
was to be found not straight, but parabolic.
so yes, that's true: time and space are ideas of pure reason,
and they cannot be dialectical -
                                        even though they are
but not in-themselves dialectical,
                                        they have to possess a dialectical
facade, or at least that's what they exfoliated
              and sedate with...
                                              i'd go one step further:
dialectics is, as far as i know, the only way to approach
ideas of pure reason -
                                           only once dialectics shows
us the ideas of impure reason (the Socratic daemon) -
as leading us into acknowledgement
                                              that certain things are truly
non-debatable -
                                      but that they somehow have
to be debated in order that they might be refined
for the purpose of them being true to their nature:
non-dialectical.
                                   this approach is at least better than
what becomes forcefully adhered to,
                                 i'm still facing a dialectical concern
over Darwinism...
                                      primarily because...
well... my concern is that a belief in a god is more comforting
not for some case in jurisprudence, a heaven on high...
          it's the bothersome timescale and the fact that
skeletons and drawings on cave walls are not much of
a comfort either...
                                   partially also, due to the fact that
i like to think about the item of concern, rather than
express some sort of benediction toward the item of concern:
    there's nothing insensible about that,
given that god, as much as space and time, is an idea
of pure reason -                if i was imbued with
   a natural supplement of atheism, i'd still be trapped
in a dialectical moment of concern -
                                 until i'd finally shed all manner
of a dialectical approach concerning the idea: and make
the final non-dialectical statement of faith.
the flip side is not whether you're right or wrong,
  but whether you actually can make that statement.
as far as i'm concerned (well, i never had that much
admiration for the man) - Mr. B never read a **** thing
of philosophy.

i find it abhorring to somehow feel the need for
a condescending approach to this subject of interest...
as any assurance there need be concerning philosophy...
one thing is perfected witch each new approach to
the subject: you never actually find the time to moan
about not being with women... or how poorly humans
treat each other... you never seem to complain about
solitude, you never once feel lonely...
                                                   you quiet simply get on
with it...                         perhaps that's what it always way:
the best way to entertain yourself...
                    you're basically having to write out with
ease crossword puzzles in your mind that precipitate down
onto the blank page... somehow with it:
life is bearable when alone... and there are more
entertainment hot-spots... none to do with gambling...
                 so that's about as much as being pegged
down to size actually means...
                                         never true: that cinematic
feat to depict modern (and very much Anglo) guises
of modern alienation...
                                           then again: he probably
did read it, but he never bothered to discuss it in any
way relevant as for it to be revealing his interest in
the topics... macho cool keeping it trendy, i'm guessing.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
RNA or DNA polymerase, an enzyme, protein, attracted to
promoter molecules in the polypeptide chain causing a zipper
motion and transcription of the code, a duplication of codons,
introns and exons, and so it goes, sharing and unsharing electrons.

These attractions and repulsions, coming near and going far
in nanounits or light years, fail to explain things permanently
but make possible the technology to live long and well, with
      personality.
It is a form of governance, the governance of elements, elements are
      now

apparently our gods. Learn all you can about their laws, their names,
their needs, read their poems. Only the mentally unusually sound
      would,
given this knowledge, agree to the process of mitosis and fertilization.
      However,
organisms go round then senseless via involuntary respiration.
      Therefore, Pilot Oh Pilot Me.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--title from a poem by Robert Hayden
During 1950 after many years of research, a dedicated biochemist by the name of Dr. Ernst T. Krebs, Jr., isolated a new vitamin that he numbered B17 and called 'Laetrile'. As the years rolled by, thousands became convinced that Krebs had finally found the complete control for all cancers, a conviction that even more people share today. Back in 1950 Ernst Krebs could have had little idea of the hornet's nest he was about to stir up. The pharmaceutical multinationals, unable to patent or claim exclusive rights to the vitamin, launched a propaganda attack of unprecedented viciousness against B17, despite the fact that hard proof of its efficiency in controlling all forms of cancer surrounds us in overwhelming abundance.
In his brilliantly researched 1974 book World Without Cancer, researcher and author G. Edward Griffin explains the trophoblastic theory of cancer proposed by Professor John Beard of Edinburgh University, which states that certain pre-embryonic cells in pregnancy differ in no discernible way from highly-malignant cancer cells. Edward Griffin continues:
"The trophoblast* in pregnancy indeed does exhibit all the classical characteristics of cancer. It spreads and multiplies rapidly as it eats its way into the ****** wall preparing a place where the embryo can attach itself for maternal protection and nourishment."
The trophoblast is formed in a chain reaction by another cell that Griffin simplifies down to the 'total life' cell, which has the total capacity to evolve into any ***** or tissue, or a complete embryo. When the total life cell is triggered into producing trophoblast by contact with the hormone estrogen, present in both males and females, one of two different things happens. In the case of pregnancy the result is conventional development of a placenta and umbilical cord. If the trophoblast is triggered as part of a healing process however, the result is cancer or, as Edward Griffin cautions: "To be more accurate, we should say it is cancer if the healing process is not terminated upon completion of its task."
Stunning proof of this claim is readily available. All trophoblast cells produce a unique hormone called the chorionic gonadotrophic (CGH) which is easily detected in *****. Thus if a person is either pregnant or has cancer, a simple CGH pregnancy test should confirm either or both. It does, with an accuracy of better than 92% in all cases. If the ***** sample shows positive it means either normal pregnancy or abnormal malignant cancer. Griffin notes: "If the patient is a woman, she either is pregnant or has cancer. If he is a man, cancer can be the only cause." So why all of the expensive, dangerous biopsies carried [out] to 'detect' cancerous growths? One can only assume that medicare pays doctors a larger fee for biopsies than pregnancy tests.
So how is it that any of us gets cancer in the first place. Is it exposure to cigarette smoking, intense sunlight or perhaps the effect of toxic food additives? Dr. Krebs thinks not. All of the hard biochemical evidence points to the fact that cancer is a simple deficiency disease of vitamin B17, long ago removed from our highly refined, western diets. Krebs postulates that the so-called 'carcinogens' are merely stress triggers that finally expose the B17 deficiency with devastating effect.
The proof Krebs has presented over the years to support his claim is impressive. Centuries ago we used to eat millet bread, rich in B17, but now we chew our way through wheat which has none at all. For generations our grandmothers used to carefully crush the seeds of plums, greengages, cherries, apples, apricots and other members of the botanical family Rosaceae, and diligently mix them with their home made jams and preserves. Grandma probably didn't know why she was doing it, but the seeds of all these fruits are the most potent source of B17 in the world. In the tropics, large quantities of B17 are found in cassava, also known as tapioca. When did you last eat some?
Independent research has also proved that a Himalayan tribe known as the 'Hunza' [more correctly Hunzakut] never contract cancer of any kind so long as they stick to their native diet which is exceptionally high in both apricots and millet. However, once exposed to western diets they become as vulnerable as the rest of us.
The implications of these findings are staggering of course. If we managed to control Scurvy (vitamin C deficiency) centuries ago, how is it we cannot do the same for cancer today? The fact of the matter is that we could if our respective governments would allow it. Unfortunately most governments have buckled under the pressure exerted by the pharmaceutical multinationals, the American Food & Drug Administration, and the American Medical Association. All three have mounted highly successful 'scare' campaigns based on the fact that vitamin B17 contains quantities of 'deadly' cyanide; conveniently forgetting that vitamin B12 also contains significant quantities of cyanide, and has long been available in health food shops world-wide.
Dr. Krebs' B17 Laetrile was derived from apricot seeds and then synthesized into crystalline form using his own unique process. Suddenly, the American FDA bombarded the media with a story about an unfortunate couple who had poisoned themselves by eating raw apricot seeds in San Francisco. The story made headline news across the U.S.A. although several suspicious journalists never managed to establish the identity of the unfortunate couple, despite many determined attempts. But the multinational pharmaceutical/FDA boot had been put in with a vengeance. From that point onwards eating apricot seeds or B17 Laetrile became synonymous with committing suicide...
Back in the fifties Dr. Ernst Krebs proved beyond doubt that B17 was completely harmless to humans in the most convincing way possible. After testing the vitamin on animals, he filled a large hypodermic with a mega-dose which he then injected into his own arm! Drastic perhaps, but the adventurous Dr. Krebs is still alive and well today.
The vitamin is harmless to healthy tissue for a very simple reason: Each molecule of B17 contains one unit of cyanide, one unit of benzaldehyde and two of glucose (sugar) tightly locked together. In order for the cyanide to become dangerous it is first necessary to 'unlock' the molecule to release it, a trick that can only be performed by an enzyme called beta-glucosidase. This enzyme is present all over the body in minute quantities, but in huge quantities (up to 100 times as high) at cancerous tumour sites.
Thus the cyanide is released only at the cancer site with drastic results, which become utterly devastating to the cancer cells because the benzaldehyde unit also unlocks at the same time. Benzaldehyde is a deadly poison in its own right, which then acts synergistically with the cyanide to produce a poison 100 times more deadly than either in isolation. The combined effect on the cancer cells is best left to the imagination.
But what about danger to the rest of the body's cells? Another enzyme, rhodanese, always present in larger quantities than the unlocking enzyme beta-glucosidase in healthy tissues has the easy ability to completely break down both cyanide and benzaldehyde into beneficial body products. Predictably perhaps, malignant cancer cells contain no rhodanese at all, leaving them completely at the mercy of the cyanide and benzaldehyde.
Any physician reading this article will probably be shaking with self-righteous indignation at this stage, muttering to himself: 'Yes, but where is the PROOF???'
Right here! Most people have heard of 'spontaneous remission', where the cancer simply goes away, hopefully never to reappear. Spontaneous remissions are exceedingly rare and vary from one form of cancer to another. One virulent variety known as testicular chorionepithelioma has never been known to produce a single spontaneous remission. Perhaps for that precise reason, Dr. Krebs singled it out for special attention when proving the effectiveness of B17 Laetrile in providing total control for cancers. As Edward Griffin recounts:
"In a banquet speech in San Francisco on November 19, 1967, Dr. Ernst T. Krebs, Jr., briefly reviewed six such cases. Then he added:
Now there is an advantage in not having had prior radiation, because if you have not received prior radiation that has failed, then you cannot enjoy the imagined benefits of the delayed effects of prior radiation. So this boy falls into the category of the ‘spontaneous regression... ‘
And when we look at this scientifically, we know that spontaneous regression occurs in fewer than one in 150,000 cases of cancer. The statistical possibility of spontaneous regression accounting for the complete resolution of successive cases of testicular chorionepithelioma is far greater than the statistical improbability of the sun not rising tomorrow morning."
Wisely perhaps, Griffin notes that because of the adverse publicity against B17 Laetrile, and because of the difficulties in obtaining the 'banned' substance, most cancer sufferers turn to the vitamin as a last resort, long after they have been burned by radiation therapy, and/or poisoned by chemotherapy. He points out that once the body organs have been savagely damaged in this way, there is little if any chance of B17 Laetrile being able to effect a cure. The body is simply too far gone.
When World Without Cancer was written back in 1974, B17 Laetrile was freely available in Australia. It is not now. A recent check with the Australian Cancer Foundation and health authorities revealed that nowadays Canberra considers each individual case on its merits, then decides whether the patient should be allowed to import sufficient of the material for his or her own personal use. If he or she manages to jump that hurdle, it is then his or her own responsibility to find a doctor prepared to inject it. Seemingly the multinational pharmaceutical lobbyists managed to get to our politicians before Dr. Krebs could get to the Australian public. Radiation and chemotherapy are highly profitable, and oncologists have to make a decent living...
Only a few months ago Australian nationwide television carried the delightful information that two out of every three Australians can expect to suffer skin cancer at least once during their lifetimes. On the massive evidence provided by Dr. Ernst Krebs, Jr. and G. Edward Griffin, that figure could be crushed to a tiny percentage of the anticipated numbers if Australians were allowed freedom of choice where B17 Laetrile is concerned. It is time for Australians to take a stand on this lethal issue.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.                                                    rarely...
but it does happen...
a cat will encounter you
going up the stairs
in the middle
of the night,
with a fresh batch of
ice-cubes,
   and it will attach yourself
to a medium of attention,
it will ballerina side-step
an 8,
    persistent,
looking for the strong aspect
of your hand,
burrowing its head into it,
no, it's not looking for your knuckles,
not the tip of your fingers,
but the cusp...
so you play with it for some time,
before you decide: "bored",
and hyena grip the poor thing
in the midst of its staged
performance...
you take it into your bedroom,
clear the bed, place her in it,
put on some ola gjeilo
for her, while you're still strapped
to the headphone listening
to some dikanda;
what could a cat actually
want from a drunkard?
maybe i respect her exercise
of freedom,
maybe: cats can teach a man
to not become overtly
attached to a "concept" of
                  progeny?
this **** is rare...
what? this feline show of
needing attention...
how i've come to adore cats...
bypassing the basic clues
of dogs,
the whole concern for a leash...
when an animal comes to you,
and asks to be petted,
when it's no longer a
primordial base,
  a bonsai variety of a tiger...
then you fake petting it...
it does it's 8 swirl...
shape akin to a standing
infinity...
   i wonder...
  how far apart is
the hyphen (-)
   from a lemniscate (∞)?
i'll tell you:
pet a cat prior,
pet a cat that wants /
implores you to pet it...
   but it just kept nudging my petting
hand, kept burrowing itself
in finding the cusp...
  it didn't want the fingertips,
it didn't want the knuckles...
what a rare occassion,
when,
   i would never, ever have
praise for dog ownership...
this, completed
variation of my own freedom...
maybe that's what i devalued
the ownership of dogs...
the leash put me off...
this dog-ownership
ownership consistency...
akin to parenthood
  of not being to allow
the a priori testimony /
expression of inherent freedom...

