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vircapio gale Jul 2012
"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail,
to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"
-a version of the Cretan's or liar's paradox ('This sentence is false.') inspired this write and took on a life of its own and isn't meant to be an argument for anything. just an exploration of the problem of representation, a universal distrust of language and my associations. hope it didn't drive you crazy like it did me :)

-i quote Sylvia Plath's "Daddy", Stein's "Susie Asado", and Sappho's very short,

"I have no complaint"

I have no complaint
prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten
Sappho

-Erasmus wrote "Praise of Folly." the title alone comforts me

-when asked 'what is truth?' by one of his disciples, the buddha is said to have picked up a flower.

-our moon rotates at the same rate as its revolution (not sure why please inform me), so one side always faces us. the greeks thought it was a disc, literally. and when the Russians got to the 'backside' first, they got to name all the craters.

-noema:
the objective aspect of or the content within an intentional experience. NL, fr. Gk noema perception, thought understanding, mind, fr. noein to perceive, think
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
Alaska:
“though the whole world should be mad at once
though the elements should be changed, though the angels should rebel: yet verity (irrefutable truth) cannot lie.”  
                                                         ­                  Erasmus of Rotterdam

<> <>

for BJ Donovan, a fine, fine poet
<><><>

verity, irrefutable truth, cannot lie,
or belie it’s non-contradictory nature,
even, in a small airport, a one runway affair,
somewhere in Alaska
ribboned tween icy crags and dagger-ous peaks,
low cloud coverings of sub-zero visibility,
that inquire, in an indigenous tongue
of the flying fool pilots,

“really?”

if I or you ask me why I’m here,
Alaska,
the answers come in only three Heinz varieties,
true or false positive, no differentiation needed,
the other, is called
“one who doesn’t know how to ask”

you know him,
the simpleton, the simple one, me,
who can’t frame the question without

risking that he frame himself

betraying and displaying his woeful ignorance,
a veneered confidence of knowing so little about much

in the shed, a/k/a
‘the terminal,’ we wait,
me and an ex-Buddhist priest,
head stubble shaved, of course, round horn rimmed glasses wearing,
stone washed jeans blue, the color of his eyes,
reflecting mine as well as the blue glacier ice
surrounding us both, we,
the extraneous human eagle interlopers

showed him the Erasmus quote, provoking one of them,
thin lined, whimsical, eye-glinting smiles of those
who know the answer
to the knotty ones, or,
know better, that knotty questions one asks himself
when high up in the mountainous glacier ranges,
get answered just by silent patience

he smiled for an eternity of
at least five minutes,
my heart pulsating big time,
this modern man anticipating, in his calm, dulcet two tones,
his understanding of another ancient translating another,
even more ancient, speaking:

”the world is indeed mad,
through neglect letting the elements warp, glaciers melt;
the angels have indeed rebelled at the
foreseen fated falsehoods perpetrated,
verity,
torn asunder,
and the line between balance and imbalance,
so jaggedly ripped in too many places that verity a victim
so badly assaulted, its face is no longer identifiable by AI, worse,
so covered, dying, undiscoverable.

but you ask!
ask of yourself, asking of others, and tolerating
uncurled, uncut uncertainty, you retreat and reconsider,
this then is your answer!
it is the
ASKING,
that is verity, itself! there can be no lying thing in the
quest of questioning
that accepts, rejects, and unceasingly asks again^

this is a the only irrefutable truth and what it asks of you:

never accept the illogic of belief, let your own eyes be the best judge;
ask and ask thrice, be satisfied that being disastrously dissatisfied
is the norm, the mean,
the line toward a perfection that may not ever exist(ed)
for our flaws define us, thus so much greater is our truths when we
we reshape them, ourselves, for verity itself is not so hard to find,
but the finding of one self is too difficult for most


for asking is too painful,
too primordial, and why I am no longer a priest nor teacher,
but a simple observer of the answers that can be found in the
silences of places,
the Alaska’s inside of us,
where nature’s sets
an open table for anyone
wiling to just ask...”
8/18/19
S.I., N.Y.

