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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars
,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)
...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach
- respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
/
bare, lifeless ground.
cover yourself in esters.
our misfortune.
my heart is a machine

behind every good

                         heart

there is an even better

                         machine

                     waiting to take over

                                impulse

beat- in out in out- beat

       who needs

                      feelings

{ the constant struggle of having to

             repair the break

crashlagslow hurt

                 -reboot- (Call tech support!)

temporary no sure fix

repeat }

behind every good

                          heart

is an even better

                           machine

                 waiting to mechanize

                               bastardize

                               supplement

                  LOVE

abiotic, anaerobic, clean, pure, simple, sterile

who needs

LOVE

when metal & pistons

are so much easier to

                       understand

                       predict

                       replace/fix ?

If they can engineer esters to

smelllooktaste

like anything on earth

                   why the **** can’t that make something

taste

       {like your lips}

smell

       {like your skin; cigarette sweet with an undertone of work sweat}

feel

       {like your too rough kisses and embraces}

because maybe if they did

it might make it easier, maybe I wouldn’t miss you

so ******* much
Another older poem-- written in 2010 over too many shots and too much APchem.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
beyond the whiskey
and the beer drank along the familiar
path, with memory stressed
as to no accomplished ego coupling,
drunk indeed,
but rehearsing the familiar path
that thought de-activates
and there's less of identifiers required.*

in terms of gambling,
in familial setting,
betted:

watford (21-20) home to newcastle
(5-2), QPR (6-5) against wolves (9-5 to win),
barnsley v. rochdale (draw at 11-5),
chesterfield v. millwall (to win, 11-8),
oldham v. bury (draw at 21-10),
port vale v. bratford (home-side 8-5),
coventry (13-10) away winning against southend (13-8),
plymouth (11-5) against bristol rovers (evs),
accrington (13-10) against exeter (13-8) too,
manfield (6-5) winning against luton (9-5),
portsmouth drawing with oxford united (21-10),
wycombe with leyton orient (11-5) too,
yeovil beating crawley (13-10),
dundee utd. losing to kilmarnock (11-5) -
scots wish me luck,
motherwell drawing with ross county (19-10),
brochin losing to aidrie (11-10),
montrose winning over clyde (9-5),
hamilton losing to edinburgh's hearts (6-5),
finally...
burnley overcoming derby (13-10).

if i got all nineteen right, i betted 2 quid
and won a million,
split it down the middle with my father,
bet for two quid, quid each, half a million each.
my father is a cautious gambler,
bets spare change to get pennies for a million
exchange, i only desire serious alcoholism,
i am a true scot between the two pulling
two pence apart to create copper wiring,
scots are the jews of the north, after all:
i don't gamble, i play chance,
the chances of me being prophetic about five
football scores will be a, a ref. to the guinness book
of records.

i aimed high today, feminism still hasn't the foggiest
of house husbands, lazy lions,
it's still thursday pay-cheque day for the women,
i can cook a killer korma (added late
grind cashews), and a serial killer kashmiri masala curry,
organic chemistry experiments 12h a week will do that to you,
you'll enjoy cookbooks more than chemistry textbooks,
too many esters i say, spices v. perfumes, your choice
the pakistani in my off-license looked amazed i was wearing
hindu perfumes after having cooked a meal he could
recognise that wasn't a concentrate of strawberries:
find a needle in a haystack, yes... find a berry in a haystack...
no.

i love hindi cuisine, much aroma that deviates from
what europeans claim to be aromatic:
pig sweat and oxen salivate a taste for synthetic
odours when an analysis of cardamon justifies aplenty
likewise: what opens necessary porous areas
of the skin as necessarily sweet
does not necessarily invoke a sweetness for the tongue
to match: fat cows better than anorexia voodoo
of *******-champagne girls i'd tell you.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy
-
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
it's largely based on the introduction, drunk poetry of Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde, or Dave Bowie's heathen albums that can be treated as fully-loaded novels with missing charting song, you can champ the narratives akin to nearing ancient symphonies making Nietzsche more of a German Chopin than an idea formation, excusing himself with too maxims; yep, Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde given Nick Hornby's care for the music in what's a fluke of care for piquant fidelity, country and blues, bought at a supermarket; or avoid both and head straight for Ticlah's si hecho palante.