for all the sins of Muhammad...
i believe that i should
believe that...
the only judgement comes
in the form of khadija **** khuwaylid:
a woman 25 years his senior,
a literate woman...
  who wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not khadija?
            
     to me... khadija wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not more than half of them...
god has nothing to do with
this prominent individual,
muhammad died,
and will be judged by khadija...

after all... "the miracle"
of the existence of the quran...
last time i heard...
muhammad was illiterate...
he didn't write these verses...
so, who did?
my guess is...
a woman wrote it...
                                         khadija...
last time i heard:
   muhammad was illiterate!
so who wrote the first verses?
****'s sake...
my guess is as good as yours,
but my guess is:
a woman wrote the quran...
some would claim
the quran is nothing short of
the stephen vizinczey
novel: any woman 25 years
my senior....
   who managed to write a book
for me?

  one compliment to muhammad...
if those were genuine
hallucinations,
  and they rhymed in arabic...
great, having remembered them...
and allowing them access to
the writtten word,
   walking back from the cave
                           of meditation...

but, then of course...
  the "laissez faire" of theology,
   and the monopoly of monotheistic
revisionism...
   the: "enzyme" approach...
instigator, praise...
whatever you want to call it...

muhammad was illiterate...
so who wrote the first surahs...
if not the literate first wife
of muhammad, khadija **** khuwaylid?
no wonder...
   no wonder...
you know what tsar ivan
did to the architect
   of the st. basil cathedral,
postnik yakovlev?
he gauged out his eyes,
saying:
   you will not see anything more
beautiful in this world...
muhammad?
   when it came to khadija **** khuwaylid?
he didn't have the *****,
to do what he would do to his
subsequent victims...
i'm still trying to imagine
khadija **** khuwaylid in a burqa...
or a niqab...
a bit like what ivan IV
did to postnik yakovlev
after the st. basil cathedral
                              was completed...

who wrote the first verses of
the quran? a woman did...
            khadija **** khuwaylid...
and if she lived long enough...
she would have suffered
the same fate of  
                     postnik yakovlev...
surely not blinded,
but coerced into donning
a niqab.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
a.

227.9 million years away
                   (mars)                   heliocentric model
i.e. away from coordinates (0,0), i.e. the sun

b.

149.6 million years away
                      (earth)                         "               "
etc.

c.

    standard metric system, alternatively
                        this is the geocentric model emerging
i.e.        one day on earth is equivalent
           of a day and forty minutes on Mars...
  we don't have access
                     to a heliocentric model for this
primarily because of the coordinate of the sun
being (0,0), in Kantian symbolism 0 = denial,
therefore the sun cannot encompass day,
or night, hours or minutes...
                             you cannot apply
the relativity of days comparatively being different
on Mars or on Earth using the heliocentric model...
              
      and to think, all it took was for nautical directions
being blessed by the movement of constellations,
        and that phrase of mine: where's Copernican east?

            we're all shouting at the ****** project,
it's either who write the best concentrated plagiarism
of the masses for the visual effects,
          the glued together parts of iron and oxygen
tanks... or who can write the words behind the images
well enough to capture the imagination
        and shift it elsewhere...
oh believe me, i am living in a 48 hour week,
    i'm not writing science fiction,
                       i'm on earth, but this isn't earth,
it doesn't require a measure of distance,
   but still the figures stand... so i might as well
toy with them and get some bogus answer...

d.