^”It is not in the asking, but in the searching and wrestling that we gain clarity.”
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
thankfully Hamlet is taken to a couch,
that's hardly a sick-bed,
for we all know: psychiatry is half
of medicine, it breeds more ill men than it claim
to have cured.
and there be that thing, that shadow,
that resemblance of a man,
stalking the highlands, and drinking
at the Lochs...
until there are three,
under a street lamp with due walk,
and a brick wall near,
                         a man and two shadows,
one more full than the latter more fog,
    and the sudden thrill, as if being followed
by one's own unsuspecting guise...
           usurper strong, a Judas in a Judea...
asp tongue, wasp thought,
doubly piercing the status quo of today...
as said, by only a single word,
macbeth, macbeth, macbeth,
into the night, shrill of violins, shark-infested
airs of a witch's shrill cry at the black sabbath
around the fireplace...
    macbeth, macbeth: said: deep frozen
into the night...
   to a neared upon usher of equivalent tear...
avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
(and hades resurrect thee!)
...
   against all that encompasses the noun zeus:
and fathering wisdom for care to lose repeated
cohorts of the titans sun, moon, gaia...
  aye, and a bold one, that dare
          look on that which might appeal to the devil
;
have you no care to not flog to these
past expressions, reading them,
as reading our modern undermining into
things of origami consort?
             folded, folded once more,
a piece of paper is a metaphor,
that blooms into the end result of it being
treated as metaphor... a piece of paper
given the status of metaphor, later becomes
   a paper-folded swan, and origami swan...
  that icon of monogamy...
           or how swans like to see it:
in sickness and in health, beyond death do us part...
ever look at a widow swan and not feel
a pang of hope to be given the altar of death
upon the crucifix mound?
        just a little bit?
who may i rather challenge for unkindness,
than pity for mischance!
-
        can one man's love affair be as short
as another man's play,
given the chemistry suggest that the man spent
the four seasons in the stated place of concern?
had i been invited to Erasmus Denmark,
my sparrow would have sung differently...
to a less Celtish drum of heart...
             and the man in question would
remain as curriculum material for a midsummer's
night, and romeo and juliet and shylock...
         here, we keep promises...
  just here... every time i read a philosophy book
of deep under-sea thinkers,
   i am the quasi-acuatic animal, a sly
mammal of the seas, a whale, a dolphin...
  every time i read a philosophy book,
and subsequently re-enter shakespeare...
i am that same old mammal keeping his breath,
to surge back toward the heavens of a sea-level
atmosphere...
                   i say: contend with reading philosophy
books to then reread your choice of shakespeare:
for me, nothing beyond macbeth...
    thus said: learn, to live again...
          as i have done on countless opportunities...
   i can not prescribe a most perfected dichotomy...
  oh sonnet so pale, oh other works so well preserved
that they encourage memory dementia
with a workload of pristine recitations...
     just a chance encounter, when psychiatrists
faded with Hamlet, that Macbeth arose from
the ashes and said: i stand as a sword firm in hand,
and i will not reach the safety of
   lounging in gleba...
                  to merely be a dead entertainer of
some obscure theory...
                     and with every instance
upon seeing the **** thing,
   my eye be blunt, and my tongue be sharpened....
likewise in reverse, concerning the same thing:
my eye be sharpened, but my tongue be blunt...
of these two essences, man first thought...
    and had only thought provided man with
a simple yes, or a simple no, wouldn't
the point of thought be more than if not less
bewildering than arguing from its own existence,
an existence of a god?
        not man, devoid of god crafted this deformity
to later impregnate an icon with...
       but man too bewildered by thinking,
that spawned this horror...
       of thought, thus said, no moral grounding,
but merely the numbing, the selective numbing
of the senses, as ailing man suggests,
the ailing via hearing,
   the hedonism feats suggesting exploration
of seeing...
   of feeling numbed, and apathy creeds to experience
as many people as possible...
   thought mediates the sensual-numbing we
all see... and none of thought, is concerned
with being injected into a moral theory,
since thinking is too simple, and a lie a too great
opportunity to be mislead into mis-use...
  for a simple yes and no - the theta-ought...
would not have spurned the phi-nought
    and if the senses are not duped,
then what story are we to be told?
            that might provide a throng, and an opulence
of a campfire for it to be tought?
to the last syllable of recorded time, said Macbeth.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
after acquiring the english language,
and synthesising it for twenty years...
ugh... breakfast that is but a cup of water
and immediately feeling bloated...
or just imagining that you can live
on food and alcohol... like a diesel engine....
comes to just as much
     trying to catch butterflies akin to
nabokov, or thoughts...
      and are either, so trully necessary?
well... unless you take to calling it
the only relative opposite of picking up
a gun and shooting someone for no reason
other than a per se reason, which
subsequently has to be reasoned with -
akin to this...
  or, dare i say, picking up a philosophy book
and seeing how there is clearly
a child in there, esp. in english -
how each philosophy book seems to be
avoiding the pronoun i -
such is the nature of these books,
    a lot of hide & seek happening -
with the basic formula of: being yourself,
to avoid, your self.
then again as this french girlfriend told
me when she was staying in edinburgh
for a year to complete her erasmus program
from the university of grenòble
and she was doing this psychology experiment
and she needed native speakers...
  and i was given the stick for trying to
fake her science by suggesting that i'd do it...
yeah...
           well i really did hook up with her when
an american was about to court her,
and that's the only time i played the huinter-gatherer
role, or was motivated to do so,
when we went bar crawling and i pulled her
from the crowd and we stayed behind while
the group moved to another pub...
that was the only time i felt a need to do the "chase",
later this thing called the categorical imperative
came along, and i subsequently lost the impetus
to compete...
being a gladiator could have been greater,
what with the hardships of life...
but you can watch these gladiators fall...
quiet easily, buying groceries in a supermarket,
or opening a fridge door...
it's this return to the mundane, the household
environment can really beat a man,
if his life is lived to sample the ancient
field of danger...
   so when i did get the schtick of her empiricism
i decided: well... i'm no native....
and aren't we all so puritan about science
when some of it can't be falsified,
which it can:
        never too fond of accents myself...
native or alien...
               some people have a fetish for
feet or a french accent...
                        but that ***** essex slur...
or however you'd like to put it,
  it's not even cockney, but you get to hear
something quasi-cockney around these parts
more often, given that a lot of londoners
are moving away to these parts...
cockney meets essex county...
or meats it... yep: beats it silly with squalor
and at the same time: sophistication of living
in cement graveyards of an international city...
then again, you walk into a forest at night
during the summer, wearing only a t-shirt...
and it's freezing!
   you can actually hear Gaia breathing...
and then out of the woods and onto the cement...
that rush of feeling a complete change
of temperature... well... that's something.
          oh it wasn't me, i didn't dump that
french bird, she dumped me,
       as an experienced woman in her early
twenties would, to a ****** (who lost it with her),
18 year old.
    memories and all, what a grand cinema,
sipping absinthe on the streets of athens,
the athenian strip-club...
                sitting on a stool looking at a stripper
while holding two women in my arms
and kissing that sweet, sweet tender *****...
what happened after?
   drank all my money away,
                was escorted by a bouncer to a cash
machine... ****** myself
           and scuttled away back to the hostel....
and then took the bus from athens to katowice...
macedonia? beautiful, very hilly...
       serbia though... a plataeu of snow...
and i admit, belgrade from the distance
looked stunnig... esp. because of the snow.
oh right, i was supposed to insert a          )
having begun it with a     (      of an original prompt...
english really does have this natural
basis to invoke a self-conscious pronoun base of i,
it's like there's this need for a double-certainty
of the speaker stating that: it really is that person
speaking... or even thinking...
     polish        as a language? it rarely uses
the pronoun ja, i.e. i,
                          it's just certain -
english has to overtly use the pronoun -
      and it would be certainly pointless to ditto it
out... like some careless selfish womanisers
by the name of sartre...
                   that's the one thing i don't understand
about sartre, how it could ever be, something
about "ego"... more like Igor and doctor frankenstein...
i find that expression, yes, that alone
   " e g o " to be akin to pontius pilate washing his hands:
for whather transgression: i can't be to blame...
and then comes that ****** mantra
of mea culpa... and it just goes on and on...
to be frank, the whole point of mea culpa
is to transcend any invocation of self-pity...
      it's probably the foremost notion of transcendentalism,
well given that self-pity exists in people,
and some people would rather take blame;
indeed, it is my fault that i once had a heart
to feel intimate with someone, or even entertain
the idea of a fwend...
                            if anyone asks, i'll just be
a hermit, in my little cave.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
it's twenty past four,
i have spent the past hour watching
the Vierschanzentournee -
like someone in England might
have stayed up, watching
the n.f.l. or a boxing match...
i bought johnny walker black
at the airport and i sat there
watching history.
                        can there be a modernised
version of ecce ****?
             apart from dietery requirements
and angst against Wagner
and all that pompous rattle
invoked in the original by Herr N.?
i guess there can be...
    there i was, on my hiatus,
going to bed almost every single night
trying to sleep-palm a chess set
or a keyboard, but both seemed out
of reach...
                   this, again, a forceful
resignation toward the past day,
              it will never be perfect,
the first approach will always be
rusty, it has been three weeks
since i last entered this spiderweb,
of snappy convo and even snappier
overload of democratic practises;
and before me: endless sleepless
nights, and countless miniature
fürhers... and thus this fact:
  which i thought was worth avoiding...
but then i did buy a used laptop for
550zł, (given the exchange rate,
that's roughly £100... the downside?
everything is in paul-leash (no,
that's not an americanism of drawl
and draw and slobber and Houdini's
last trick) - hence i might actually
sport a cravat, moccasins and a
velvet dinner jacket...
                                   and when
Rodin employed his minions to
    chisel away at chapters from Dante,
Dumas (have you ever seen his
omni coprus?) like some pseudo-Pope
employed heavy-drinking monks
to write out his stories for salon bored
ladies until their hands were
playing shadow-arthritis games
         that children would applaud:
rabbit! rabbit! poor monks, exhausted
from having scribbled and
chicken scratched chicken blood into
papyrus wanted nothing more than
to grow their nails so they couldn't
hold a quill... no matter! Dumas would
say... we'll sharpen your nails,
vol. 25 of the comte bourbon &
the flamingo dance, and Rambo XVI
were both written by the unfortunate
monks...
              once again: there's
autobiography... and there's an autobiography...
  to write an autobiography
so that no biography is worth writing...
perhaps if i used paragraphs:
i could be considered: "serious".
      then there's that thought:
thought as origin of biographics -
           nothing to be preserved in
it having happened, returning from
Stansted in a taxi:
  only a thought:
   philosophy cannot claim anything
to be counter-intuitive in its foundation,
to me that conjures up an analogue:
the guillotine is the counter-intuitive
foundation of the french revolution...
Ivan the terrible threw dogs off the Kremlin
wall, and gauged out the eyes of the St. Basil's
architect... and since then
children in Poland loved to play:
throw a bunch of marbles into a little hole...
evidently ancient Egypt resounded
in capricious cappuccino Milan...
or: Míllánò! nurse! nurse! the syllable-scalpel!
herr doctor, is that defined by diacritical
marks? yes sister.
                  **** in boots to suit you toppling
too...  and may i add:
             how ever did i digress from
the mundane reality of: second-hand laptop,
Windows in Polish... every single word
in english: red tape, underlined...
if i have dyslexia, it'll show like a crow's
feather on a dove -
and when it does, you can start calling
me Chief Apache Pixie Jack...
or how you have black and white as
polar, the rainbow... and then
nights in grey satin by the bothersome blues.
this will be defined by lacklustre
and hopping along... then, vaguely:
a romance?
                        it was supposed to
be a hiatus... hiatus...
         3 weeks of what became defined by
anything but such hopes...
   some people span a literary career of
20 years... take 3 years to write a book...
         it takes me 3 years to keep
a single thought...
          can you really repress biographic
accounts these days?
                                 well... if written
par with the times, i guess it's as much
fun as questioning whether
     the following two are very much akin:
1 + 2 + 3 = 5 - 10 + 20 x 2 = 30
is the same sort of arithmetic as when
you do the "math"of writing out
a word like onomatopoeia...
the hanging vowels of babylon...
          if anything, then this -
             as it also could be: on the scrapheap
of memory, a dazzling iron-clad
      heftiness of pulverising vector -
a Gucci demanding a pulpit and an
avocado on toast... champagne and
squid... or as the Michelin criteria were
revealed: rubber tire and squid di Calabria...
tell the two apart... you'll get a republic
passport... who would have thought
that rubber tires were the benchmark,
the ph 7 of foody palettes across the
azure blob, with some ashen and fern
bits in between.
   but this is me, testing new equipment...
having spent 3 weeks on two kinds
of detox... alcoholic... oh the whiskey...
and the ski jumping gavrons...
   plush? sparrels in a rolling dozen
of figurative barrels - and more sensibly?
kestrels, petted by stiff, castrated
   hippos of the sky, akin to astronomy
naming blobs: pi-7773-quatro-offshoot-of
Juno...
                 or a boo boo 747...
about as gracious as a **** launched
off a trebuchet at the dome of the rock...
gimmicky the sliding down...
hot wedge like swallowing a sword...
                3 weeks on this vegetarian
diet... detox alcohol detox 21st century
phonebook...
    rusty first imprints from the waiting game...
but my my...
               wasn't it fun...
                  Jan Kazimierz Waza
(the finicky cardinal)
                                       as presented by
Horatio... no no: John Ignatius Kraszewski...
   (Copernicus was apparently Prussia)...
which means Ignacy was Bella Belyy Kraшevsky...
      which makes me wonder:
why is the violin the pauper's? instrument
or the instrument of hoped-for empathy?
any one would tell you:
as also the accordion player on a tree...
well... roof here, roof there:
try doing ballerina's tip toe on a gothic
spiral tip of a cathedral...
and yes, the gargoyles... sing-along:
silent night...
                       holy night...
again: this was supposed to be a hiatus...
dogmatic statements... and....
    apodictic statements...
                      in truth, most people are
size 0 with their diet of words....
      where that turkey of a tongue to
fatten 'im up? well... ask the shepherds
of Damashek when Saladin will come
to rattle the blacksmith to wield a sword.
a thousand maidens faint...
   (if this was a cabaret voltaire play,
it would happen...
    and the two will never win:
one has a crop of hair on the scalp,
but spider-legs of a beard on the chin...
the other has precious silverware on
the scalp... and 21st Amazonian nomads
peeping out from between his
beard)... well...
not bad for a break from hiatus...
the whiskey is good,
                    the breadth has already been
tested...
   oh yes, the dreaded notes...
   this was supposed to be a:
a 3 week break, bam! a whole session
of writing it out in one go,
beginning with: the first question
i was asked as the Western Warsaw coach station:
do Kijova? i.e. to Kiev?
       oh sure, plenty of Ukranian merchants
down the western side of Warsaw...
   a Ukranian family of only women
sitting eating 3 while chickens among other
things: polskie chlopachki nie placzy...
and if you're lucky! you might even spot
a Mongolian!
                    it was never going to be an easy
transition...
i left Poland when it was -18°C...
                   sunny... bitter...
   walking on snow was like either
hearing a meow purr every time the foot impressed
itself on the snow, or i was wearing latex...
                 and to come into this abysmall
+7°C "winter" that England is?
   gothica... rain in winter... only in England...
and yes, if i were born here
i would be making awckward jokes about
the rain... but i wasn't.... i inherited it
from some unforseen discourse about
     Saint Gorbachev and how bloodless it all
became... prized piglets of Kazakh:
   dollar baby koo chi go go west and buys
usés a Lambro-jini... plight of the Sinking Belgian:
and all he did was sail to Congo on a waffle...
   pity the man! pity the man!
    i have no romance with England...
the grey skies and the constant rain
are like toenails to my heart... they're just there...
but you just see me walk in that pine
forest... in my natural element...
                              -18°C...
why did only German poets philosophise?
   and why did only Shakespeare make
poetry indistinguishable from philosophy and
why did the French turn to pastries
                                rather than the dry
and cough infused pages of bookworm time-donning
yella spaniel sepia waggle waggle
                  Sorbone          
   & Pavlov... pretty girls and pretty boys in
the Erasmus programme... to Rome!
to Antwerp! to Brioche! ... to a brioche...
                      Bruges!
                                               Kiev aflame...
Cracow a mind-game...
            Prague merely an INXS postcard from
the early 1990s...
                    Berlin a wall...
   Munich a litre of gods' **** and company of a dog:
of a dog's intuitive measure of man's
competence with regards to a desire for gods...
                   Lvov... thankfully Lvov
will never be the Istambul of Byzantines' nostalgia...
   so too Vilno...
                                                well...
that's for starters.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
as ever, not a preference, or a pr.s. (pre scriptum)... more like an afterthought... never presume too much in case of diacritical ownership or necessary use... the language had terrible fathers... sure, once they said thou instead of you... nay instead of no... thee and still said you, as in: to be (that's thou without the index finger)... but when they applied diacritical marks ******* their faces, they attracted ridicule no one seemed to be bothered about... kinda like a Copernican trajectory... why put a dot above iota? well, the answer is the same as saying to clown-juggler (a) jesus... and saying to clown-juggler (b) yehovah... apparently the former is a res vanus (an empty thing) and the latter is a res cogitans (a thinking thing)... and a crucifixion is a binding process... collateral damage: it's the reverse... and you get to keep your yuppie christmas lights... but there a limb missing... ý and j... both have adequate indicators of children with single mothers... it like this genetic encoding, ** for woman, xy for man, xxl for a t-shirt... but why bother ι (iota) into owning any diacritical marks? that's ******* overly presuming to start things off to an Orff composition of a bulimic neptune that's why i suggested diacritical marks on a y... to transfigure it into the presupposed j... you know how many diacritical marks you can add to an ι? many... you can have a dozen brats while you're figuring out the plumbing... presumptious... presumptuous... see! false applicability of diacritical marks makes you a ******* worth of spelling! you're bound to be naturally dyslexic... ****, what a magic trick! ****! gone! dis and then there's dys- and the lexicon going berserk... make your ******* mind up! yes, i know that between dιs- and dys- the former means without, and the latter actually means an adjective, i.e. bad... or a jumbled up lexigraph; then into the tornado machine we go peacocking at the height of synonyms... but i still find it overly presumptious... ****... presumptuous to apply a dot above an ι (iota) and subsequently a dot above a non-diacritically existent j... it's how you yoyo and how you jump... there's so much ambiguity in anglican that the yhwh was drunk obvious... hence i'm drunk... and stating the obvious... you can clearly apply many other diacritical marks to a letter, rather than simply applying two: to aye and to hurray and forget the rest... rhyming couplet that... follow suite with jay... but write anything else in anglican and you see a Cardiff lazy... first the cymru, then the gaelic... well, you have to... given that english didn't come but shakespearean from the caribbean or india... you have to mind saying syrkloffipompusdumpus in Cardiff... it would be a bit diff not not... be gentle... get the rolling hills motto into that word, extract syllables like a German, or a chemist, please.