for some strange reason i woke up early,
usually i miss the morning staying up
till 5 or 6 a.m., like a vampire scared of sunrise,
winter is my most productive period,
summer my least productive,
spring and autumn are seasons when
magic happens, just today the oak tree was
brushing away its flowery bloom
before the fat yoke of chestnuts would fall
a few months later, the spring bloom
of pink or white was already tailored for
the excess greenery of summer, over a period
of two days the flowers withered and
the green leaves appeared.
she once complimented on my cooking skills
and my taste of music, notably *tool
,
i first met her when we got together in the
student flats and two girls were *******-up
frying pancakes... the dough stuck to the
frying-pan... so i said 'you need to put some
oil into the mixture!' hey presto a Michelin star
on my attire rather than Victoria's crux
of a soldier... that's how it goes with philosophy
nothing pompous i promise you,
Plato misquoted Socrates talking about
looking funny at men who sought brothel comforts
(the norm in Amsterdam, no guilt, no tabloid spice,
o.k. o.k. Leo Getz style, 'it's like going to the gym,
she was South American, plump, she had a little nergo
boy fetch beers for her clients, she kept the window
open so passersbys could hear her moan after laughing
at my addressing her genitalia with may i taste the fleshy
floral patterns?
ah ****, didn't work, you get to write
about *** and it just ends up a string of cliché
like philosophy and the maxim - prostitutes and the
Gemini lips, try kissing both at the same time);
i'd be funny-looking at the other route of philosophers,
mainly through the army, i'm all lazy eye cross-eyed with
those *******... (i do "pending" interludes since
with drunk finger playing the keyboard i tend to
delete by accident about 1 poem for each 10, heartbreaking
experience) - lost the drift, i must be in Birmingham:
no river... no flow. standard model always included
rivers for people congregating, in the countryside
a church would be enough, but for urbanity a river...
this phenomenon of canal cities like Venice is
truly staggering, call it the Maldives of the west,
the Maldives of Europe, 100 years from now
it will probably be more than a Glastonbury fashion
statement of donning farmer John's galoshes.
i've lost the plot... fun-*******-tastic!
oh yeah, the pancakes... well after falling in love
with organic experiments i learnt to love cuisine,
well d'uh cooking, my flatmate just cooked risotto
after risotto until i started pulling rice grains from my nose...
esters and perfumes, the smelly ****, like pickled cabbage,
the grand joke of british asians...
yeah sauerkraut and chicken escalopes are the grand
joke, although try shoving asian spices under your
armpits and you'll be walking the catwalk of Versace for
sure (hey man, stick has two ends!)...
it's an escalope and that's hardly the profanity of
a chicken Kiev, also called a schnitzel... but not schabowy...
you know there's this great aesthetic joke concerning
polish graffiti about the orthography of ****** / phallus
in poland? yep, the variations: huj, hój, chuj, chój...
technically they all sound the same,
they're found next to the anarchists' A and swastikas
on communist apartments.
she wanted so so much, i was at the end of the third year,
and there she is, moving out of her student accommodation
to live with me in my private flat (rented)...
i mean, great... but i'm about to sit my final exams
to get a piece of paper telling others i'm qualified...
what a ******* mess: i know a 3rd of examinable material
i was studying i'll fail, physical chemistry is not my
strong point, organic i can ace, inorganic i can do well on...
but she's there, full-on intense teen... it's a juggling
act that requires a clown, rather than a man,
i'm not saying i'm perfect, but there's too much idealism
in her that requires a hefty stash of pecunia bratus
(money trees)... ah i wish, but had i wished it
i would be writing such uninhibited poems...
up-to-speed... on today's menu!
that's the culinary abhorrence of poetry, remembering
ingredients in recipes rather than rhymes,
for example Thai green curry, and the ***** curry,
the former with spoonful of green Thai sauce to replace
the use of lemongrass, and lime leaves,
actually the limes we replaced with lemons,
the Thai sauce was added, the garlic & ginger paste used,
onions, mangetout added last to add a crispness on the bite,
new potatoes avoided, half a jar of Thai green curry paste,