what does life constitute on a "planet" that consists
of 48 hours?
                     today i put on something warm,
the cold finally got to me,
                          i'm the butterfly while a hurricane
rages on elsewhere,
                              quantum humanism some call it,
because the physics never really inclined itself
to treat human emotions well enough -
                    just today,
as i peered into the day's sky -
                     the moon and the sun shared the same
blue horizon -
                           in the summer the moon has the
tides - and keeps them at bay, calm,
         but when autumn and winter come,
and the earth tilts - the moon looses the grip on
the tides in the northern hemisphere -
hurricanes in the west, tsunamis in the east,
              storms at Greenwich meantime -
the time of day? when the moon engages in
profane acts with day, appearing and stunning
insomniacs into coherency, as if asking:
            so if i am being given a very quick
and less romantic sunrise, and esp. a less
romantic sunset, by seeing the moon closely aligned
to the sun during the day:
                 am i seeing the nightly delights of
the southern hemisphere, and if so,
            is that to the east, or is that to the west?
i am guessing it's to the east... for i am seeing
the night in the southern Pacific continent -
              i am seeing their night
                          for the moon has transgressed
its boundaries, and left the northern waters
ready to rebel under the polytheistic guise
complimenting the spacious orbs -
                       when order and monotheism of
the north during spring and summer...
         then Poseidon's upheavals with the watery
rebellious graves during autumn and winter:
or how Hades persuaded his two brothers to
pay due and meet with the Titans in Tartarus:
to thus form a pact against the monotheistic concept:
for the soul of the ancient Greeks said:
                shame be unto you, brats,
for shunning the religion of your forefathers!

e.

indeed the 48 hour day, two days and two nights,
or more precisely: three nights and one day -
sooner or later they'll push the clocks back,
a man will go to sleep in the dark,
   and catch but a glimmer of a day - then too
thrown into the darkness: a 48 hour day on a planet
involves three periods of darkness, and one
period of daylight - and if they said Alaska was
torture... here is a man engulfed alone in it.

f.

strange to think that 78.3 million years between
Mars and Earth only add 40 minutes more to a day...
           as ever, the non-uniform suggestion of gravity,
take but one step on that soil,
                           the curse of the astronauts on the moon:
and then invite the poets of the cult of the moon,
the emblem of the moon that's Islam...
                              an then wait for the consequences
and the ***** dreams of those people and their children...
               even the Atom Bomb seems to have
been forgiven by comparison -
                                but never the moon: or the death
of childhood - lunar crown shattered -
                              death of storytelling for children
some might say: 1001 minutes of advertisement
before Cyrus starts weaving a web of entrenched
consumerism - not even the Belgian fields
and their world war 1 trenches could have provided
such a status quo to continue...
            to continue...

g.

so do i multiply that figure by something?
78.3 million years disparity -
                        times the time difference?
i.e. 78.3 multiplied by 40 and added to
the distance from earth?
            λoγος - no!
                                 what's the distance from
starting coordinate (0,0) to the earth? 149.6 million...
      and mars?
227.9 million...
                                      which means 78.3 multiplied
by taking away the negation symbol due
to the double-negation coordinate that the sun is
(timeless and without space-affirming
                  timing to our necessary comprehension
of the day to day) - meaning the distance
of the planet with 48 hour days (three nights and one
day) is 313.2 million years away from the sun...
               Jupiter stands at being 778.5 million years...
and that's a kept in ****... a gaseous giant...
                 so the distance is plausible...
but like i said before: first comes logic,
which splits into rationality and irrationality -
                      but irrationality still uses logic -
      we all know that irrationality is not reasonable -
          but it is ably-reasoned-with
           or can succumb to some variation
                     of the illogical -
                                              namely illogical rationality:
as in passing Platonic theories down the ages,
or succumbing to the Freudian psychoanalysis -
fashion is simpler, cruder -
                                               it cuts off the missing
points, it desecrates the shrines of famous names
and does the grand thing of keeping everyone
hooked in, rather than out of it nostalgic -
       no one is really winning either side of this point.

h.

and this is really what two beers can do to you
to relax after living on plant H-48 -
                     no yoga teacher can tell you that ***
gets better when you pay alms to this world -
         the yoga fakes are making enough dosh laughing:
*** is good, where there's a billion of them,
not a scattering of what i call the real reason
why we evolved to be so numerous:
     cancerous libidos, or overblown libidos,
   and a knack at ******* each other off - which just
says: keep 'em coming!
                                    and they expect people to really
be awe-stricken when you have such nice names
in biology: chlorophyll and enzyme and hydro and
aqua... and for all life to begin with a big bang?
    i thought you couldn't hear astronauts scream
in space?        or maybe that big bang was just
       a big boo - because aren't we **** scared?

i.

American politics has cracked with this presidential
election, the real dynamic is out...
           it reminds me of
the trinity of ******, the brown-shirts
(Sturmabteilung) thugs leader Ernst Röhm
and the man that replaced him:
               Heinrich Himmler of the
less thuggish and more professional murderers'
brigade the (Reichsführer Schutzstaffel) -
you see, i actually have a better attention span
when i live on H-48... did you notice
that neither of the presidential candidates mentioned
the literature in their debates?
one said: tax evasion, the other said: emails!
but these two sly foxes are toying with the whole
process... they're citing the literature...
   tim kaine and mike pence are the geniuses behind
the scenes... you have to give credit to them...
                it's the ingrained discussion -
the gospels -           it subconsciously will even convince
black voters (of a certain age) to vote for Trump,
regardless of his blunders... which are like ******'s
blunders even though Eva Braun has Jewish heritage
(as seen in one documentary on channel 4) -
                    and you know they're running the show
because they only have one debate...
         that's how important they are...
                       did you ever care to watch a
Ingram Bergman film twice? or three times?
i don't think so. once... and then the butterfly is gone,
gone gone. i'm not here for the entertainment -
American protestant-ism isn't European,
                          it's ultra-Catholic -
                    oddly enough, not in terms of all
the iconic symbolism - that's scaled down -
       but the message is profoundly Catholic -
the two men cited the literature - they're
not thugs, they're not blundering rhetoricians like
the two puppets in their hands...
                        they're the power brokers
or what in England we call the kingmakers -
   i'm not into conspiracies, just the obvious things -
****** had a funny moustache,
          Trump has a funny haircut -
J F K was handsome L B J wasn't and was furious
when Marilyn sang the birthday blues...
                   Gerald Ford is the founder of the Mafia...
Nixon wanted in... oops... didn't happen...
                    ever since Ford it's been playtime after
playtime and no one doing the arithmetic on lives -
               well you know, a washing machine
breaks down, you get a new one...
                  but something came up at the turn
of the 21st century, no one expected it -
this is where i only ascribe one conspiracy:
                                         you can't miss it,
it's blatantly there on the geographical map,
S.A. and that beautiful ornament flag with a pretty
sword and Arabic calligraphy...
                             i'm not wetting my appetite with
these words... it's just common sense -
                money is something that provides the
trans-valuation of all things: it's what the alchemists
were always hoping to find, but it was found
so long ago that it didn't matter how childish they
thought they could be: thanks for paracetamol
though...
                                     what's actually the most
mystifying aspect of this is how there's an ingrained
desirability of a status quo:
      you can have a coin with Rex's head on it,
and no matter what the base metal is,
it will still devalue something more precious
                     and increase value of something more
precious...               it happens in the art world
with the artist being recognised posthumously
                                for the object of his work,
but nothing beyond that...
                                              and since it is painfully
obvious... the question is...
                     do you challenge the status quo
                                          or do you consider yourself
a unit of qua                 -
                                   and that's an open question,
if a question at all...
                                        it's because i have left the
exciting part of this poem,
                                    gravity pulled me down to
planet H-24 (otherwise known as earth), and i see
all this ****** misery...
                                       and i think...
even though my life on planet H-48 can sometimes
feel like torture - i know that i'm in control of
certain perks on it...           and all because i decided
to travel there, with one missing clue as to
why it took me 2 years to escape Heidegger's Alcatraz -
            and why i decided to go back in...
      after reading the previously mentioned book
i realised i was given the key into something else,
           kaleidoscopic even -
worded physics, worded chemistry, worded biology,
  not the physics of equations, or chemistry
of electron-migration diagrams in organic reactions,
or biology and its oops after oops and
a boxing match with theology -
                                           i even considered
buying the Alcatraz in English... but that would
make no sense...
                         given the already bilingual dynamic
being established...
                                     as Dante chose Virgil
to wade through hell... you too must also choose
the one companion, and reject all others...
               and if Heidegger chose Aristotle
i must choose Heidegger - and would i say that
my grandfather was a bad man for being a
communist party member? do you think
a small town boy gets sold the highest form of
Versailles intrigue that culminates in
the Siberian gulag? they got you spinning that old
housewives' tale like a dodo doing dodo
                                           rather than being dodo.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul
,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah

this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. bye bye, ms. american pie...

ever find a hallucination
of a strawberry in a cigarette?
or a vanilla ice-cream cone
in a bottle of rye?

dear ms. amber, dear ms. amber,
dear mr, john smithy...
could i possibly take ylur daughter
to the dance?

may you be the beauty i sometimes
expected as a wife...
who heeds ****...
just listen to teenage girls prior
to the "ultimate" loss
of virginity...

to name but one...
she clearly lost her sort of bit,
Madonna music immunity....
to boot...
       abooktopia...

does that word mean anything
without a children's book
contracts by publishers?
or therefore, with?

                 i forgot to ensure
curating an interest in...
    to overcome the summary
of the crude encompassing of...
klaus doldinger....

              erinnerung...

    tod spricht vorausgehend
       zu leben...