sometimes it really takes an evening like this, you go through
them until you hear the prompt and emerge on stage
and say a few lines...
you start off with *the connells
74 75,
then move onto blind lemon no lemon,
then through to kula shaker govinda,
      then reef with gimme you love,
    then onto snake river conspiracy
with a cover version of how soon is now,
then you decide to take the steps toward
formalising a mix-take (ancient history
courting techniques, high fidelity crap,
and i did manage to make one for a former
girlfriend... how ancient it all seems right
now... it also seems that i should be
70! by the looks of it... sadly i'm not...
yes yes, my teenage dreams was to work
in a music shop... swear to god, once the mp3
format came out i knew now future anti-Beatles
maniac had his hands tied and couldn't
buy the Beatles vinyl and burn them...
what can you do in Tron-land that's equivalent?
buy a Salman Rushdie and rekindle the
          bonfire night of Munich?
i had a muslim friend that really fancied
natalie portman... but because she is a jew
that was kinda difficult... how about
i obliterate that problem with alicia vikander,
hey there, poster boy... reach for the stars).
the thing is: we're in an en masse shock,
it happened all too quickly...
then came placebo with pure morning,
and then back to covers, daddy cool -
             and then back to boney m with
rasputin... and and then i picked up a book
by jack spicer, and then i thought:
i hope that i write enough so they can do
a my vocabulary did this to me: the complete
collection
, yep, i hope they can't hone in on me,
that they can only print (if ever, yuck)
           a selected works artefact
which, given the Darwinistic interpretation of
history... is not even worth bothering about...
the damage has been done historically,
it's answered in seven (if not more) news channels
with 30 minutes of original script, repeated
24/7 until another headline blip appears and
changes the narrative, just a tad.
    indeed i did pick up a book i own by the
san francisco renaissance poet jack spicer...
      and i immediately forgot what song i was
going to d.j. after i finished with thinking about
what she said when i made that mixtape for her:
listening to king crimson's epitaph at
around 5 a.m. on oxford st. going to work...
              i don't have a library, i have an a-to-zed
of avenues, streets, possibilities...
i don't think... i make cocktails...
                       the un-literal... literally applicable.
philosophy really taught me to not crave intimacy,
or bemoan it as some genius robotics inventor
who equates all things responsive as necessarily
needing an artificiality... so where's the antonym
dividing line between artificial and superficial?
men are from Mars and women are superficial?
               oh sure... we can have this talkshow logic
going round and round...
   wolves don't bark, but the domesticated dog
can't wow us with a howl... is that whining or whimper?
and i know i don't have a novel in me,
      tragic (said keith lemon style)...
                    because i never wanted a zoo,
or wanted to cage anything or see cages...
and then become scholastically holistic -
                      it was never going to be a chance to see
"the whole picture"... at best all you're going
to get is interruptions in my life...
        which is hardly what you'd call the disappearance
of Tiger Woods after rumours circulated that
he owned a harem...
                               and i really do believe that
hinduism got one thing wrong... Shiva is a girl's name.
        shaven... never stirred... sounds just about
right as if were indeed a mexican ****** drinking a mojito.
yes, we can have a mini lecture:
i abuse language, i enslave it, language the over way
round can have a bunch of protestors with
placards walking down the street and chanting slogans
that never make it into advertisement...
     speak ill of the Pharisees: get crucified...
speak ill of the plebs? they disperse - ha ha... i should
know... i could be considered a pleb anomaly...
        broad shouldered and strong enough to move
a tonne of bricks (once)...
             so anyway... i picked up this jack spicer
book i have (that ****** Lorca fetishist!
he'd **** his **** any chance he might have)
   and this weird thing came about...
i lost track of what song i would play to
murmur out the clicking sound of the keyboard
(forget it, typewriters were rapists compared
to computer keyboards) -
             it's from the poem phonemics -
and by god... i'd be gutted to have derived the same
conclusion... and i did...
    yhwh is a phonetic study...
esp. given the anti-diacritical approach of anglican
pragmatism... it's not exactly what people
expect you to believe: circumcision and kippah
and niqab... that's for people who own
about... well a single book or as Erasmus could
have said: in alles reiche... including spanish
dutchland...                        it's not even
mean-spirited that i say it: i said once:
i don't want fans... i want snobs.
                                 any respectable man with
a following of siusiumajtki (a queer way
of saying the verb of ***** and majtki?
                          )maýtki? ý, yep, rarely done(
just means underwear... what the pop stars
get when they ****** standing up)...
                   i really feel like i should write
the second to last part of the poem...
   it's itching me to do so...
             i just don't understand why i see it differently
to how jack sees it... i treated it as the case
of two Adams... aleph and ayin being
the protruding vowels...
                i didn't treat aleph as a consonant...
  maybe i made a mistake in doing so... but akin
to the Greek principle and the rule of prefix and suffix
you cut apart omicron and get o- out and attach
it to ν (nu) - of course once you cut up ν and extracted
n and forgot about the cascade that leads you up
to upsilon - to get the word νo out from the pick 'n' mix.
unless i'm speaking dutch, then i think that
makes sense.
              why wouldn't aleph and ayin be vowels?
           Semitic languages aren't going away...
as is neither the semitic religions... forget it...
it's too complicated, adding to the fact that i'm
bewildered about treating vowels as women and
women veiled and women in hiding and consonants
as men... in the same way that the Latins hide
their children in English... children? diacritical marks...
where the **** are they?
      you get them scooped up by consumerism,
only about 10% climbed a tree...
          the rest are churned into premature adulthood,
and you wonder, with all these advertising
campaigns why most of them develop mature
negations of ease, in ref. to premature depression...
  you wonder... where are the children? swallowed up
by another set of pop idols?
          did they ever play with marbles,
or hide & seek, ever played games with girls
and toys and tic-tac-toe?
ever skipped a rope?
                         it's fading because it's being exploited...
so you end up with a song that prescribed this
poem, folk implosion - make it with the best...
from the soundtrack to the film thirteen...
as it stands i need a refill, and i'll probably cite
the poem by jack, giving about half a second's worth
of care for copyright laws of a dead man...
   just so i can see if my logic serves me right
in saying that hebrew has to variations of a-,
as in aleph (א) and ayin (ע), as does greek
  with thought (θ) and philosophy (φ) -
but let me get back to you on that one.
North African English teachers
Are so rare in Peru;
However, I was sent right there
By the Erasmus - EU.


My adventures didn't even start
When I felt strong unease;
As if I was followed by some,
Some dark and unseen breeze.


My first day was ruined by a bite
Happened in the toilet;
I saw a shade in the mirror,
Then, some tooth and eyelet.


                    ---


On my first day I got injured
That was badly enough;
However, the first day kept me
A night just alike tough.


Knock-knock-knock I heard on my door,
The darkness was shallow;
Knock-knock without answer,
My guest was Diablo.


I'd been never superstitious,
Though, I believed in Jinns;
Just as I was a believer
Of many other things.


                    ---


Knock-knock-knock - for a hundred times,
As if my head was' door;
My fear' fulfilled with angriness,
I faced the corridor.


I got the door slowly ajar,
A black claw might me seize;
I snapped its hand and bring Quran,
"It's time to Exorcise!"


The demon tore the door crying,
Of Quranic verses;
The North African welcoming
Has no demon versus.
22.02.2018
Nigel Morgan Apr 2014
IV

Dear Frank,

My father, who was the wisest man I ever knew,
thought it the duty of every man, young & old,
to keep an account of his money;
& I very unwillingly obeyed him;
for I was not always so bothersome
an old fellow as I daresay I appear to you. . . .

My dear Father,

I have sent cheque to a repeated bill from Griffin.
A thermometer has come from Kew,
For which I have also paid.

I go on maundering about the pulvinus,
& from what I have seen roughly
in the petioles of the Cotyledons of oxalis,
I conclude that a pulvinus
must be developed from ordinary cells.

I have tried watering Porliera out of doors,
I gave four small cans full in the day
& next morning it was wide open
though for several days before it had been shut.
The ***-plant is very unhealthy I am afraid
As its leaves are dropping off at the stalk.

I was very glad to find that Sachs is dead
against all the people that find
the Descendenz theory in
Ray, Lamarck, Goethe &c.;
Sachs says that he believes some ferns
of the family Marratiaceae sleep . . .

Dear F,

I have finished the long chapter on Sleeping Plants
& sent it to Mr Norman to copy & diagrams to Mr
Cooper.

I am now looking over piles of notes on Heliotropism.
I am more perplexed than ever about life of Dr. D:
Hen thinks it very dull, & wants it much shortened &
otherwise arranged. Erasmus likes it.
Your mother wants parts shortened.
I shall take it on Aug. 1st to the Lakes
& finish it there.

I am tired— Ever yours
C. Darwin
Geno Cattouse Jul 2013
St. Elmo looked down on us
He lit our path through the jagged night.
Erasmus held us in his roughened palm.

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole.

There is a balm in Gilead,
to heal the sick soul.

Grasp the mast and glow ,and live
The mast of the fire.  The mast.
In darkest night.

Journey to Gilead by the warm blue
light.
For My Friend
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
i own
a bed...

          but i rather...

sleep on...

a hardened...
wooden

flooring...

          that there's
an excuse
for a three-some:

soak of two stags...
and two: and a third....

glory hole:
waiting...

        tiny-rubberband,,,
hell-spew: nue-spawn
of the loitering:

third ***** of lesotho...
this... diatribe prince...
blank pawn- and panther...
spawn... best: retort:

a time when racial differences:
where a last:
difference binding
incremental loitering...
lining...

          the rancid "quid"....
copper-flaking...
my most adhered to...
bubble-wrapping...
          my loot and loitering...
skim-reading of erasmus...

      gas-lit...
             incubus...
the last salvaged barber shopping...
that sort of trim...
that rhapsody in...
sub-topic...
*******... debunking measures...
spawn: en vogue...
belitteling meausures...
facing the *****-bank...
basics... and new world conquering...
this great... unfamiliar past
of the bleach panther...

       chain-locket and a mirror of
surprise...
about 4 children later...
some variation of first towed along
"love"... my love my love...
the last lesson...
the first at arrived at grievance...
a bismarck: my last loaded:
sq. hope for a miser:
and some... variation...
a hello... a hello... a hello...

                  as best: heaved...
the last... a remnants of...
                        this a wording...
lost: to the autobiography...
of the U-boat captive...
or the panzer-tank... captive...