Thai fish sauce, not salty enough soya sauce was added
(both light and dark), coconut milk of course, caster sugar,
chicken (well, d'uh), basil... yes... basil! lemon zest
and rice, chilli powder!
the second curry involved: cumin seeds, fennel seeds,
a cinnamon stick, garam masala, chilli powder,
turmeric, chopped tomatoes, sugar, chicken stock,
chopped coriander... all in all this is a culinary attack
of poetry, it's not clearly an ancient revenge,
but when i was younger i was instructed to memorise
a poem, aged circa 7... the poem in question was
school bell, i didn't get why we had to memorise it,
it wasn't anything spectacular, i protested,
gave an oath in swear words against my classmates,
got told off... culinary principles invoke the need
to memorise recipes rather than poems,
curbing the influence of fast-food outlets...
i rather remember the ingredient lists of dishes than poems...
indeed i did make these dishes today,
but only because i switched the radio off
and inserted bought art into the device:
Tom Petty's and the Heartbreaker's greatest hits
and !!!'s (chk chk chk's) myth takes album.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
i've cooked plenty of curries in my life
(in the back of my mind there's this mainstream
narrative that comes to the fore
with buzz-words like: "cultural appropriation"...
so i can't cook a curry for myself
i need someone native of the "concept" of curry
to cook it for me? the use of cumin, coriander seeds...
star anise... cardamom pods is off-limits
for me? like donning a sombrero?
i hate acronyms but, in this instance i'll just
keep it short and shrimp-y i.e. w.t.f.?!)
but what i recently conjured up has become
a... revelation...
i know that the taste profile of some Asiatic
people: the Chinese love their dichotomy of
sweet & sour... as well as sweet & salty...
come to think of it: i like those profiles too:
salted caramel is the next big taboo topic?!
the first proper revelation came to me via...
refika's lavash & hammered beef recipe...
she's on youtube: it's so **** when a woman
as voluptuous as her knows how to cook...
plus the ol' raven hair: beyond that...
it's not that she knows how to cook:
i can trust her to cook...
    not that i was willing to make lavash from
raw goods... i can buy that...
the genius is instilled in the marinate...
what was it...
oh hell... my beard is itchy... i guess at the mere
thought of eating this dish...
sea salt, pepper, lots of peppercorns...
fresh garlic, fresh rosemary (thankfully i have
a garden and i have rosemary in it)
dried chillies (whole or flakes)
olive oil, white wine vinegar...
into the pestle & mortar...
the beef thinly sliced then marinating for
15 minutes at best: the vinegar tenderising
the meat quicker...
fried for 2 minutes or whatever time it takes
until you see the meat pouring out the most
hidden blot clots...
but beef & rosemary?! huh! who would have
thought... i certainly wouldn't have...
sure... LAMB & rosemary...
but beef?
oddly enough the meat works just as well
when topped with English cheddar...
you don't need a Turkish cheese...
but that's not even the end of the story...
of the lavash wrap...
it's the side dish...
the onions! slice the onions into crescent moons...
squeeze them to get the party going...
they must be red onions... some salt...
some more white wine vinegar & let them pickle
for a while... after the "while" add some
sumac (i also add some gochugaru chilli flakes...
for colour and tingling buzz)
SUMAC... topped off with some fresh parsley...
i could be writing about my escapades
in the brothel... but this is so much better...
what's ***? meat you can't eat...
at the end... it's meat you can't eat...
tease it, nibble it: but you're not going to eat it...
i very much like the ethereal nature
of cooking: it reminds me of the time i studied
chemistry in Edinburgh and conjured up
Esters from scratch...
Esters? oh, those scented compounds used
in the perfume industry...
yet today i came across an even bigger revelation...
Indian cuisine? done... Chinese... no problem...
the number of curries i made in my life...
eh... ha...
            hell: even the Hungarian goulash
for a massive potato "pancake"... garnished
with something sour... cabbage most likely...
or at least a coleslaw to off-set the smoky-paprika
taste...
green peppers a must...
of course you need some sprinkle of paprika
on the lavash wrap-up...
for colour: to "combat" the "insanity"
of cheese... & some extra pepper....
& rosemary...