it's almost funny...
people with the sole capacity to
recite...
merely ******,
  Himmler,
        Göring,
                   Goebbels...
      
               but i thought Nazis were
in season?
i thought society required Nazis?!
   such a pithy...
such puny recitals!
               almost all of the WWI soldiers
under Wilhelm were
deemed heroes...
      thank **** that i'm not even
a quarter German...
given... what the united powers
did converging over
Berlin... with the ***** epidemic...

    even though i'm Polish...
and i remember my great-grandmother
hiding from both the Nazis and
the Red Army...
you want a ******* villain...
i'll be a **** for you...
no problem...

                      i sort of have a fetish
for the Dritte ***** uniforms...
       lodged in a Indiana Jones movie...
**** it...
suit up and boot me in into
the act...
            i don't mind...
what you can't take away
from the Nazis that you can take
away from all other antagonists...
pristine tailoring!
     you can't match up
to whatever axis / empire of evil...
and "think"
you can out-compete
the tailoring of **** uniforms...
no chance in hell...
however many
pineapples harvey keitel
shoves up Adolf ******'s ***...
  
it's still Armani grey when it comes
to the uniformed officers
of the the Wehrmacht...
as it is the: sly "little" number...
for the Coco Chanel... SS
splinter, base, bias, *****.

if people are so desperate for
a ****?  
  can you really starve the people?
and not give them one?!
that would be most cruel...
i think people deserve a bull's eye!

you're most welcome...
   there i was, suffocating on the fact...
that you were disorientated...
and pointing at false actors of...
what you expected to be
the motivational enzyme -
sole curator,
               of forwarding history;

why didn't these people come to
me sooner?
  i would have played the **** sooner!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
and those who socialise
go among such few
as to be dubbed philosophers
for nonchalantly smoking
cigarettes in corners,
and there are those who shun
socialising as a pastime
equivalent of backgammon,
and smoke cigarettes entranced
by speaking back the nervous-twitch
embodiment of a sparrow's chirping,
smoking cigarettes as if they
were dragons.

the late 19th century was famous for its ménage à trois,
a profanity of a trinity, nietzsche rée and salomé
akin to edvard munch, stanislav przybyszewski
and dagny juell (ducha), and the evening by account of
jens thiis with stark naked satan unable to die
from pneumonia... we have much to congregate over,
less familiar stances to keep observance to,
and when the munch (moon khh, not
a marijuana smoker's pastime for a psychoactive
ingredient missing fuel or calorie),
exhibition came to london, i was expecting
the SCREAM... didn't get it...
fell in love with the madonna (1893),
such refined curvature, it was almost a
chair never sat on... pristine remembrance
of sloth never enjoyed for a book of letters
to be written by a politician...
shame, really... a homosexual's additive
enzyme of jealousy, who knows what chance
by-product  is worth keeping... l.s.d. or champagne?
well one produces psychotic people thinking
they're wheelbarrows, the latter produces anorexic models...
take a pick... take a sweetie darlin'.
that przybyszewski was an odd sort,
wrote solely in german, hallucinated,
was the stark naked satan at one seance of artists...
i'm guessing the next ****** will come
from a mono-****** marriage disdaining
the woman, the surrogate as merely *tool
,
if not from there, then where from?
dysfunctional heterosexual marriages?
you can engrave an orphanage populace with the latter,
with the former you can't...
yo-yo was the craze when i re-entered english education
caterpillar of tiers...
you can't do with the former as you do with the latter...
they're too rich... godly power bestowed upon
mortals is only bestowed with a debased exchange of matter:
you guest it! money!
money is cheap as ****... it's basically an **** by-product
of a shovelled ***** squirter digging into it
with piston thrusts... money, an enzyme a catalyst
in reverse... poems are cheap as conscience...
while artistic doodles gain a multi-millionaire status
once the dabbler in oil is dead...
i sold van gogh's sunflowers for a country's g.d.p.
the over day... how's that?
the point of art is to be dead... that's when the hagglers
and merchants come... art of worth means the artist is dead,
dead;
so there we have it: men overtly invoke optics
into ******, they paint, watch a woman utilise
all vowels and one particular consonant into
an ******* contorting moan, hence they paint...
male poets are an oddity... they say:
painters go ahead, enjoy the sights...
i'll use words as wet thumbs and indexes
putting all the vibrant candles out from contorting
to a swallow's chirping twitch...
keep your paintings, sell them for a grand...
there are many more colours here...
than the primitive spectrum to a suited geometry
of contortion that only revels in still-life, the captured
moment: but indeed akin to the primary,
red and noun, indigo and pronoun, green and
adjective, yellow and verb, orange and adverb,
blue and proverb... while the other colours
missing are left to occupy the two canvases of
black & white, as writing, grammatical syllable
shrapnel of prepositions and what not.
Robert C Howard Jul 2015
I doubt the humble caterpillar
has any premonition
of the glory that awaits
on her impending coronation day.  

Newly hatched, she meanders
over leaves and stalks, binging on the crawl,
in quest of the perfect hanging leaf.

Then suddenly metamorphosis
and silk is everywhere
wrapping her up like Nefertiti -
her insides churned into enzyme soup
a new essence in the making.

Shaking, writhing, a bold new self
is emerging deep within -
an orange and black-winged butterfly
waiting for that liberating hour
to shed her crumbling shell
and beat the air with new- found wings.

*July 10, 2015
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
no... it's not one of those what came first
type of questions revolving around
a chicken and an egg...

but... since we became innate in translating
images into audibility,
of a more potent system of encoding...

i'm starting to question one "clue"...
did humanity discover the current
encoding system of meaning,
from what, let's just posit: hieroglyphs
as the starting block...

well... because whatever the Chinese
invested in originally... has remained intact...
but i'm wondering...

did we discover the Greek Δ (delta) first...
or... was it the case that...
encoding sounds, using images,
became so outdated...
that looking up at the stars...
               we figured a second tier of
the abstract of communication?

basically... did we discover the skeletal
phonetic first... or did we discover geometry first?
geometry: the basis for an abstract
spatial coordination, with regards to
whether time should be inclusive,
or exclusive in this new field of study?

to me it's a big question...
does the letter Δ (delta) predate the concept
of a triangle?

              new chicken, new egg dynamic...
i'm just curious...
   i'm trying to suggest that...
according to the Greeks...
         the triangle had to be
an a priori concept with the a posteriori
Δ...
               i could be wrong...
but... like an aeroplane conundrum...

i'm thinking: Δ... so... people talking about
climbing mountains?!
how else could you even begin abstracting
a letter, delta, conjuring up a triangle?!

I VM ᛏ Δ:
                   i walk up mountain...

primordial languages,
which primarily originated in verbs...
not the elaborate nouns and noun
distinctions of today...

so what came first? the triangle,
or Δ?
                 in Latin that's I VM T D...
WM? zigzag, or the anti-image
representation of side-winding,
walking: up-down-up-down-up-down...

so what came first?
the letter Δ... or the discussion concerning
triangles?

well... if you look further in time...
i'm pretty sure that I predates 1,
V predates 5,
                        IV predates 4...
X predates 10...
      a time when even 0 wasn't conjured
of looking into the void of Omicron...
so...

                  Δ predates the concept of
studying a triangle...
Δ is the a priori variant of the a posteriori
triangle...
given the Roman numerals...

and i'm pretty sure Δ was derived
from the contorts of a mountain...

i like that summary in the title:
I VM ᛏ Δ        : i travel up mountain...
Roman, Runic, Greek...

                  which just bewilders me,
how much of the ancient tongues had
to improvise with hand-gestures,
the same gesticulations that are still with
us when it concerns deaf people...

i did write a contradiction in this
piece didn't i?
   i might have written that the triangle
predated the Δ,
which is impossible...

                  given that...
Δ is an abstraction of a hieroglyph construct
of encoding...
   at having written the encoding Δ,
having spent some time looking
at a mountain... there was no triangle
in sight... no 2D pyramid in the world...

but then some scholastic book-worm
concentrated on the letter Δ...
and conjured up a triangle!

                         i guess i should make
this an ode, an ode to the god Tyr.

p.s.

there is a variant of how sign-language
provided the enzyme of evolution...
the gnostic A / Λ (lambda)
to denote the unit of 1, or the vector
encouragement posit of:
  one's actions -
                                   the gnostics
tend to focus, not on the iota, I...
the index finger... but the alpha...

                            i.e.