                confiscating the captives...
of the lesser man...
of the lesser man...
     confiscating the captives...
for all the time in the world...
and all the world...
was... this... time... most... limiting!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
as was assured, leave our medium of
communication to images, for images
are more provocative and easily translated,
well sure... given that phonetics
has become so ugly you are reduced to
:) (smiley) and ;) (smiling with a wink of
assurance), and the acronyms by
the number: CUL8R (see  you later)...
no wonder then... defiling a mode
of communication so dear makes me wonder...
when will the era of abstraction
end, to end the splashes of colour
without definite contorts of
a visage cease to be?
take a dollop of **** and smear
it on canvas ought to be revolutionary,
by now, i'm sure... because it's just that;
it's like we're illiterate again,
first the clergy governed the literacy rates
and made people idiotic, maximising
on the electorate with Pope Erasmus,
now they're pulverising us with images
to sit, calm and comfortable with a pair of
underwear filled with ants...
pulverised by images we reduced phonetic
representation of writing letters to
no avail, instead shortening our acumen
to representation of being pulverised by images:
like c and see... sea... set sail...but there's no land ahoy!
john oconnell Jul 2010
The spirit
of Erasmus
of Rotterdam
still does
and always
will
thrive
in me.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
thus each tear i shed unto your people tribalised by a religion, unto each child of your womb a tear of mine, that i might return from the prison of islam that became a “home” as instigated by islam, and into the home i know of, as being the enemy, in judaism given respect, guardian of the tetragrammaton as the trinity of s, n, t and the hidden vowels.*

and if my prison was islam,
why have my caste resemble
agianst your beauty, brother?
you only made me biterrer
to have my ugly form moulded
against your beauty i see in god
mould you otherwise
akin to god's thought,
so why have you delved in demasking me?!
why have you attmepted to demask me
and give clothing of your nakedness
with angelic spires of the wings?
you demasked me...
and by so doing you made me more beautiful
than you could ever be...
thus i shed a tear upon listening to
the islamic call to prayer -
and i could have replaced a love music
for the wahabi doctrine of only listening to
the call of prayer...
but brother... i write this with tears in my eyes...
why did you unravel the mystery of aesthetics
that god allowed me to be a tourist among these forms
in placebo represented as their own and mortal,
thus sunsets above the wording
that did not revel in reading but in action,
and the few under pseudonym erasmus bothered
with the antonym of the former and left the latter
to idiots, which you claimed descent of from the idiocy of
a prophet that... simply... didn't bother...
he thus trading olives and nectarines
tried trading words and found himself bound to only
one paragraph expressed: and the dictionary of his eloquence
only reached the letter m from a rather than ending in z...
in that onomatopoeia of m n l o t p sung in dyslexic silence;
saddly enough genghis khan wrote more
and killed many more than the supposedly heaven sent
muhammad...
but the mongols were never destined to revel in living
under oil... they lived under camel fat all along...
and never became decadend like the saudi arabs became
with the european ******* ready to expoit youth of flesh
than subject the flesh to the forces of swan encompassing
a stature of the idea encompassing marriage;
well european ******* are cheap: you could
mistake a bulgarian ***** for a romanian one
every other day of the week, and it still wouldn't
feed the ethopian advertised by western charity companies
needing more money to feed the western bureaucrat
for digit input pin: x x x, x x x, than
that ethopian chirch adopted child eating quasi-sushi off
a maiden head of a crap dipped into the depths
the dark thus recycling endearing the construction
of mollusk protein in m.e.n.s.a.
Zywa Mar 2022
I want to live, so I have to
praise life, and our folly
having a good time

and getting children, uninhibited
and blind to the hardness
of our existence and of people

their failures, errors and deceit
yes, our flight for each other's
aggression and cruelty

Without ideals, I still want
to discover more of life
I am open to the miracle

that you are another me, but
carefully, since the kindergarten
teacher put my trust in the corner

where I took shelter in obedience
and paying extra attention, because
being myself was dangerous
"Lof der zotheid" ("The Praise of Folly", 1511, Desiderius Erasmus)

The kindergarten of the nuns, in the Piet Heinstraat in Tilburg (1956-1958)

Collection "Imprints Masks"
POSSIBLE Apr 2021
Like a sphinx
I deal in dreams
Secrets and forgotten things
revelations Realizations
Real nough to crumble nations

The light
Make fumble the mumble
Stalking  faces

The sun
May humble the egos
stuck in all the bothered phases

So listen:

If a square turns in to a wreck
And the tangle turns into a tri
Then Spheres sit with angles like
Indigo sunsets and I and Is

God's telling me the function of freedom
is to free others from the dumb ****
needless suffering from a compass
north star witness offering

Need a different kind of outbreak
Tap the mystic roots till we out fake
Crafting directors moment 
not another out-take

Two levels of reality
means one is more supreme

Erasmus laid the egg
that uther hatched in steam

Sleeping dragon ....
Careful, almost horde hatched my dream
poor patchwork puppet speaking muppet strings...maybe Just a man sticking his wand and hand in things.

So I'll leave you with this, be careful where you forget to love lest sphinx and djinn inverse the grin and thus Saturn's spin above.
The coach signaled timeout and called the team to the sidelines.  There were eight minutes left in the biggest game of their lives, and they would be playing for three minutes with a severe disadvantage.  They had committed a succession of penalties within a span of less than 60 seconds, and they would now be playing without three men on the field.  In lacrosse this is referred to as ‘Man Down.’  

Usually it’s only ‘One Man Down,’ or at the most, ‘Two Men Down,’ but few watching that day had ever seen a team go ‘Three Men Down.’  This meant that their star goalie T.J. Braxton was only going to have three defenders in front of him instead of the usual six.

T.J. had been playing great, but he now had to play for two minutes with three men missing in front of him and then the third minute still missing one. It was going to seem like an eternity.  The coach looked over at T.J. and he was standing off to the side by himself not wanting to either look or talk to anyone during the intermission.  The coach understood this behavior because he had been a goalie himself and decided to leave T.J. alone — totally immersed within his own thoughts.

As they did the cheer to break the huddle, it was for their goalie …”1, 2, 3, Go T.J.”  What would happen now brought more pressure than any goalie should ever have to withstand.  Even going just ‘One Man Down’ would in many cases result in a goal for the other team.  Going ‘Two Men Down’ almost ensures the other team a goal, and anything beyond that just puts your goalie at the mercy of the shooters on the other team.

    And Tonight There Would Be No Mercy To Be Found

T.J. already had 18 saves up to this point with only half a quarter left to play in regulation. Saves are when a goalie either blocks or deflects an offensive shot from the other team. He had only let in three goals all game, and the score was tied at 3-3.  

Pennhurst was a powerful public school with large and fast athletes.  They had not been playing lacrosse as long as T.J.’s private (all-boys) school, Haverland Academy, but their natural athletic ability and inner toughness were making up for any experience lost.  

T.J. would have to defend his goal missing three men in front of him for two minutes and then missing one man for the next sixty seconds.  It was his team’s possession coming out of the timeout, and it was all they could do being so shorthanded to even get the ball across the mid-field line.  The coach’s tactic was not to shoot the ball now but to stall and to try and take as much time off the clock as they could until they could get more players back on the field.  T.J. stood rock solid in the center of the ‘crease’ in front of his goal and looked squarely at the goalie at the other end of the field. The ‘crease’ was the large circle surrounding the goal that no offensive player from the other team could enter. He seemed to not be following the ball and his coach wondered what was going on inside his head.

Playing goalie is 80% mental, and he was hoping his star goalie wasn’t going to have a melt down when his team needed him the most.  T.J. would normally be very active inside his own goal shouting instructions to the defensemen in front of him and trying to best position them for the oncoming attack.    

               Something ‘Seemed’ Different Tonight

T.J. had entered a new zone, one that he had never been in before, and one that only he could understand.  As Haverland’s lead attackman charged the opposing goal, the ball fell out of his stick. It was immediately picked up by the opposing goalie and ‘cleared’ to a midfielder standing outside and to his left.  The midfielder made one more pass to an attackman, and the ball was coming T.J.’s way with only three defenders in front of him to help stop the charge. The ball was again passed to one of their senior captains and their strongest midfielder.  

He juked left as he faked a pass and then as he cradled the ball wildly, he headed straight toward T.J. in the goal.  When he got within fifteen feet of the goal he stopped, set his feet, and with a violent and twisting motion fired an overhand shot across his right shoulder at the ground two feet in front of where T.J. now stood.

T.J. was now eighteen and a half and had been playing goalie since he was seven years old.  He had seen and defended almost every kind of shot and from every angle in those eleven years. He had just never had to do it before with almost no defense in front of him.  As the shot left the midfielders stick, T.J. reacted.  He took two steps forward and was able to scoop the ball out of the air at ankle height before it was able to bounce off the ground. Bounce shots were more difficult to save, and his accumulated instinct and experience allowed him to get this one and at least for now keep the score tied at 3-3.

T.J. ran behind his own goal toward the end line. With the ball in his stick he was trying to take time off the clock.  Only one opposing player chased him, and he was able to do a 180-degree spin, avoid that player, and run back out in front of his goal.  He then cleared the ball, the entire length of the field, to a midfielder standing in the far left corner.  T.J.’s team had the ball within thirty feet of the opposing goal with only two minutes left to run in penalty time.

T.J.’s offense decided it was time to step up and play big.  They managed to take a full minute off the clock with uncanny passing until the referee finally called stalling and gave the ball back to the other side.

As the ball came back in T.J’s direction, two of his penalized players retook the field.  They were now playing with only a ‘one man down’ disadvantage and for only sixty more seconds.

The opposing team set up in a perimeter in front of his goal passing the ball from man to man and then behind T.J.’s goal in an attempt to unbalance a still weakened defense.  As the ball went behind the net, T.J. rotated inside the crease never taking his eye off the ball.  He thought they were setting him up for something sneaky because his fundamental blocking skills on normal shots were so strong. More than anything he didn’t want to give up a cheap goal, and he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out that his suspicions had been correct.

As they passed the ball back and forth behind his goal, an attackman turned and tried to lob the ball over the back of the goal, and T.J.’s stick, to an opposing midfielder who was charging the front of the goal from about twenty-five-feet away.  They were hoping to catch T.J. mesmerized in what was going on behind the net and then reverse field and go in the one direction no one ever expected — over the back of the goal.  

It didn’t work!  As the ball left the midfielders stick, T.J. jumped high in the air and intercepted the pass in the shooting strings of his goalie stick.  He then spun around and ran directly to the out of bounds line to his right. It was beyond the defensive box, and he stood there waiting for someone to challenge him.  He was again trying to take precious seconds off the clock to get his team back to full strength. Although a goalie, T.J. was the fastest player on his team and that speed was like money in the bank to a team that was struggling and in trouble with time running out.

He managed to get the penalty down to twenty two seconds before he finally dished the ball off to another long stick defender and then quickly moved back in front of his goal.  That defensemen got across midfield just before another penalty would have occurred for not advancing the ball.  With only seventeen seconds left on the penalty, the offense passed the ball to the four corners looking for a man who was ‘hot’ (open) who could take the shot and finally break the tie.  With only three seconds left in the penalty their best attackman, John Erasmus, took the ball in his stick and with his left hand fired a side angle shot at the right side of the goal.  It was a great shot, but their goalie made a heroic save. He was also a senior and had transferred into Pennhurst two years ago from a Lacrosse powerhouse school in northern Maryland.

With both teams now at full strength, the ball went back and forth for the final five minutes with very few shots taken at either end.  The ones that were taken were weak and from great distance, and both goalies easily picked them up and started the ball going the other way.  Each shot was critical now because the game was tied with time running out.  Possession was more important than losing the ball to the other team by taking a poor shot.  As the lights shone brightly high above the scoreboard, time ran out in regulation.  The game would now go to sudden death overtime, and it would become about the strength of the face-off men and how hot each goalie was going to be.