well you can't exactly call a stew a curry
a sauce or jue... it's not  juice if it's a juce...
some "chew"...
esp. not in the Persian cuisine...
pity me at me at my self-wallowing in being
cosmopolitan on the outskirts...
i'll take one step into the night
and i'll be met with the resounding
presence of foxes...
i stopped being bothered about BWV 988
being just a cliché...
which it of course is...
so many pieces of classical music were once
beautiful...
now... in the gulag of the muzak...
they have become: morphed...
hardly stand-alone pieces of music...
moonlight sonata being the "other" over-emphasis
of needing to match-up to the demands
of / for mass consumption...

i hope this doesn't read like some foodie
blog... every time i want to replicate a recipe
i have to scroll down through so many
self-congratulatory deviances
from the narrative... none of these food blogs
seem stressed about giving out
what's needed:
the list of ingredients... eh... the methodology
doesn't really bother me...
i always miss the click-of-the-button
where i can simply get to the knitty-gritty...
there's always "some story"... some care to grasp
at some "authenticity":
it's almost like rereading Wittgenstein and
his focus on tautology!

come to think of it...
i watch out for tautologies...
like i watch out for metaphors and misnomers
and the... ahem "air quotes":
you can't stretch it as far as a metaphor?
then we'll be stretching it into a misnomer
status...

FESENJAN...
it's not like the Persians were not knocking
at "our" doors since... perhaps time immemorial...
what about that off-shoot tribe of Aryans:
the Sarmatians settling in the basin
of the Vistula?
funny... the concept of the Aryans...
that the Germans espoused it...
while... historically... never mind...

it's not a curry! it's a Persian stew...
i couldn't fathom it at first...
you make a walnut paste...
you toast 'em...
salt, pepper, sugar...
some of the usual suspects appear:
like cumin...
cinnamon...
    but then you get:
pomegranate molasses...
and fresh pomegranate seeds to garnish... with...
you also use fresh parsley instead of coriander...
only one tablespoon of tomato puree...
some ground almonds...
a pepper: which, along with a can of
chickpeas somehow, "somehow" managed
to disappear in the sauce...
garlic... sure... ginger? no...
onion... yes...

         i knew that Persian cuisine tickled
the sour fancies... but i never knew to what
extent! zest of a lemon: juice of a lemon...
no aubergine... this time...
turmeric: the peasant's version of saffron...
no difference... you can sprinkle some of that
anti-bleach magical dust and it works
just as well as a pinch of saffron...
but we're talking about the sauce...
cinnamon i already mentioned:
even though you can use acacia bark as
a substitute... pepper: already mentioned...
honey...
imagine my shock: no mention of a canned
lot of plum tomatoes...
******* roasted walnuts...
pomegranate molasses...
tomato puree...
ciućpajza...

this wasn't a curry... walnuts, though... when roasted?
ahem... "cultural appropriation"
of the Indians using cashews... & almonds
in their Korma... but walnuts?!
hey presto... some Turkish ingenuity combining
beef with rosemary!

is my native tongue a dodo lingo?
i'm just... wondering...
perhaps with the omnipresence of English
we'll all be savvy cosmopolitan nomads
by the end of this century...
i still manage to squeeze in a word:
or two... into my currency of the current:
lingo... but... the point
of: no one's speaking it beside me...
it's not a rhetorical question...
it's not even a question to begin with /
per se... it's a... vague obligation to:
some mustard seed metaphor sort of "power"...

youtube used to be such a fun website...
until the wallets started rummaging
hyping up...self-tutorial videos of make-up:
cover-up...
it used to be (this)... now it's... )this(...
sure... don't blame women...
it's not like Helen wasn't fabled for gearing up
a thousand ships...
Eva Braun wasn't Jewish... no no!
she wasn't... wi- do you really need the suffix
-nk?!

a grammar school playground filled with only
boys... hey... presto!
a girl comes in...
        what's going to happen?
the worst things... imaginable...
i'm giving birth to a shadow...
she's curious about giving birth to the gambit
of: more time... please...
i can be done with all of this spectacle in
a moment... she needs this misery to continue...
come to think of it...
i don't think the supposed
"forbidden" fruit of Eden did anything to Adam...
i think the fruit was a placebo...
he just towed his ******* ******* along
to experience the wind & the dangle...
whatever the metaphor of Moses implies...
ignorant of dinosaurs?!
seriously...
there's a talking spine of a t-rex...
there are the crocodiles of the Nile...
there's the imagining of a large fire-breathing lizard:
a dragon...
oh sure... the idea of dinosaurs wasn't somehow:
unconsciously implanted into us...
dragons precursor the discovery of dinosaur bones...
don't they?! don't they?!
imagining dragons precursor our discovery of
dinosaur bones!
no?! no?!
hell-oh... Pandora... how's tomorrow?
oh, right... can't say... just like today then?!