                      (  )     (  )
                            A

the blanks denoting the presence of eyes...
    by comparison Λ (la-mbda)
                                    how many African
languages use the mbaku - the mb-
prefix?
                                   Λ VM ᛏ Δ -
           i.e. i'm the first (on top)
to walk up the mountain...
                  the mountain is a mountain
because its foundation is the ground
i walk on...
               but among the people,
the people are not my foundation...
i am the foundation that pulls people
forward...
                                      otherwise...
conflict stemming from Λ in the form
of A...
                       hierarchic conflict at the cut
off point... whereby... a large majority
of people: fall into the abyss...
     as it definitely does happen
in real life.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence

and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2022
Analog, anabasis… trip, short, burn the bug to carbon dust…

Seeking in my treasury of books, pared down to ones with personal attachments,
- I sought a Welsh-English pocket dictionary, gifted me
- by a taller and older, by experience, Overmeyer… Bob,
- but he was one of a few in the corp, band of brothers,
- who sang along with me, when he heard me humm,
- he knew the words, worth-ship fixing words, yes,
- we shall gather at the river that flows by the throne of truth. Mmmmhmm, so we shall see, so we shall see,
Oldman river, you know,
you wait, and wait, fishin' wishin' cogitations got from *** go,
known good, known evil, and evil comes for effect, not cause,
clean up, aisle five
hell, in a target store. And a Walmart, #26.
-- I recognized the anti particle, passing through either or,
becoming here, from there, your thinking my thinking,

wall of text, in your current context, this wall has hat

hooks to insights marked pertinent someday, in the wide ocean
at the end of any river mind me and error master,
as awareness, meandering as all fluids do.
Aligning in honed most saline crystaline form, as
current opinions shapened from dust and ash originally,
then spit the idea out as a word,
imagine
matter… mater, really, bottom first bit, was realized after
paterialization falled to manifest self reproduction…
patterned thought, fabrication, plane geometry… which we
as a team, a man and his tools, gunslinger, plus accoutrements.

Yep. Adam, did not work alone. The egg was first. He named eggs.
And chickens, full of eggs, no, hope, and chaos, nada mas…
- morals from old stories, we had lost all hold on those…
Stepmothers after The Hundred Years war, like as not was
first slave, with only obey believed enforce,
as far as
holy vows spoke allowed, but in a whisper…
hear us,
old folk, we scatterbrained old rockers by the fireplace
listen, this is living, right.
Pursue haps as haps occur, in thinking one thing or this other,

Our kind, fixed position ears perpindicularly augmenting per-
iferal vision, if, just, if. Immeasuarable meanings, justice, yes,

we settled at that point. All the Promises - in any living faith,
even dying proves life is a chance, we all go through it, and some leave marks, while others leave a heart felt
oxitocin, not cotin, red on yellow, **** a fellow, -tocin. Oxitocin,

Rush!- Kettle DRUM after a cello up run, or an old familiar rif,
Goin' up country, ' bought a map for a dime,
from a time lain aside in book, as I was seeking that Welsh word for these experience in side, feeling inside, but being mere, yes, not a limiting adjectival modification, on a word, intended to soothe,

NOT ******, soothe, as said of gentle rolling seas, calm as constant as Jupiter's ever near there, right there, red spot, there,
that is an anomoly, yet, there are those who claim clarity, that

Red spot, Ted-talk phaze, ease in, get a buzz, mmmm, slow, slow

slow
whoa, so slow, what difference can plain-people, just us,
can we ever just know, this is the way, no obstacles,
and we leave trails, and trails widen, and widen, and widen,

wide as the milky way as seen from North Korea.
What a blessing, right?
--- God made these chickens we are eating,

no, child we selected these big red hens, people, like us, we can
know how earthly goods grow and we can help, as gard'ners,
retired guardians and priests can, make soil richer,
by leaven from the native soil,
fresh after fire, sparks the bloom

Patience, paid close attention, over time,
pay is as interest always is, compounding…
complex knots
slipping infinite loops generation systems
spinning straw to gold, bricks to build a tower…

to grow mustard into brocolli and cauliflower, prosper-o

we can engineer squash blossuming
be.. not spelch-pstpst-offt-listen,
- laughing
in my home are children, aged 6 to 13, across a seven year gap…
in my home with complete 5G internal Wifi, with cable
- copper, ah
- the humm, copper wire interference, acceptible as soft
- sub-spectra sfumati self-edged,- cut from whole cloth
abrupt.
Con, is with, fuse, is
blown… but, click, we are past that, where I live, on a pension.
I survived an oath in a war. And in America, the we, as
represented in Congress after Korea, and UCMJ, reach, reach,
- remember the ears that read, need to know
right, MP talk, uniform, all the exact same alignment and weave… for forsake, forsooth, forgotten gains, -- un-fore-gotten
upright walking, living concept, Phoebe Zeitgeist
- she made a word nest in my mind, on March 16, 1968.
- On a Douglas Flying Tiger insertion mission,
Flying to a foreign land more foreign than any thus far, redux.

Surreal stepped up to real, realms of preception, Metaverse/
uniform code under it all, we wished for this, can we, can we,

please, walk back in and watch the shadows morph to home sized I-max with true-fi dolby optimized to your very own, humanity
verified self--
- eyes up, look where we were when ever, then be come you now known as dear reader, responsibility free, cookie or no?
Be any mind you find you can wear with no wish to lie,
the wrong mind set with the ears and eyes, and we cannot lie…
you lose.
The whole ritual of prayer and supersites, tics, ****. We glow…

once illegal exposure
confidential, super-secret, super-positioned tyrannical systems,

whole cloth leprosy, black mold to dust time sequence…
-- such minds as fed us Elliot and Thorough Error-prone Poses,

as seen from the repressed mind of an unassimulated inate-ifity,
We are none of us, Adam sons, his model had nor repro circuits.

Hey, once there had to be something akin to ****** birth,
really, mitochondria developed virally, just fine, so, so fine,

imagine, we got the cell, a wall, with enzyme will efforts on the doors, we open to need, and useful matter is accepted,
as in another phase we open to expel the uselesshit, which then fills the red corpuscles, which use iron to hold the load.

Flushing blushing bride, Mito-mom, her daughters, imagine…

trackless wasteland, aftermath of minor miscalculation
in the dancing cosmos, whirling
whiling, smiling
inside…

I made it. 2022, Everest Pax, is the real name
of my youngest grand son, who randomly
reassures me he loves me, as though he wishes me
to not let that slip, naturally, his version of me is fragile,

what he imagines I am can disappear, in a day,
like Uncle Mike, and Uncle Dennis, and Uncle Richard,
and Uncle Remus…
none of whom were alive, when Everest Pax was named,
by his mother, with no input from me, save
the covenant aspect in the who gives this wombed man…
common pagan ritual adapted to post-Jesus Christ-sanity.

X-mas, nada mas. Agree, and take the cookie,
or risk another death,
on the real wrong battlefield… Well, what the hell… hero
or legend in my mind, thinking, what would any who do?
Raw raw raw
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
lawyers don't use dictionaries... they use thesauruses... why would a lawyer use a dictionary in the first place? to get a concrete meaning? i hate how novelists are still prone to use that infernal tool... if a dictionary is a compedium, having precipitated from philosophy, and how the encyclopedia is a precursor of the scientific method... then the thesaurus is nothing but the end result of jurisprudence... that branch of philosophy that doesn't really have morality as the central piece of its care for a compass... the thesaurus exists for the sole purpose of man exercising "law", or as the poetics of Moses said: you will "know" the "difference" between good and evil... clearly the conjunction and means we wouldn't know, hence the existential either / or... but more precisely: between neither good or evil... of law and the thesaurus and the juggling circus act of synonyms and sharpening flint stones... and looking for words, and shallow ground and a bias for a fully established mono-personnae vocab with a dictionary.... or at least that's how i like to think of it: that the basis for humanity expressing a moral obligation of law is settled by creating a counter-intuitive fluidity of language... the holy bible of the strand of philosophy that deals with moral will, i.e., jurisprudence, is set in the thesaurus... there's no point referring to the dictionary and law books... i'd discard the dictionary completely... after all, dictionaries will never teach you anything rhetorical... you begin learning law by learning to avoid the dictionary, and equpping yourself with the thesaurus, no wonder i once called it thesaurus rex, the idea that humanity has any foggiest about expressing law, rather than finding a law, like that of gravity, is precisely why the scaffolds took to the stage, and the guillotine in the french revolution...  but i am capable believing man can bake a decent loaf of bread... not so naive in a belief that all law and justice stems, as it does indeed stem, from a book, like the thesaurus.