    It Was Now About The Face-Off Man And The Goalies

In sudden death, the first team to score wins!  No second chances here it’s do or die time, and everything is amped up to an entirely new level.  Many times, the winner of the face off at midfield wins the game because everything is geared towards that one shot, and the pressure on the opposing goalie is tremendous.  Unless the goalie can isolate himself in a ‘zone of invincibility,’ the chances of blocking a shot in overtime due to a lost face off are not very good.  Just like in the NFL, where the coin toss often determines the winner in overtime, the face-off is like that coin toss only with skill and not luck determining the winner.  T.J. thought back to all the coaches and mentors that had brought him to where he was standing tonight.  They were all somewhere up in the stands, and they were all living and dying with him tonight in the goal.

      T.J. Decided That Tonight It Would Be About Life

The Captains met at the middle of the field as the referee explained the rules of sudden death.  All who were listening thought that the term was aptly named.  They shook hands again and ran back to the huddles on their respective sidelines.  Both coaches gave their overtime strategies to their teams, and they did one more cheer before retaking the field.  Both face off men walked slowly toward each other at the center mid-field line and stared each other directly in the eye.  

The physical disparity between the two players at mid-field was huge.  Haverland’s best face off man, George Arle, was 5’6’’ tall and 160 lbs. Pennhurst’s face off man, B.J. Radford, had been an All-State quarterback on the football team and was 6’3’’ and 225 lbs.  Although Lacrosse was not his primary sport,  he had played it for the last four years and by anyone’s account he was a ‘stud player.’  The skill in taking face offs is unlike any other in Lacrosse.  It’s more similar to recovering a fumble in football or picking up a loose five-dollar bill dropped on the floor in Penn Station in New York.  It’s uncontrolled mayhem with the skill to do it only evident to those who have been there. And it’s those players who know painfully well what it takes to win the fight for the ball.

Although T.J.’s face off man George had had a good season, he always struggled against players that were that much bigger than him and usually lost the ball.  The ref. positioned the ball between the two boys sticks who were both crouched down and ready at mid-field.  The whistle blew, and George lost the ball as B.J. picked it up and charged right over George’s left shoulder.  He was headed in a straight line right toward T.J. who was standing fixed and ready in front of his goal.  B.J. passed the ball to a midfielder who kept it only a second before passing it to an attackman who was off to the right of the goal.  The attackman looked to his left and faked a pass to his right.  He then spun around and with all his might fired a bounce shot on an angle from the right facing side of Haverland’s goal.  

T.J. stepped forward, scooped the ball up on the first bounce, and in one fluid motion flipped the ball out to a defenseman on the left perimeter. This player cradled it inside his long stick as he took off down the sideline and across midfield.  The defenseman made a pass to a middie on the extreme other side of the field who then passed to an attackman. This man ran around behind the net and came out on the other side in front of the goal, shot the ball, but it went wide right.  The other team was closest to the ball when it went out of bounds, so it was Pennhurst’s possession, and it was coming back T.J.’s way.

Their goalie cleared the ball left to a long stick defenseman, who in turn made a long pass directly to an attackman, and the ball was once again in the oppositions stick less than thirty feet from the goal T.J. was defending.  This attackman had no intention of passing.  He put his head down and charged straight ahead toward T.J.  As his coach was screaming at him to pass, and it the midst of five defensive players, he fired off a shot.  It came at a side angle, and, with all of the players surrounding the shooter, it was hard for T.J. to see the ball come off the kid’s stick.  

When T.J. finally did see the ball, it had passed the head of his stick, and he was just able to get a piece of the ball with the bottom of his shaft. It was just enough to deflect the ball upwards and over the goal and into the chain link fence fifty feet behind the crease.  On instinct alone, T.J. ran after the ball and being closest to it when it went out of bounds, he picked it up in his stick and slowly walked forward. This gave his midfielders time to transition back up to the other end of the field.

T.J. was living on borrowed time.  Making one save in overtime was huge, but making two, and one with only the shaft of his stick to save it all, was stretching the limits of whatever luck the team had left.  T.J. easily passed the ball to an unguarded defenseman who ‘walked’ the ball up-field and then tossed it to a midfielder just in front of the offensive box.  

The offensive box is the restrained and shorter ‘boxed-out’ area right in front of the goalie and where most shots are taken, and most goals are scored. The midfielder made a pass to his left to an attackman, who tried to make a long looping pass across the face of the box, but it was intercepted by one of the oppositions long stick middies and passed quickly to another midfielder as it transitioned back again towards T.J. This time the ball was coming straight at T.J., and it had taken less than five seconds to get there.  His team was not set yet and this charge could be the end of it all.

T.J.’s team had been caught napping in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty.  Pennhurst’s top midfielder again had the ball, and he was charging at T.J. who had only two players set and not the normal six in front of him to play defense.

Surprisingly to T.J., this player then made a pass to the extreme right corner and that attackman ran behind T.J.’s goal giving his defense more time to reset.  This player then made a pass to the left side, and it was once again in the stick of their best midfielder, Matt Makritis.  Midfielders, or Middies, as they’re often called are many times the best athletes on the team.  They have to play both offense and defense and run the entire length of the field while their shift is on. Makritis was a high school All-American, and he was charging at full speed toward the left front facing side of T.J.’s goal.

                       T.J. Was An All-American Too!

T.J. was also an All-American and had recently been on the front cover of ‘Inside Lacrosse Magazine’ and featured as the #1 player coming out of High School Lacrosse that year.  He thought to himself that all of that press would be meaningless if he allowed this shot to go in.  The opposing midfielder continued toward the crease unguarded, got within ten feet of the goal, and fired point blank at T.J.  No fancy bounce shots or behind the back this time.  This shot was straight at T.J.’s head, and from less than ten feet away. T.J. caught the ball in the fat part of his goalie sticks net.  It didn’t stay there though.  The power of the shot caused it to come out of his stick, in what is referred to as a rebound, as it rolled ten or twelve feet out in front of the goal.

A second midfielder then picked up the ball, and not lifting it from the ground, fired a shot right back at T.J. This was more like a golf shot than a lacrosse shot, and T.J. struggled to see from which direction the ball was coming.  As the ball came back at T.J. at a severe angle, headed toward the left backside of the net, he stretched his body out like a goalie in the NHL.  Doing a full split in front of the net, he was able to get a piece of the ball with his right cleat and deflect the ball off to the left side of the goal. As the ball rolled harmlessly toward the far side of the endline, the referee blew his whistle.  The first three-minute overtime period had ended.

    They Had Survived Sudden Death For Three Minutes

Both teams huddled tightly with their coaches and trainers.  This time though, T.J. didn’t leave the crease at all.  He was leaning against the goal with his back turned to the field. It was almost as if he was talking to someone you couldn’t see and totally immersed in a world of his own.  There are several times in a man’s life that define and underline not only who he is, but who he will then become.  This was one of those times for T.J.

                                 And He Knew It

Both teams wearily took the field.  The pressure of an extremely tight game, and then surviving one overtime period, had taken its toll.  As the face-off men bent low and readied for the ball, T.J.’s back was still facing the field.  When he heard the whistle blow he spun around and it was like someone twice his 6’2’’ size was playing goalie.  He seemed to fill the entire net with his presence and there was an ‘aura’ coming from him that surrounded the entire defensive end of the field.

Once again, George lost the face off to the All-State quarterback and star midfielder, B.J. Radford.  This time however, the look on B.J.’s face was different.  Although fairly new to Lacrosse, inside his chest beat the heart of a champion.  He almost stepped on George as he picked up the ball and headed straight over the mid-field line and directly at T.J.  This senior captain had no intention of passing, and he was going to ‘ice’ the game for his teammates and fans.  B.J. was not known as a great shooter but more for his defensive skills. He was a great athlete though, and this charge was not to be taken lightly by anyone on the defensive end of the field.  

                 B.J. Knew This Was His Moment

Without stopping or setting his feet, he raised his stick above his head and shot the ball toward the right corner of the net at over ninety miles an hour.  T.J. saw this one all the way and caught the ball in his stick.  He then ran out of the goal and passed B.J. who was still coming his way as he charged past him and headed straight down the field.  T.J. was out of the defensive box and headed toward the mid-field line.  He was looking at nothing in front of him except the opposing goalie who was now staring at him with an incredulous look on his face inside the opposing crease.

Everyone there that night had their mouth’s open in awe.  No one expected the goalie to ever make the final break, and no one watching had ever seen a goalie possessed with such speed.  The other team was in awe too and just kept watching him run. They were all guarding open men who they were sure T.J. would eventually pass the ball to.

                                  He Didn’t Pass

When he crossed the midfield line, the fans went wild and stood up.  One of his midfielders had the presence of mind to stay back behind the midfield line so that an offsides wouldn’t be called.  In Lacrosse, you always need at least three men back plus the goalie in the defensive end.  Once T.J. crossed midfield, one of the midfielders had to stay back.

T.J. approached the offensive box in front of their goalie with only one thing on his mind.  He had been acutely watching this kid all day and he had noticed one thing.  This was a fundamentally sound and ‘play up’ goalie and one would who would rise to the occasion when the heat was on.  He had transferred into Pennhurst only two years ago and based on his great skill, he had gotten them this far.  He had one weakness though that T.J. had observed — he couldn’t handle the off-speed shots, especially over his left shoulder.

The left shoulder is opposite the goalie stick’s head if you’re right handed. In his case, the only weakness that T.J. had seen,
other than his struggle with off-speed shots, were those directed high up and left.  Like a changeup in baseball, the off-speed shot often confused the goalie’s timing and could cause him to over or under react at just the right time.  T.J. continued to charge the goal.

By this time, two defensemen from Pennhurst were running from both sides to get to T.J. before he could shoot, but his speed was too much.  As he approached the crease from the right side, he raised his stick above his head.  He threw his lower right elbow at the goalie as if executing a shot.  His stick-head never moved, but the goalie bit on the fake.  He waved the head of his stick high right and then easily lobbed the ball over the Pennhurst goalie’s left shoulder.  The referee blew the whistle — the game was over —and T.J.’s team had finally won.

The other goalie dropped to his knees and then put both hands on the ground in front of him.  T.J. went over and picked him up saying: “You may have lost on the scoreboard tonight, but you never gave up. I’m proud to have played against you.”

Haverland had just won the State Championship, and most watching said it was the greatest goalie performance at any level that they had ever seen.  T.J. was voted ‘Most Valuable Player’ of the game. In the fall, he would be off to a top 10 Lacrosse University where he would major in Criminal Justice and take his goalie skills to an even higher level.

T.J.’s coach told him after the game that you can play lacrosse for your entire lifetime and never be able to play or recreate what you just did.  His future college coach, who had been in the stands watching, came down on the field and put his arm around T.J. after the game and told him the same thing.  He went on to say: “T.J., I had my whole speech ready before you went into overtime.  I thought I might have to come down here and tell you that although you lost — you lost really well.

   T.J. Did Not Want To Believe That Losing Well Was Really Possible!

“You had made all those heroic saves throughout the game for your team, and if you had to lose, it would have been a great way to do it.  The only problem with my prepared speech is that you didn’t lose. As I watched you in the goal with your back turned to the field as the second overtime period started, I said to my assistant coach Dave, who’s over talking to your folks, that our new and future goalie is in a zone that few can ever get to.  He will not be scored on again tonight.  Tonight, and for however long this game lasts — he is truly invincible. And I don’t believe I’ve ever used that word to describe a player before.”

Many years passed and one day T.J got an email from his old high school coach.  The coach told him that once again his school, Haverland, would be playing for the State Championship and he wanted to run his pre-game speech by T.J. before his boys took the field.  It was short and to the point.  What he wanted to tell the boys was: “It wouldn’t be the number of players on the field but who those players were and what was coming from inside their hearts that would make all the difference.”  He then went on to tell the story of T.J. in the State Championship Game that took place over ten years before.  