since the usual quest of bypassing the atypical
gatekeepers has been... quenched...
i'm no Tolstoy...
western democracy is worried about democracy
per se:
ooh... something terrible is bound to happen!
some terrible has been happening since
time immemorial...
it's only inflated:
in a society bound by glorifying sociopaths &
psychopaths...
the fakery escalates... so much of this culture
is bound to celebrate: hardly the opera singer...
hardly the poet... forever & until more
the Thespian... you know what happens to a culture
where only one art-form is given:
too much attention it deserves?
there was that period of time when
poetry was celebrated... when the western
letf-oids seemed rather... refreshing...
what now?

           let's go back to civilisation based on
the motto: we need carrots!
we need cabbage! we ******* need root vegetables...
oh forget the fruits...
that's not important for us...
winter is coming: a warm winter...
to borrow a phrase:
how can there be any hyperboreans:
what eternal sunshine?
i think of an eternal night...

               when i think of the wind:
there's not one... there are 8...
the wind from the north... south...
the wind from the north-east...
the wind from the south-west...
i count 8 winds... if there aren't 8
then we have a lemniscale...
a lazy: reclining 8... or a beta metaphor: B...
no?
the origins of numbers are all Hindu?!
sure... the letters too?
i can... rewrite the origins story
of numbers using only Greek or Roman letters...
with hindsight it doesn't punch-up
but... proud retardations of borrowed
cuisine aside...
L: 7
4: G
      mirrors! mirrors!
9: P
8: B
1: I(ota)
3: E
2: Z
5: S
6: b...

we didn't march across the *******
Siberian tundra
arriving at the Caucasian
peninsula for no ******* reason?!
we also managed to drag along the tribes
of Mongols... Turks... that settled in this grand...
continental funnel...

i learned "numbers" from Sanskrit...
i suppose the letters too?
like... ooh... i love how Hangul was
conjured...
   Sejong the ******* Solomon...
Abraham... St. Cyril...
   i always thought that Cyrillic script
was a cheap-*** variation of Greek...
sorry... it looks: looked:
will forever look: sort of shabby...

this time round: the devil didn't come round
with either fire or sulphur...
smoke & mirrors...
smoke & mirrors: Kowalski!
Dada Olowo Eyo Feb 2013
Spoiled by father,
Now, I'd not feel any better,
No, not until I wear this scent,
Even if it cost me a ****** cent.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
or like today, almost any other day like today,
but today i matched up two analogies
with cooking;
i once only stated that doing organic chemistry experiments
were like cooking,
broths of sweets and sours (esters and ammonia compounds
respectively) -
they did seem so at the time and still are,
while smashing vegetables dipped in liquid nitrogen against
the laboratory floor,
but today, almost like any other day like today
i started cooking a chicken makhani (indian butter chicken),
past the stage of frying onions, garlic-ginger paste,
past adding the spices: garam masala ground cumin chilli powder
cayenne pepper salt & pepper,
past the stage of adding butter, milk and crème fraîche,
and chopped tomatoes,
past the stage of then dipping the chicken in to let it poach for
more tenderness than if fried prior (as the recipe suggested),
then... when i noticed the spice colours diluted by the dairy ingredients
i peered into the culinary warlock’s cauldron and uttered
what fiction critics would have said of a bestseller spy novel...
‘mmm... the plot thickens.’
side dish? lemon rice.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
spontaneous amnesia:
   well, you know,
something akin to further
a liking of something
just: hammer to the nail
apparent,
and for that matter: useful.

headphones plugged into
the laptop,
and everytime i want
to tap the repeat button
of a song...
i look sideways and at
the windowsill,
pretend to scratch my nose,
and find the hand
with no further utility...