i have a very due exposure of what a 21st century
poem currently looks like: i write horror,
  but i wait for the music to become translated...
   aren't we the ones to write
the most kept, most worthwhile
secrets the next man might
wish, or care to encounter...
i write under the one pretense
that modern people don't
dive into amnesia of forgetting
classical music, as i know
they will, when they only listen
to classical music in cinema...
a *vide cor meum
from hannibal
(cassidy),
or from seven...
bach, g string & violin concerto no. 1...
at least applying classical music
to the genre of horror in the cinema
can lace us to universal memories...
tender hands, oh such tender porcelain hands...
bitten by the frost...
bitten by all except my teeth and lips
to dare perform the custom of lip unto knuckle,
like a knight,
         bound to receive the slap across the cheek...
so much less with ego-ego bonding...
as much as Hegel might presume...
that my love to no gravity of womb be secured
the imagination lost with the reactive
tendency for *****-count...
            and how horror really is the basis
for ensuring movies are filled with music...
if so much of life is equipped with having lost it...
unless we're sprechen deutsche Dante..
              or what's left to claim there was a spark
of believing the nearest of touches with
Michelangelo depiction of the gemini architects...
juliusz słowacki: the clad angel,
szatanioł -
   who's books i never read, and instead read
Kraszewski, or so the world is understood to be left
in the mechanism of constant continuum...
but this is only an imitation poem...
   how cruel, how unkind, the world surrouding us,
that our friends become our enemies,
and that after, so few and ever fewer to be accounted
for are asked to be friends, or can be...
how i will never life in Venice,
or Tuscany,
  and how i can be laid naked and senile,
not having a venture into these pockets of paradise
as a tourist,
   how can such places remain intact as fictional
oasis, enclosed in history books, and there
be read about, among egos and bookwoorms,
and have one soul, eager to think about them,
not having trodden a single banknote of pavement
in them, to not have bought a cup of coffee in them...
it's a sadness realised, and never forgotten,
but at least never beaming to have been
undone from such an arithmetic, as to have done so...
with only two words as remedy:
Kant & Königsberg - it almost begs to revise
the concept of nationalism, starting with the stated
example, as the face to resemble local avenues
lost, or foremostly undiscovered.
localism, first, then we can gain the gateway toward
nationalism, and the drift, the tide;
only when things are assured to have taken to
local "journalism" can we explore a world,
and thereby a happening / being in it...
what Kant lived, heidegger excelled in describing,
just the local, the mundane,
the: if you don't have what you like...
be content with what you do have, and be content
with it, as if it were something you would like to have.
so much concerning the study of being is formulated
upon the basis of not having;
  to me being is not having...
not possessing; so much of being is about
   not having, not possessing...
why pirates always overshadow the adventure of
clinging to the seas...
why pirates are the worth romantics easily translated
onto the silver-screen, and why admiral become
shoved and scarecrow stuffed into libraries with
dust and bookworms that wish:
that a moth might wake up, when a book it opened.
that it becomes self-evident that it's better
to possess and have, and not-be, than it is to be...
in that layering that's known to be man,
we're last in attempting a human feat...
to ascribe ourselves being human,
is to describe ourselves having roles...
   for by not ascribing ourselves the role of man,
we act with impetus to congest the world
with have, for there is no possession
in the ethereal, or with god alone... and that means:
yhwh will hardly translate into the n.e.w.s. or
the crucifix vector with the satanic lie from mt. sinai,
as the chinese are ready to prove
not being convinced, or converted...
only by acting with impetus to congest the world
with "having" it, claiming ownership of it,
can we act by deviating from claiming the sole role
of being men, and therefore like an oak
reduced to tooth-picks, call claim to
the industrialisation of meats, pork, beef, paultry,
and lay our foundations for the seemingly
countless examples of occupying space...
and the professions that come with it...
   until an enzyme akin to space-time emerges,
and as technology catches up to our comforts,
and says: we have to insert a revision,
a limit, a robotic schedule for the jobs that
are, well... pointless...
   then we worry... what with taxi drivers and uber apps,
and bus drivers and robot steered cars and the Docklands
light railway...
               and why lawyers will always be there,
a bit like us, dictionary prone, and them,
stretching the contempt for humanity having
a content for prescribing law as if contending for having
invented gravity, and using nothing,
but a thesaurus...
they should have just said it! *****!
there is no basis for jurisprudence working from
the 0 of a dictionary, a 0 meaning: plateau...
sea-level... jurisprudence does not even
acknowledge the existence of a dictionary...
when poetry, philosophy and all the other arts
use the dictionary as a reference point...
jurisprudence, or the practice of law
only uses the thesaurus... as do some writers,
who try to look smart for about a second
when they're looking through their recyclable *******
of a novel that takes 3 years to write:
milk bottle, tin can, milk bottle, amazon wrapping,
newspaper... law: same ****, different cover.
Robyn Neymour Dec 2009
Have you ever had a session that gave you an impression,
Then you formed your discretion,
Which then showed your expression, and at the end of the day,
It documented as a depression that formed rejection?
This rejection then formed an infection
In the enzyme in your stomach called pepsin,
That led to an injection, for your safety and protection.
Did I forget to mention, the medication won’t **** it,
Just gives the disease a suspension?

©
© RGN Dec. 7 2009
Jeremy Duff Nov 2012
Time and Distance was always the recipe for disaster.
These two little words can move mountains of hate. Merely shove them aside.
They can do the same to love. Brush it off like a father will when his kids plead for him to at least look at the menu on the ice cream truck.

Love does not fade as easily as we all wish it could. As you and I wish it would.
Love is a tender flower that needs to be nurtured and be kept in a well lit, well watered garden.

Hate does not fade as easily as we all wish it could. As you and I wish it would.
Hate is a brutal **** that will grow in any garden. It will strangle love of the nutrients that so rightfully belong to it; the tender flower.

Time is a killer, a stone cold killer. It some how manages to find love and destroy it. Time is the Antichrist.
One thinks they can conquer it, when indeed, they cannot.