Some of the boys had heard the story, but all were in awe listening to the emotion and passion in their coach’s voice as he retold the story again.  It was like replaying that game with the current Haverland players and right before the most important game that most of them would ever play.  

Haverland won the State Championship again that day and many of the boys said that it was the pre-game speech about T.J. and his team’s overtime victory that fueled their desire and commitment to make it happen.  It was also a close game, and with two minutes to go the score was again tied. Five times during the game they had gone ‘one-man’ down but had only allowed one goal to be scored during those five uneven possessions by the other team.  Haverland was then able to strip the ball from their opponent twice in the final two minutes and convert both into scores — ending the game at 7-5.

Along a lonely hallway in the back of Haverland’s new athletic center hangs a plaque with the story of that night so many years ago.  But to T.J., and all the members of that legendary team, the thing that hangs highest — is their refusal to lose.

The possibility of being invincible would stay inside T.J. and all who were there to watch him play that night. He learned that at the end of the streak where luck ends, sometimes you have to enter that zone …

                                 And Just ‘Will It’ To Happen.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2019
A voice. No a breeze, whirling a vibe,
ping,
signal down my left-ear hole

gap - do I follow this sprite, a whispt hiss,
this way,

come and see.
Here men invented history, the written story tell of
piles of cities on cities, where all the books was boined.

why did men do that? I listen to me ask,

ology was invented here,
ology-gnosis mist interp o'sin,
that started here, the corrosion
on the contact points between the Sybils and home-base,
Storytellers forgot the melody. The mason's lost the knack.

Written words, those froze the gods in place and
anointed the roles,
in order of importance to the common weal and woe.

--Anachron active.
There are ever resistors to restoration of the flow.
Now is part of ever, you know,
so as Three-channel-era professors seem today,
so were Oral
Storytellers from the initiate class,
doing their duty for the old school ways,
used to
make a child sacred, offer it, the sacred thing,
where
death is symbolic, the heart is taken, with the mind,

a boy or a girl is taken from all reality, and offered, as a living heart and mind,
and gut,
offered
Sacri-ficed, arti-****-of-truth-to-be made knower of things others cannot handle,

---- snake kachina dances past my per-ipher phor phun...
--- loss of focus, that's
the crime of buying what only initiated and locked-in magi
are ever allowed to know, by God, say the words written

in script captured from the scribes who came from Phoenica,
as
testified by the Sybil in throes of ecstacy, you will never know...

so, make it worth my while, the seer of such things says
to the widowed mother
whose hoplite husband fell off a cliff running from Thermopylae.

I'll get your kid in the school of the prophets, through the door
of dark and mysterious learning,
requiring a substantial League of Delphi guar-ohnteed low usery,
standard "borrower is servant to the lender", fifty years period.

--Anachron off.
Listen.
Do they have this in 2019? Timeslip. It's on Youtube, there's
a blockchain on the door, though,
nothing is sacred any more
than before.
It's time the whole story hidden where ideas ignored in idle words
have been received,
be told.
Erasmus, looks up, try this, he says.

Ha, ala Textus Receptus, Magustory of Blowhards and Slowbellies.

Some future, alls I got to say. This is some future we all imagined,

is there an option? Maybe, as in, whose may overides mine?

There is a whole story, I learn, as I wander through the ruins...

Rabbi, where do you live?
He saw me, calling from the ruins, he winked and said again,
Come and see.
Online Western Heritage Classes, while tending to the peace in my valley.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
rearranging a rubber- band on my right
hand for "something" that
comes close to a golf handicap...
this "something" is actually more
tangible, though...
to... make the sensation of
sinew more prominent - like an exoskeleton
variety of a visible: contradictory sinew
that does the opposite of
what's already in place: by restraint...
- i hate golf...
i also hate typing-slow....
when you can't type without having
to look down at the keyboard...
why? it's basically underappreciating
the genius of the man
behind: qwerty... christopher latham sholes...
to me? herr c. l. s.
is leagues above the person who
eroded our brains with...
the alphabet...
why wouldn't you put all the vowels
first... and the consonants later?
maybe the alphabet learning should be
rearranged toward
the sequence:
q w e r t y
or...
   q a z
      w s x
          e d c
the rearranging of the sign of the cross
done by catholics... left to right...
otherwise the orthodoxy of right to left...
but why still bother
with the standard alphabetical...
as long as you remember / use... all the letters...
you stack up 26... what's so terribly
important about x y z...
   e f g... h i j...
         k- l, m, n, o p...
let me sit here... an fester on a wound...
let me keep rancid chicken meat
in my fridge long enough...
can you ever begin to fathom the perfumery of:
how meat can give off whiffs of
rancidity?
it's so specific... it's unlike... what national
treasure... dame Judy Dench said...
in chocolate (show-lo'ca)...
ooh... your cinnamon is rancid...
it's chilly powder...
         rancid meat: esp. chicken...
it has an almost acidic whiff about it...
i can still see the doctor... crow pecking at the keyboard...
armed with only two index fingers...
while here i am... utilizing almost all of mine...
sure... the space button
to catch a reel newspaper style "paragraphing":
columns... rubrics... sudoku being done
my "tired" bones of pinky ownership...
- such that each time i take a bicycle
from havering-atte-bower...
into the grid...
of... Loon'dune...
  who's who when having asked for Lee's...
Da'Un!
           the apostrophe cipher...
an intra-verbum pause...
    otherwise? down...
at best English is written as an approximation...
Fwench is worse...
that much can be said...
they leave their letters at the altars
of Moloch before this grand **** of
infanticide... Guld'An: not Gul'Dan...
if i had eyes worth of ice...
and a heart that throbbed wit
guilt... my eyes would not be the colour
of jade to begin with...
while my heart would not be...
the project of one man...
i desire to steal st. paul's cathedral...
i will not be able
to stick a river into the Thames to turn its...
by way... a river with a tide?
where is the cut-off point
between river water and the sort of water
that makes it... undrinkable?
before the salt settles the last hurrah?
if it weren't chicken scratches that might make
a summary of the solo project of scribble with
the one hand... a handwritten river
as hard to decipher as mandarin hieroglyphs
at times...
spawning an trans-generational
itch for ulterior usage of chop-sticks:
mostly used in the pit of the abacus...
you don't have to be prescribed
the alphabet...
you unfathomable you: you don't...
i see someone, able as i am: to use the arrangement
of two hands before a keyboard...
without looking down...
as a tier above the need to arrange
an alphabet like it might imply:
historical significance?
after a while... that sooner than later
disappears...
the alphabet is lost... when having to arrange
words...
what is the point of keeping the need
for the alphabet... my hands are my eyes...
when i sit down to type...
looking at braille might seem more
important by now...
i don't need the alphabet...
well... i might need it...
but learning it is obsolete...
            unless invested in via: vowels first...
consonants later...
vowels? ** in the realm of d.n.a...
      consonants? XY... ergo?
           vowels are female...
consonants are male...
             no one bothers these days... with these
stalemate concepts of pedagogy...
what philosophy isn't... pedagogy ought to be...
and what is philosophy?
freely available inquiry for those who
want to ingest it...
pedagogy is prescribed learning...
whereas philosophy is without a curriculum...
what is pedagogy? it's primarily: curriculum!

people most close to me once, upon,
a time... hoped... that i might succumb to
becoming a teacher...
i have a Leibniz-complex...
i'd sooner be a ******* road-sweeper than
custard my brain into a role
of overt-demands of responsibility...
******* mother-goose tribunal weighing
on my shoulders... no!
but i like the idea of detailing minor...
revisions...

the alphabet "concern"? using an anecdote...
in a car, with a friend... listening to his father
scold him for not remembering the alphabet...
so not remembering the alphabet is worse
than... not remembering the spelling of: remember?
the alphabet is beside the "hands that see"
argument of qwerty...
there is no "logical" argument for it...
to lodge A first... what about...
that curiosity exclamation marked and mark
and worded: huh? with a scratch of the head...

by the way... isn't the H sometimes
"ghosted" / i.e. surded?
in cockney it 'appens all the time...
i know i'll be robbed of something...
maybe this whole: this is the body of Christ...
i'll be cannibalised for the greater good...
maybe i'll end up with a *******
temple cult of "******" methuselah ladies on
the prowl...

and if i throw another tongue into
the equation: a latin scripted zunge...
will there be a need to throw all ambitions at
the ******* Mandarin like we're the second
coming of the mongolian golden horde?

London: loon-dim... or loon-dune...
i can expand the hell i like...
language is a dog... it obeys me:
i don't obey it... it's my ******* servant:
punctuation: girth of collar
and length of my leash!

i'm almost thankful that English... as a language...
is unlike all the other inheritors of ancient Latin...
you wouldn't see cappuccino anywhere in
neque enim tu es anima tantum,
sed anima corpus circumferens: corpus autem
non potest simul pluribus inesse locis...
Erasmus...

oh don't worry... if i bother... otherwise:
you'd think they'd prescribe us learning a feather's worth
of Latin while the "tide" receded...
back to the old ******* of nation,
tongue... giraffes... glaciers and graffiti...

while we're still rearranging alphabets,
while doctors peck blind at the keyboard...
write... sow: slow... index... primo!
because? cloud of a b c d e f, g...
  why put vowels so randomly arranged
within the confines of: primarily consonants...
it's not like a *******
schematic of 1 1 1 1 1 9 1 1 1
    9 9 9 9 9 9 1 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9
   vowels are... numbers are integers...
period...
    math like jurisprudence:
a ******* theausaurus game... word for word:
counter a word: hide a word... hey presto!
a "new" word...
oh, right... a vowel is an odd "number"...
a consonant: an... "even"... ahem... "number"...
since you can
cut up a S and get... E S or S (ee)
but when you cut up an A
you get... i... irrationality: "irrationality"...
diacritical markings... ą... oh that blessed
breath of things having automated odds-on ****...

breaking of bark...
timid squalor of meow...
all in disarray...
the politics of the sexes... of course:
tantamount...
there was a moon landing... haven't you heard?
this miraculous foresights of
post-subjectivity?

i scream on silent while you children
i given their hail mary / iron maiden
silent, treatment....
congested a best **** please....

i'm starting to get my "mojo" back...
perhaps my vocabulary to boot...
isn't enough... it's never enough...
the Leibniz-Complex is detailing
the afterthoughts of succumbing
to the status of: "librarian"...
or that one kind wonder of
a Portobello St. book on the broke...
hoarder of... "illicit" meteorogical oops
hey presto: there's a daisy.....

it's so much less presto when someone is
also a hey presto! who done it...
the cat takes 'ickles for its nap...
i bone, marrow and that's "fat"...

seagulls in essex?!
that the dead are reminder....
you remember me deaarest ol' ****...
i too tow a love for life....
it's no most importantly "you"... though...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022

       /    /
     _
    
     /     /               |4| |x| |4|

by x...
               + with
- without
                                obelus, i.e. among
or: in between...

as you get older it's so refreshing to have so little
male sensibility of not getting any:
i.e. "any" from the opposite ***...
i'm currently working about 10 females...
there's me at the brothel: that's about 5...
and 5 outside of the brothel...
i like them as PROSPECTS...
oh sure... i'd date them... go to the cinema with them:
although: what the **** is worth
watching at the cinema these days...
big girls... like Emmie just my type...
a proportionate "hassle"... 5ft11 and chunky...
she has kept changing her WhatsApp profile
picture like 3 to 4 times ever since she gave
me her number... she blew out today...
oh! i was so looking to be working with her today...
instead... i had some random Mo... and Frankie...
Frankie's alright... a butch-lesbian...
which is sort of fun when talking about a nice
piece of ***... she talks about women like
men might talk when not overheard by
HYENA FEMINISTS...
it's very, very refreshing...
me and Frankie... ****'s sake: FRANKLINE...
talk about women like we're about to start
running a marathon....

i had one of these strange in-body experiences
today at the Romford Ice Rink...
my head was thumping: but i felt no pain...
my brain was trying to escape and leave
me without a spinal chord and two legs to stand on...
no pain...
it's an ancient fear... a pseudo-epilepsy once
gripped me... it would grip me
when i bit down on my jaw...
it would send a shockwave from my head
into my stomach... and curl into a ball of
excruciating pain... a stomach cramp bundled together
with a pseudo-epileptic seizure...
the old ancient fear arrived...
i sometimes arrive at it from either constipation
or from low sugar levels...
today? it was neither...