Distance is an enzyme. Much like the ones found in the human stomach. As everyone knows enzymes are reaction specific. They can only help in one chemical reaction, one minute, tiny reaction.
One thinks they can subdue distance, make it their friend, when indeed, they cannot.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i'm actually writing in Turkish akimbo on the floor,
****** uncomfortable,
can't do the hunched monkey spine of Blitzkrieg...
the problem lies with my cat,
a Maine **** that's actually a bloodhound
come bed time... his ******* operatic meows
get to me... he will meow down any werewolf's howl
any night of the week, with 200 variations...
he's like a dog when bedtime comes,
he rapes his way into my room,
takes comfort in my writing chair,
keeps me up listening to βετo βετα's
between two selves - i call this the reason
for never stealing from Hinduism...
outside of Hinduism the economic model works
just as effectively as Auschwitz with cows...
come to petted animals, putting yourself
second doesn't... you get to see the many variations
of character in these buggering fur-*****;
****** got gassed, i see it as a natural karma...
because why would he have a Jewish girlfriend
who committed suicide with him the bunker?
i won't pity them... ****** knew the measure
of things, having been gassed himself
he knew the wounds: and so will millions who
thought world war i was fought in vain...
remind me... as once the northern invaders
accommodated the Roman alphabet and dropped
the runes... what you conquer you express
as an incorporation of certain qualities...
luckily the German work ethic was unshaken...
but it shook the English sensible life:
work! work! work! ready meals in between:
two favourites! two! cheese cauliflower and lasagne.
to keep up the once colonial Herrwettlauf in
charity limbo... you ain't donating to any Africans...
Bobbie Geldof fooled you...
it goes into milking the ivory skinned skin-heads
once retired... Africa is more than just a suntan...
it goes back into ensuring we don't work
in Chinese factories under lynching-contracts...
case no. 0 (or contract) - we'll just call you when we need you,
otherwise we'll contract the cheap steel and cheaper
salt from the Dead Sea:
new social order... after all that colonial piracy i'm sure
we can afford investing in a body mass indexes...
is this how efficiency is structured?
quality control and quantity control...
well, capitalism knows quality control...
but it does't have the foggiest about quantity control:
hence so much waste, and supermarkets throwing out
food into the gutter... the quality control is there,
but the quantity control is missing: always excess, always
excess, always excess... sure i get the Muslim
argument about drunken Brits in Spain and Leicester...
but what about those Saudi children speeding
in their sports cars? no one going to criticise them?
after 50 years... our shame will be a greater
instigator of global warming than a diesel engine...
cheeks puffing up into rose and rose and everything's
finally not so rosy as we thought.
so here i am, writing in uptight akimbo without
the writer's hunch of reverse Darwinism,
all because my Maine **** is acting like a bloodhound,
gets depressed before bedtime...
why are these animals needing my bogus company?
when it comes to music i'm selfish; ah! he
doesn't like the night and the modern orchestra of
grizzly exhaust engines doing the baritone with rasping
the new church bell (phlegm) with a hark uvula...
it's called Irish poker for a prayer...
the van de graaff toy generator is on in the darkened room -
then the typing ****** him off, he's off...
thank **** for that...
but why is it that the once infamous Axis strategies
are creeping into those that strove to defeat them?
we are getting Japanese karaoke culture,
we're getting welcoming euthanasia programs spanning
the dicta of Belgium and Switzerland,
as people want dignity in their death...
they're queuing up to the once known enemy...
maybe it's because these Axis powers were
never colonialists...
                                 just finishing watching Indian
Summers
season two you get the picture...
god and the dodgy monkeys...
stay... sit! stay... sit! **** it, let's lynch that Eton ****
of privy accents... ol chap... ol chappy...
trot along... the turban bomber and half
the thought that a Pole learning obedience from
Russian and German would learn to be cinnamon
skinned in England... i'm almost suspecting the
Irish are the SS in the project.. generation of the Vietnam
saint soaked in gasoline... oddly enough
that has no place in Europe, apologies that i don't
share the sentiment... it's obviously the
counter crucifixion scene and emblem,
but only in: LET'S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN...
i told you be afraid of the blonde ferret...
i see the prognosis just like Britain exiting the European
union... California is not even America,
who gives a **** about the American Secular Vatican, anyway?
it will be like as if Canada was part of America
and resembled Scotland in the Jackshit Union...
gross the vote on the puppet...
the Democrats will get New York (the equivalent
of London) - i don't know how to twin Reading,
and that blue belt of remain campaigners linking the two,
half of who would speak as much of French
as an advert concerning the sales of socks...
or enough German to order a pint of beer in a Bavarian
pub... well, Canada would vote like Scotland,
one revolutionary figure (who was actually Muslim,
and never cared for African-American concerns
of Baptism... singing hallelujah was never part
of the do)... can't be replaced with another revolutionary
figure... he was never exactly a Martin Luther King Jr.,
more of Malcolm X than you thought...
that strip between London and Reading
will be translated into Ronald Reagan's resurrection...
a billionaire is more ridiculous than
an actor? well... who we going to call the pretty boy
and the favourite of media cartoonists? boots on the ground,
a society that doesn't practice dialectics is not
only rude, but out-of-date...
the debate of the park bench now resides in separate
stadiums, monologues that involve something
that physics unearthed: two sources of negativity
existing in two places, at the same time...
if this is a debate, then i got the postal code wrong...
the dialectics of knowing nothing became: i still know
nothing, but i have 4 million people supporting me.
i imagine the cavemen to be less subjective that we
try to imagine ourselves as resembling, Michael Palin
in the Sahara... cavemen worked on instinct, not on
appeal to the intellect... that thing
about the jokes of the vibrating lips and the index finger
moving against them to invent the Mongolian harmonica...
given the complication of urban life... well...
you'll hardly revise that bit... that part of life is gone...
i assumed that the more we evolved the less
naked we became... but given evolution and having
created this parasitic symbiosis with the natural
elements... the more i think of it: the more naked we're
becoming - the more dependent -
the original sin as conceived from the delusion that we
were disabled by our originally conception of nakedness...
it only comes now... once the dependency kicks in
and we're all in bow-ties and cocktail dresses...
hello Herr Fetish and page 3 milking of the farmyard
cows of our imagination - Islamic eye-fetish,
we heard of footfetish... must be about oral ***...
knees baby knees, Arab has eyefetish on your knees...
i have a fetish for hands... see how the cameraman zoomed
in on the hands of the women fencing?
once instinct governed us... and instinct's expression
of intelligence was: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll get **** with his concubines in the harem...
these days intellect governs us... and intellect's
expression of instinct is: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll whip up a horde of lawyers, file a lawsuit
and get away it because he nudged me in a supermarket...
honestly, i don't think educating people was a great
evolutionary step forward...
we have more law-prose liposuction on the pages of
history than a Tolstoy could muster a novel -
and because we taught everyone literacy,
the once necessary backbone of our economy,
the workers... well... let's just say that the Founding
Fathers made their muscles into oysters and molluscs,
floppy protein spaghetti... wiggle wiggle, yeah, wiggle wiggle, yeah...
defeating Communism in a place of the world that was
prone to some sort of religiosity, enzyme John Paul II -
i'd bruise his forehead and lips against those airport tarmacs
i'd get to be the inventor of sand-paper and
the Antichrist's assault on the biblical reference:
it only takes on saint to defeat the congregation... it starts with him...
or with that Calcutta Lady and Hitchens...
and oh... lookie here... up pops Hydra China:
America will be great again... but chances are...
the hot dog and the hamburger will never be re-invented...
watch the pendulum... op op oop oops here it swings
while the Hawaii communal laugh about starving
on coconuts.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
even hegel read jakob böhme                   (boo m'eh) -
to keep the democratic spirit - obviously the Kardashians don't
know a hairbrush from a toothbrush - but that hardly matters -
what matters is how Pearl Harbour turned into karaoke applause -
the idea of an american in europe: spaghetti slurping  -
even that considering the "special"
       relationship of anglophiles -
    anatomy of antagonism:
        spaghetti swindlers of talk -
slurping that tangle into an easily sold
global affair would never juice up the idea
to think about my neighbour as someone
i'd care to be;
          and as common with the postmortem
childhood educators, the curriculum of such
people always stated: learn otherwise -
       no wonder their screened the
personal vanities of Versailles in the 21st century
coming from the 18th and 17th century -
learn the truths concerning the genesis
of the 21st century in the 24th century at least...
i'm under the righteous impression:
most of the people i live with have
been savaged by science fiction,
and the slowness of science in itself
that they are tattooed with a care for now,
but never tomorrow... imagine living in a society
that pays its workers in month's wages than
in week's wages... can you imagine it?
the two re- debate: again quick (reflexive),
and the again slow (reflective) -
if i'm glorifying the latter than the former?
oh, that question... you have to reply with:
usury and why the libido of old men
equips young girls to the same libido,
and why young men are worthy of a war memorial
and the mud of trenches...
and why young men can't with enzyme-fervour
bind of the satiated young woman sexually
compete... and why so many say: **** it.
one *** spends its youth barraged by usury -
and all other hamster wheels,
the other *** parties with the cocksure crowd:
and then you expect a withstanding human bond?
ha ha.    forget it... hey lady, how's that old man
treating you? he's the pope, i know.
                         forged from the Martian
        ashen heat cooling: in how she thought
the two would meet and raise a family in the mythology
of Eden... when she got paid her student fees
by sugar daddies, and he got spit to extract feeding
handshakes - that only turned into jacking off
                                                                ­      gambles.    
  she now the happy soul fathomed as the bigoted
              entrenchment in this world: as forever
  and if only trying: then at least expecting war
to solidify the point.
                just the other day in Camden Market:
she's complaining about her libido with older men,
   he's complaining: your problem is that you go
for older men... oh ****, then all the problems of
natural correlative assertions, and children to
masquerade the real problems... and pop culture
and what's being gagged (apart from the gimp,
forever caged and clad in leather, and a mouth
that's really an ****) -           the children suffer
    from would otherwise been a beneficial anti-evolutionary
suggestion: that i was recipient of the outside environment,
rather than the inside environment of some benefiting
sir esquire toff -                 give me my tail and fur back!
   i don't care for gymnastics or vogue! give it back!
******! this ain't an improvement,
                 who heard of primeval predators building
guillotine scaffolds (although, i admit, that's humane) -
or ****** Mary being beheaded with a blunt blade -
or gas chambers... when i think of tigers i think of
humanity greater than man with his apple i7 phone -
i think of vampires... i find it hard to believe
we evolved from what was already perfect...
                   to improve what? we were always outsiders...
    narrators - then again, if i'm the sort of
"creationist" scumbag, then i can just say:
Chinese and Welsh dragons and dinosaurs...
   and to be honest: history is obsolete given the
two timescales of the big bang (what a ****** name
to start things off... heard a bang in a vacuum?) -
              and monkey -
                                             which is no wonder
why history died given the timescales, and why we
are overly saturated with journalism, the 24 hour reels
and nothing really happening in those 24 hour counting
                   mechanisms:
which is no surprise journalism resurrected a pseudo-dialectics,
   i.e. an opinions section - and there they are,
like third world dictators, unchallenged, journalistic
freedom is the last thing to fight for right now,
   not when journalists don't have any journalism to give,
  and invoke the need to be opinionated,
and in thus being the above said: unchallenged.
                 Colonel Falafel? sign me up!
Anais Vionet Dec 2022
Life is a series of demands. Hurry up, perform.
Do your homework, write a paper, oh and read 300 pages,
get in those volunteer hours, grab those lab credentials.
I get busy, caught up in projects and I forget stuff
like dinnertime, peeing before it’s an emergency,
or like calling you - last night.
On vacation I’m unplugged, I’m avoiding focus,
I’m not paying attention, my mind’s wandering.
I’d want you less if it were required by law.
I imagine your huge, brown saucer eyes
exhibiting a wounded, blaming expression and I can’t.
Maybe there’s a biological explanation, yes, that’s it,
I’m missing an enzyme, I have a glandular disorder
that prevents long distance relationships from working.
No, not work - It can’t be work - it should be exciting.
Is it a crime to want some time off from pressure?
I’m not asking for a pony.
Just a sabbatical couple of weeks away from obligations.
I felt so guilty that I went to Karen (Lisa’s mom) about it.
We talked for over an hour, she’s so smart, I love her.
She reminded me about the recent lockdowns
and how years of skyping and remote learning
might affect (dull-down) a long distance romance.  
I told her what you said, about my sinatra psyche
and she said although I seem absurdly secure,
I’m probably still figuring things out - and that’s ok.
There’s really no substitute for talking to a mom.
I called you - and left a message - I hope you understand.
I turned my phone off - for now.
Kuah Yee Han Jul 2015
Procrastination is the thief of time
And that's why I make the most of it when I put together every rhyme
With my words I'm committing a crime
Not satisfied? Then here's a dime

These lines are too bitter, let's add some lime
Be quiet like a mime because I'm
breaking down these words like an enzyme
I'll grime your dignity because I'm sublime

Well I might be exaggerating a little bit
But nevertheless don't fiddle with it
Come here and let me tell you a riddle, sit
No one wants to watch an infidel spit

There's no use being a flagrant hypocrite
So I advise you to just grit your teeth, and quit.
#uh #hello
The holy cricket has no reason
To hold its last breath for long
For the royal naked bird

Has no other secret to display
Now see, the enzyme of my heart
Has delivered another staff
Without the knowledge of the ducks,

Let the morning stars rain
My pure dews violently
And allow my wet sun rays
To swim rapidly in the air,

Hmm, if the queen of my air
Continues to harden the back
Of this delicate tortoise,
How can my motionless heart
Find a dripping honey like hers?

Today is Thursday,
Yes, today is her soul day
And tilling of her love is forbidden
But can a cloud full of sweet words

Break the chains of my strong passions?
Let my bitter tongue
Remain silent in his cage
And lose not the cowries and the cola also.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com
entropiK Dec 2010
I reside in your stomach, lying here is bliss…getting gnawed on everyday by your attacking pepsin enzyme. I suspect you would not digest me yet, dear Jennor? You sneak. You, I believe have changed me the most, with your knives. You cut and carve me in your pleasure…shaping, moulding me into the person ridiculously typing this myfuck **** today. In return, I’ve done nothing but bleed with you under the cyanide sun. You’ve ordered me to write, of which I obeyed, and forced me into acceptance. You protect me from everything, at a distance, possessively stalking from the shadows. For that I thank you, and I adore you, ever so dastardly. When I am strong enough, I shall protect you too, and be there to save you…I shall infeckt you in my eternity. You claim my soul, locked up for safety …and but of course, our secrets shall stay untold. Smother me, until I am purple and can no longer breathe.
(: Jenni<3.
Fah Aug 2013
are arguments like a paradox?

does one just not compute the others message or emotional language
surely , there - just like languages are vibrations we can not understand but can feel
and perhaps learn to feel them a new , akin to learning a new language .

this would mean that things that are seemingly at first 'taboo' 'secret' 'cult like' 'mystical' especially these things

could just not fit

within my lock , akin to the enzyme molding and shifting shape for only particular proteins

could the human social structure not operate along this natural blue print? since the social structure too , is a part of nature and looking around us - something seems sorely wrong

the violence , well i'm not sure
yet why that is a base instinct but  

there is laughter inate too and smiles

so ...

what thinks ye?
of the words is have structured ?
does it make sense? does it resonate?

heck i'd like to know - how many of ya'll is the crazies?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
symbols, some just say zodiac, with Gemini at my lowest ebb - ebb, funny word, unravelling nouns from the cauldron of onomatopoeias, say knock on wood precipitated into a privacy of owning a door - whereas the Irish and the Poles encoded dialogue (like in Ulysses) with hyphen for snappy convo; in a pub, Charlie and Harry spoke:
- pint's on me.
- aye, on you the one and no more.
- why not more on me?
- i won the lottery, i'm goonah buy half of Cork.
- so who's this Yorrick fella'h?
- apparently a resurrected maxim.
- travesty...
- indee- doodley oh.
which beckons the question why the un-imaginative encoding of sounds gave English narrators too much power... the supposed ditto / invert comma wasn't expression of approx., nuanced, why wasn't the interpretation that of nuance? we can all use the unit Sartre chose to nuance, instead of "ego" the ref. point of conduct ~ego, i.e. approximately me, living with my mother but nonetheless womanising... unimaginative narrator, speeding, never gave his characters a chance, "i went to the market today", he said; that's the narrator masquerading - call this a dubbing mechanism? i would... like i'd hope for the centimetres and miles and nanometres of pause differentiating a comma from a hyphen, a hyphen from a colon, a colon from a semi-colon... and a semi-colon from a fullstop (exampled a germanic word with missing hyphen not authorised by the Oxbridge dictionary of couture, disassembling a navy sweater and toad-green jeans)... i mean, **** me, give me the precision tactics to read without invoking an αsθmαtιc imitation of a sailor's last breath; are those dots above i and j really necessary? it just rained down y y y y y y y y y y on top of them, enzyme activity? yep, ιoτα; otherwise just inert *******; and no, it's not a language these days, English has been reduced to pixel graffiti.

well... mandrakes and sparrows
aren't exactly androgynous...
maybe a mascara advert went missing
along the way... maybe.
here the piano... here the broken
fingers of Liszt... you poker me,
it's worth the gamble...
well ontologically *sprechen
what
the hell is a natural appropriation
of waiting for water to boil,
or an egg to be poached in shell
for a runny yoke? me neither,
i'm as dumb as a doughnut concerning
such affairs... i said there's no androgynous
behavioural patterns in sparrow and mandrakes,
you choose you adaptability whenever you
choose to stress a chequered flag...
parasitically i'll march with telescope
ants and flies of what alienation did
to the food-chain - yeah, aliens with an
enlargement syndrome -
bathtub of hydrochloric acid -
i just imagine the newly beloved painting
unseen, a squid cleaving fat and muscles
off a skeleton in the same light
as seeing a ******* - artist or pervert?
i guess both go hand-in-hand;
the hyphen, equal parallel usage with the inverted
coma / well... it used to be known as a ditto
                                                           ­            "
                                                               ­        "
                                                               ­        "
but mind you, before Oxford accepts a german
sounding word compound it requires a hyphen
in english - pistachio shells and shrapnel -
yep, as the above - unravelling of fictive tactics
of the bothersome nature for the narrator not only
loßing the plot but also the characters;
hey, english is perfect, i can apply whatever stresses
of φoνo i want... it's stark naked Adam & Eve...
i can put a ballerina's leotard on this encoding,
and no one will truly mind.
Carl Velasco Jan 2018
Concept:
youlovemeback.

The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.

There is

a

strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.

My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.

Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.

Sometimes,

I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***.
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted

wrong.

I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes

with mime,

I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.

Concept:
trytounderstand

This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so

The chatter goes.

Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and

an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.

Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.

Free at long, long last.

Concept:
fixtheheart
Monica Kendall Jan 2016
Living in the moment
Raises the heartsick soul to converse
With the social enemy of death,
The corrosive, liquid, and curved
Enzyme that is your body makes the
Flaming devils flesh crawl and creep.
Amnesia hits the beast like a mighty
Iron axe to the head, you approach the
Gurgling monstrosity that lay on the floor,
You approach with a weary eye, fear and
Courage all at once. All of the
Candles around the large round podium go out at
Once, once the devil had died. You had just
killed the Anti-Christ! Bodies of reaped
Souls cradle the dead flesh and shriek
And scream in agony for their rulers death.
You stand before them and let out a
Potent, barbaric, yawlp. The demons spawn
Settle and release their final screeches,
You...have...brought...down...HELL!!!
I miss seeing you smile.
To me it seemed that you laughed and kissed me for everything, but it was probably a mistaken impression, a
result of shock!
wonder!

Could you imagine my surprise,
how it could be unexpected?
How often is the soul’s desire met?
I can recall not ever, ne’er, near naught
save in amniotic baptism, had every
object subject—every ancient tissue
attended by an enzyme—every ray of
sun snuck between the blouse’s buttons,
around my mother’s *******, and
divined upon me was let there been.
I cut myself following consciousness
with my longest fingernail, did laugh
too convulsed, tickled by light did induce my birth;
I cried (they’ll confirm this), I
wept to rob my mother herself, so it seemed,
inhaled the endless time and limitless space.
You can imagine my surprise then
with your covered mouth at my joke.

To me it seemed as if I had body again, hadn’t had a hand to grasp, hadn’t a hand with to grasp; then,
like had putty-gilded muscles earthed
unearthed, did.

Have you ever seen creation?—
well, yes, of course, it did not except you.
As close to ex nihilo as your patience can manage
you would have seen the time and space
repel each other in a nail’s length
of chaos, Fiat Vita, about which there’s little to be said.
My patience breaks in breath, Fiat Lux: when
time and space colors the light and refracts
the matrix and gives fire to my soul for a body.
Rilke writes, “Every Angel is terror,” which we
love, “because it calmly disdains to destroy us.”
I know! I know! I bite my nails penitent still.
And my patience does extend yet further, still within;
before my birth following it:

Look! I can open you this door,
give you that,
carry you thus far,
lead you here,
can reach your smiling mouth
with a terrorized will to kiss withal!
I can endure as the “arrow endures the bow”;
as all matter collapses upon itself in effort to grasp itself,
so it does to grasp all itself in one grand handful;
as atrophy takes me from you as quickly as I give you it,
I am surprised to find that I have retained all of you;
not expecting that you might have hid me, too, where
I would overlook, where only you could go, where
the light silhouettes, for me can just stop breathing.
I can see without patience—as much as light allows
and just as long.

— The End —