***** TO THE HEAD...
i need to **** someone...
i seriously need to **** someone...
i don't collect stamps... although i inherited
a decent stamp collection from my grandfather...
if i'm desperate... those Soviet stamps will
sell like nothing before them...
i don't collect money / coinage: but i inherited
a decent gallery from the two Jewish women
my mother cared for...
i collect books... one decent first edition of
a Peter Pan variation set underwater...
with illustrations...
if... i'm desperate...
but i don't mind working: i like working...
Erasmus' Colloquia from 1829...
the Beauties of Sterne... 1811...

well then... i'm rich... i just pretend to not know it...
and i don't want to be rich...
i like my current company...
if not a thief... then a *******...
it's all the same for me...
but today... mein gott! ***** TO THE HEAD!

samen zu der kopf!
it wasn't constipation, it wasn't low sugar levels in
the blood... this should be made illegal!
seriously! how can this example of a well rounded
GINGER ****-BEAUTY walk around with
such so much flesh exposed... and with those tight jeans...
hair that ginger that's perfectly burnt auburn...
no freckles... a complexion very much like
vanilla ice-cream... it's not fair!

how can she just walk around like that!
i got a headache that wasn't a headache but
a bedding-ache... some things should be made illegal...
i had to figure myself out...
what the hell is wrong with you?!
you're not constipated... sure... your blood sugar levels
are low... but...
ugh... i need to correct myself...
i literally had to ******* while pretending
to take a **** when i got home...
i masturbated with the sheath of ******* on...
i then ****** off with the sheath off...
why do gingers infuriate my *** drive so much? why?!
i equalised the blood pressure to the brain
and without climaxing gave "it" a rest...

i'm lucky... my paternal grandmother doesn't know
of my existence: well, she "knows": but she hasn't
the least bit bothered about me existing to begin with...
while my maternal grandmother: sort of ****** me
over pretending my best friend,
i.e. my grandfather wasn't dying: when he was...
only informing me of his death the day he died...
sure... i have plenty of animosity for women...
which is disguise as love
for prostitutes.... oh... you don't require killing
prostitutes to enact "revenge": you just juice them up
in the right sort of places and in the right sort of way...

old granny conflicts disappear
like a spoon in a bowl of custard!
mind you: oh, that, four day agony of scribbles...
i sort of wish i would have forgotten by now...
what / who helped?!
Freddy... thus freckled curiosity of a 13 year old boyo...
minding my own business... walked out with a bottle of cider...
we started talking about bicycles...

how much did it cost?
oh... £500...
can you whistle while shoving *******
into your mouth... hey presto! the boy whistled!
how do you do the wheelie?
i can cycle not using the handlebars...
wow! a perfect circus bear!
he did a wheelie while whistling real loud...
while asking me: can i have a take on your bicycle?!
sure thing Freddie... go ahead...
thank **** and all that the gods needs:
local people interacting with the locals...
perhaps if this was me in Cumbria i would be a priest...
i'm clarifying my position...
it feels good... being so localised...
centralised... it takes so little!
i literally have to put in the minimum amount
of effort to get the maximum response...
great hunting ground for experience dealing with crowds
if i'm to take the route of teaching seriously...

Poland is no longer a viable option...
even though i speak the ZUNGE it's... BOT-LAND...
***** to the head...
i was going to wait for getting payment to the past month
until the 1st... but after today's ginger...
NOPE! i need, to, ****!
i'm going to ****! i don't care about ****-wit ****-less men...
i'm going to ****!
i don't care about train-spotters and the likes...
no! i'm not waiting!

i'd look ******* GREAT in a WAFFEN-SS uniform...
i would: and i know i would...
i need to think about my garden of ****...
i'll wake up tomorrow... clean the house...
iron my shirt...
******* to Wembley... and on my way back:
perform the ritual of being tired... *****... tired...
*****... drink a cider... drink some whiskey...
scout around the brothel... and ooh!
too many masculine interests...
all i need is a juicy ****...
  and i know that women are... depends on the "geography":
timid: tiny... creatures....
but they are...

tiny, timid, creatures!
                        they taste better with some tongue in 'em...
but... BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS...
ergo? well! ha ha! ergo!
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
Thomas More and Erasmus
Utopia. In Praise of Folly.
Get your adverbs here
Hey lolly lolly

Leonard Cohen saw the Future
Maybe I did too
Charlotte and Bob in Tokyo
In Kyoto one not two

I like miso soup
I like chana masala
I pray to Mother Mary
Mohammed prays to Allah

Oh those minarets!
I teach Islam in Taipei
I imagine Istanbul
Still I say xie xie

          Water Way
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
hmm. bewildering little me...
little me bewildering me...
i walked into the supermarket...
pumped up from a bicycle ride...
no... i will not buy a Lucozade Sports
drink: high in...
whatever it takes to rehydrate...
salts, potassium... etc.
electrolytes...
  i need something to bite...
please: god no... no fruits... it's still borderline
winter...
i need some nourishment...
something primordial was woken in me
today...
            the usual bottle of pepsi max
and Whyte & Mackay whiskey... a litre
of which i'm about to finish...
i need something to bite into...
hmm...
          no... not a carrot...
i eat plenty of onions: that's almost similar...
ah!
    a swede! perfect!
and i stood in the car park...
contemplating if there might be some
Monet in the sky.... none...
hmm... all that's missing is...
some tatties and some haggis...
   raw swede... eating it... i felt...
primordial... eternal even...
             having a look around...
UBER drivers coming and going with...
orders of processed beef... burgers...
while i'm here... eating a raw root of swede...
mmm.. almost reminds me of eating
a radish... there's a spiciness associated with
it... ancient Europeans didn't have access to
the spice that's chilly... ergo?
horseradish... so i'm chewing at this root...
trying to look as if i'm thinking:
only with the tender night do i know...
the sad reality... i'm sort of heartbroken...
the girl's dog would lick my knuckle wounds...
but she rejected me...
now i know... in group girl *****-fights...
one single mother fighting another single mother...
what a sad affair...
       come to me when i'm 60 and no longer
"available"... by then i'll have all the assets...
oh **** me: by then... it's going to be a proper
Hopper circus...
      the one i had stomach cramps over...
was ushered out of my life by...
another woman... who else?
           girls competing... what an ugly affair...
mind you... when i die...
i'll miss my personal library...
             i don't need to upfront my language
like some Erasmus... all formal etc.,
the basic deeds...
               a return to something humane...
so i just stood there...
biting into this raw bulb of swede... trying to think...
no thought came... lightning could have arrived
sooner... well... much better...
enough juice in the root... to have to resort
to something labelled... bottled...
in plastic... i felt content... primitive...
even the cashier gave me the look of...
you're buying... a bottle of whiskey...
a bottle of pepsi... and... a head of a swede?!
confused... i too found myself slightly confused...
i hate fruit...
i ******* hate fruit...
oranges, apples... pears...
they're not for me... all the gifts of Hades...
the minerals... gold, iron... carrot...
swede... parsley...
           so i'm chewing... and chewing...
working out the details of my jaw-line...
oh... wow... an imagining of a ******* from
ex_machina...
          that's nice... but still no Monet...
               fair enough... the grey grit...
the ******* *******... random... the raw swede...
it was a most welcome moment...
i could hear the crunch through my earphones...
a few children scuttled past...
i just heard the inquiry: what's that crunch?
oh... the argument against this supposed
"patriarchy"? imagine... if...
a patriarchy wasn't in place...
   imagine... if: MOTHER nature had her sway...
i wouldn't be arguing with certain people...
they'd, be, DEAD...
i'd juggernaut them to the sweet, sweet sleep
of death... man tried to overcome nature...
sure... he failed with containing earthquakes...
tsunamis... etc.
            but... that's a matter for the Titans to discuss...
for the elemental pentagram...
but... what the feminists spew?
you, really think? the people talking....
would be alive... if i had my... NATURAL SWAY?!
i don't think so... look at my restraints...
look at them... they are invisible...
they are constrained by patriarchy...
man trying to overcome the cruelty of nature...
oddly enough... oops...
what arrived with Darwinism?
the insurrection of nature into the dynamic of
man's attempt to overcome nature...
someone more sober and more worried
than me has to take over... this narrative...
but if patriarchy wasn't in place...
i'd run a riot...
          these little people cushioned by a hierarchy
would stand no... defence for me to bypass!
it's a losers' game... after all...
if nature had its proper sway...
               all these... patriarchal defense mechanisms...
would be... wait... dissolved...
if the primordial man were to be unleashed...
you'd be basically unleashing the Mongol
from the 13th century...
      lucky me: for my chains...
               **** these women, these modern...
whatever(s)... leftovers...
              if the man in me was allowed to recirprocate
the man of old... but then again...
for that to happen... the modern woman would
have to be as good a **** as the the woman of old...
but i hardly think... that's about to happen...
lazy *****... i have to visit prostitutes
to get something worthwhile....
******* Aaron Copland Appalachian Spring Suite...
strange gifts?
       eh... or... by the looks of it...
by the smell of it... i'm boozing... drinking to excesses
yet to be matched...
ergo? i'm ******* out... a streak of *******
ammoniac lemonade!
                 good... between Aaron Copland's strange
gifts... Beethoven's ode to joy...
Rammstein's Zeit... and Thomas Newman's
any other beauty... and... eating a head of a swede raw...
you're joking... it will have to take me eating an
onion, to prove a point?
how about we bypass the onion...
let's  start off with teeth of garlic... how about that?
what a strange way to live:
with a longing... life so incomplete...
                 it's a life that doesn't even allow sadness...
to make it into a culprit...
something equivalent to a blink...
             tonight's tonight...
                     black is black...
                                     if "these" people lived uinder
the dictum of nature... they'd ne dead....
sane... counter nature counter god man... tried...
these people... if they were exposed
to the totality of nature...
        *****, please...
                           you're ******* dead!
patriarchy is the only thing keeping you alive...
if... go... defend... the necrophilic retrogrades
of Egypt... it's Africa, after all...
if nature... had its proper sway...
mouth-offs of the current climate of "conversation"
would be... dead,,,
by the structure of the Wehrmacht...
               dead...           dead...              dead:
sie sind nichts!
                                         sie sind alle!
jetzt... fühlen was ich fühlen!
    das ist die nur-Wwhrheit!             ah...
Deutsche bla bla...
                        erste... zuletzt...
                             ich denken deshalb...
deshalb.. oh sweet melancholy.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
argh! phew!

    i hate my life... i was just vacuuming my house...
i'm sitting on Nicholas II banknotes...
and gold coins!

yes! the Tsar's!

       i could be worth up to half a million if i exposed
my possessions...
i own two books that disintegrated in my
hands... because i dared to touch them:
the beauties of Sterne... 1811...
printed for J. Walker...

an 1829 edition of something by Erasmus...
no go zones?
what the **** is that?
i'm about to scout into Barking for a hotel...
she had a late shift...
i'll let her sleep some more...

Erasmi: Colloquia...

            no go zones my ***...
i hide my wealth...
  i'll mingle with the other immigrants...
i'll **** a Turkish girl like i might be *******
a blonde ****** too dispossessed...
i'm not waiting: life's not about waiting...
life's not about regrets...
to hell with European romanticism...
to hell with European science...

i need hunger: i need fasting!
i need amen...
        i need an undercurrent of ****
Germany!
    more subtle... more...
                i need to trim my beard...
i need ***...
           i want to eat off the fruits of wrath!
i am not going to carry these sub-Asian
copper-neck idle idols...
           no: not one can chew...
we're going beyond the protein and the fat...
we're chewing on the cartilage
and right down to the bone...
we're going to aim at the marrow...

no go zones? in London?
**** me... i'm about to impregnate Barking...
i'm done... i'm done with being told
what i can and can't do...

my turn... now i get to appease myself...
now i get to justify myself...
thank god that i'm not even remotely related
to the Anglo-Saxons...
i'll let the ***** sleep some more...
but we are going for a dinner and i am booking
a hotel room where i'll eat out a bucket's
worth of oysters of ****:
make her eyes roll... exchange
the stone of Sisyphus for a yoyo...

           grr... i'm maddened by a prison lust...
i'm breaking out...
to hell with these socio-normative constraints!
next thing you know i'll
be heard barking while i cycle for an auxiliary
expedition to find the hotel...

let the ***** sleep...
    i'll take her out for some dinner...
i'll cycle and burn off the limp-**** ingestion of alcohol...
not since this time
will another woman waste my time...

hell... if the africa-americans could sing the blues...
me? Picasso...
blue period, red period...
i'll write the reds...
            i'm done being patient... i'm done playing nice...
time to party...
   time to **** a woman's ego out
of her head...
   i managed so far... dragging her out of a brothel
and onto a date into a hotel...
now i grind my teeth now
i breathe with a force of a stag...
          
                         enough! is... enough!
Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
IN PRAISE OF FOLLY

a gaggle of giggling
nuns on the town
remembering when they were girls

they wear Halloween masks
scaring little kids &
big men

I wonder if it is a sin
for them to remember
themselves then

all under a vow of silence
never to remember this
when they are back at the convent

they dump their false faces
in a trash can
their freedom come and gone

I sit behind them on the bus
listen as they discuss Erasmus
whether in the womb Christ knew he was Christ

they laugh as
little girl ghouls board the bus
give them smiles and sweeties
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2021
1:37
I think of Wolgang Pauli

Never read Erasmus
Not In Praise of Folly

My dad had two dogs
Their names were Magic and Molly

Goin' to San Francisco
Gonna ride the trolley
i have abandoned the joys of music, truly:
disgusted by it;
only in the late 19th century
Nietzsche would have surmounted to posit
an argument along the line(s) of:
without music, life would be unbearable

or...

music makes life bearable...

how tedious now, music,
how obliterating the senses -
without eyes yet still talk of sight
without ears yet still talk of hearing
perhaps even with eyes
those two vital organs
like kidneys
how strange that they are so exposed
and so important
yet so exposed
unlike kidneys hidden in body
these protruding vital organs
since eyes are organs
equipped to deal this parody
not of bone covered by flesh and sinew
and muscle and fat
but these two flimsy pieces of skin
that light can penetrate
and give a man who toiled through night
and tried to find solace in
sleep come day
an insomnia that would require more
than eyelids with the added pressure
from a folded arm like a blindfold...

music has, become, unbearable,
a tedium for the senses
a shortening of some sort: a variation of otherwise
perfectly adjusted adjectives
to call a mountain big
a sea grand
and an insect philosophical: Solomon's ant...

music is no music with visual aids
unlike...
unlike: i spent this morning eating breakfast
of: never mind...
watching Schindler's List
in that moment when the Krakow ghetto
was being emptied
and that SS man was caught off guard
from all the chaos happening
and he tried to remedy the pre-horrors
of the finalized plans
frenzied at the piano
while two other SS men inquired
as to what (he) was playing...

Bach? no no... Mozart...

“was ist das, ist das Bach?”
“nein, das ist Mozart.”

English Suite No. 2 in A minor, BWV 807: III

yes, the latter... obviously...
the genesis of polyphony,
the signature is all there, intact with Bach
unlike anything Mozart could
have conjured...
in that if there is talk of "genius"
then there is also talk of methodology
a blindness of exacting
a profoundness of unhearing
and then not hearing
while at the same time being to play: a hearing
of the music...

i try to think that writing this would
be eased by listening to some music
but then with whiskey my mind unwinds
and three days have passed since
i slouched in my bed

today i realized the fundamental cruelty of
pleasures
or rather: the joy of reading
(fiction) unlike some philosophical demand
of reading then application
because i can't think of how reading
philosophy makes you apply it
like reading a manual with all the schematics
of say: putting up a DIY object
bought from the Swedes
packaged in cardboard
because by then you're no less LEGO
and Danish
and no carpenter in sight...

old Libra: write less than you read or just
about...
after all it feels less like smiling when one
is frowning
but more so when one is squirming
(but not ******* on a lemon)
       or some general distaste for humanity
whereby i'm just as much part of it
as much as a distance from it
a step behind or perhaps more a step aside...

so much of philosophy concerns itself
with: what is... philosophy...
in terms of a genre, a literary genre...

which brings me toward what emerged from
a pleasure of reading:
antithesis of music is equivalent to
the comfort of listening to a cat sleeping,
snoring...
or listening to a woman during *******
i don't think i can compensate that
with music...
i can: compensate music with music...
but i can't compensate the sound
of the elements: wind, earth, water with music...
music doesn't compensate the natural
order of things
and i can verily, now, understand:
the Taliban aversion to music...
before even the beauty of music can come
there is already an aversion to it
and just, justly so...

  music has becomes less elevating and more
grounding like a doubling on realism
that breeds contempt for transcendental
escapism of merely human talk...
i've had a roller coaster of the past two
days and i can attest
that a transcendental escapism based
upon merely human interaction of talk
exists...

on Saturday i changed shifts...
unable to do a Wembley shift (as a ******
supervisor, static,
with a cordon of stewards and security
officers
ensuring that no bags bigger than A4
reached the premises of the stadium
just tickled at the footprint of
the outer perimeter)...
instead was "demoted" to an security
officer role at the London Stadium for the MLB
event (Phillies vs. the Mets...
is that the equivalent of the Championship
vs the Premier League
given that the Yankees are a tier above
the Mets? anyways)

i had so much fun, pleasure, joy, life
being part of the team... searching bags
giving all the right lip service
and smiles and all the humanly adequate
body language of people feeling threatened
by any persuasion of authority:
to ensure their safety blah blah...
but it wasn't that...

on our break...
there were 4 of us...
basically me, Nur (Nur),
Richard, ..., ...,
it was me and 4 blacks guys
and however you want to disguise
or not the descriptive posits
of how each one of us looked...
no... i will not be a writer:
impatient man
this whiskey isn't helping
i can't write something transcendenal
although it was
i've already started unwinding with
the whiskey

the next day a spectacle of an argument
a waste of me writing this...
there should be restrictions on what
you can write...

no science fiction writer could have
predicted the smartphone...
outer-reaches of technological potentiality...
best keep Erasmus of Rotterdam
and Philip K. ****
and Stephen King and Alexander Dumas
out of it...
writing this will only give a % traction
of my availability to the letters
and there will still be the juggernaut of
ØX         ØX   XØ
         XØ      ØX ØX
ØX           XØ           ØX

****** keyboard... misjudged placing...
but summer is here
and my silent disco shift at Portsmouth
has been cancelled so
i don't have to worry about
getting enough sleep...

misguided though...
giving Paul Arteides all but one title...
Mehdi,
Kwisatz Haderach,
Muad'Dib... yes, yes... yes...

but not... Lisan al-Gaib...
that title should have been reserved for
his unborn sister!
the "outer world" is not the world of
Caladan "vs" Arrakis...
the "outer world" of: yet to be born...
or: unborn... regardless...

emotions created from insufferable
confrontation
with a Swiss entrepreneur...
allocating argument:
but we're going to the moon...
i say:
but you already scanned your ticket...
there's no reentry...
think about you buying a ticket
for a train at 12:10...
you think you can use the same
ticket for a 13:10 train
even though you stepped on the 12:10
train then decided to hop off
but the moon was boiling in
his mind
his logic his self-entitlement
of paying £200 for a ticket
gave him the authority to
call ask who i was...
who i was...
so much for what money doesn't
buy: integrity and character...
and integrity of character...

     bounced about the word
LOSER
when i finally replied to his: who are you?
POET...
oh... so that's a LOSER then...
well...
i should have played a joke on him
like:

Odysseus tells Polyphemus
that his name is Οὖτις:
    no one...

but how can i see this Americanized
version of life as
winning and losing
in life as transient when
he clearly only sees riding high
without seeing riding low
and in the end
the inevitable loss for everyone
via death and i'm sure
the minute he dies
memory of him will die too...

which brings me onto a new fascination
with... what became of

KUL TIGIN
then later the Runes
(i am so suspicious of the Gothic script
though... really ******* shady)

𒅗
'tooth' [zu], 'mouth'
[ka] and 'voice' [gu]

ズカグ          (respectively) = not mouth

but Kao (

顔                                            )

but you can see the complications
"transliterated" from
Assyrian Cuneiform to Chinese
and then somehow simplified
and untangled into Katakana...

ideograms are shortenings of
what Europeans could call
colors: in traffic code...
green is for go
amber is shortened to take caution
for getting ready or slowing down
while red is stop
because emoticons are not:
the same equivalence to the automatic
recognizable info
universal but more idiosyncratic
covert messaging...

        ******* Swiss *****...
well LOSER didn't really affect me
because i was just about to say...
so... you spent £200 to watch a game of baseball...
**** me...
it now just dawned on me...
but... i used to spend £130 on an hour
with a *******...
regardless of whether i ******* or not...
last time i remember i spent that same
amount of money on an inexperienced
20 year old who didn't know that
an uncircumcised **** needed temporary
peeling
to expose the hammer-head
and in the end she massaged me
a little then i massaged her entire
body
finding out she starred in some shady
**** flick in some dungeon
given that when i massaged her
*** and back of the legs
they were bruised from all the extra
***** and no ***** of ****...

so... this argument of the moon
and being "successful" just because
spending £200 on a baseball match...
******, please... i spend £130 on an hour
with a *******...
at least you're getting your money's worth...
yesterday i started my shift at 6am
finished at 6pm...
the game started at... **** know's
3pm? lasted for about 4 hours...
in that time i became a fan of cricket
and ushered in the sentiment of:
well: if anything...
Americans really know ******* of watching
sport...
in a fluid fashion...
from minute 0 to minute 90
with interludes for over-refereeing
with too much technology use...
it's still not going to beat a tennis match
with two players and a football team
of referees + the ball boys etc

— The End —