not a rigid diagnosis
or a pre-mature dementia...
i have a bank's worth
of the brain to sift through...
they almost added the next
nodding parrot to
the unslept pillow of
the numbers of man...
via the rubrics of school...

even i can't believe that
university education
was a waste of time...
mind you: those 12 hours
a week in the chemisty
lab. were worth it...
esters...
   organic chemistry -
   and to think:
  if only, they made
perfumes in Scotland,
apart from the drinkable
amber of the 'ugh Scout...
wh'o would have known...

but this is unlike
that season 5, episode 11
**** switch from
the x-files...

                my internet rummaging:
basic,
    china shop, bull...
run in
and charge against
a cluster-**** of
      a presupposed cloud
of letters  

first attempt:

e f                                     /f
o o s o r o o l t                /o
e v r                                /r
e f e e n e s e l e              /e
v r
m                                     /y
n c o s c s s e s                    /s
u t                                          /u
t o m u b i                           /t
e l o                                    /l
t c y                           /m
t c                             /b
n s n i e c              /n
a a                          /a
c b s c c m i n c   /c
    n i s i i t             /i

the sentence?

for every subtle complaint
of conscience:
    consciousness becomes
limbo-state constrictive


rubric...

f f
o o o o o o o o o
r r r
e e e e e e e e e e
v v
y
s s s s s s s s s
u u
t t t t t t
l l l
m m m (anomaly in
the form of... the hierarchy
of chronology, i.e.:)
b b
n n n n n n
a a
       (second anomaly)
c c c c c c c c c
    i i i i i i

2nd attempt:
to showcase a "cloud":

**** it... copy &
paste, and stop pretending
bashing the mole
popping out from
a hole...
   this isn't quantum
mechanics...

                      s f
             c m c o o i s f s
           r r y e c e i s i e
                                 l o e s v
        r s v s o n e o s s
             e u n c i n t t e l l m c b
         b m n o t t o t a a  c n c e c o t o c
                                                      i n u e e i

****... i made another mistake:
how much does it take
to not make a mistake...
turning the picky-of-attempting
random...
of merely rearranging
letters in a simple sentence
to "resemble" a cloud
of... letters... atoms...

there was a time when staring
at the blank of a laptop screen,
and listening
to something by
nine inch nails was fun...
in the immediate
intermediate spent of 15 minutes...
the depth of idiocy reached
the depth of what
has become the suspect
total of man... me missing,
of course...

nothing new:
i guess i discovered the origin
of geometry...
or:

|
|
|
|
|
|_|||||||||

and

|||||||||
|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
||||||||||
|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
|
|||||||||
|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
||||||||||

like some mongolian
****** pretending
to play the harmonica
by moving his
index against
a blurr of flapping lips...

me... throwing matchsticks
against an index
of a brick wall
of pixel...

namely?
i could never be a serious
existentialist,
i was sort of fwench in...
give me a cat,
i'll pet it,
i'm no good with goldfish:
i forgot that
you need to change
the water...
because water is like
air with fish...
fish turn old, stale water...
into a medium unbreathable...
no...
that death wasn't traumatic...
and the fact that i am still
naive squat buck tooth
is...
           when fate gives
you the same lesson
thrice...
     and you still haven't learned
it...
    i guess that's when
a god begins to cry...
or laughs...
or becomes angry...
or whatever the gods do
along with what
the petty people,
the petty ambitious people
minded...
to have no role beside
the role they served their ambitions
in fulfilling...
i.e.: never made it to Hollywood...
just to a position of
lawyer...
**** me... about time i started
playing the ******,
given the "ulterior" motive
narrative "went missing"...

funny thing that,
geometry...
i almost forgot how much of it
is necessary to
orientated myself
on the linear platitude...
but how funny in how i can't
rearrange
a simple sentence
into a cloud of "random"
letters...

|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
|
|
|
|
|
||||||||_|

obviously "you" kept count...
9

                           and 11/
maybe that's something related
to spacing...
and whatever became A.I.
was never indented
for what once was... handwriting?

strain on the ******* eyes,
for all i know:
this be a vanity project
and something that can't
compete with tabloid journalism
making it to print...

so... airy-fairy whims and...
yes, the burden of the echo,
and the shadow...
   came the answer:
profane:
  and he was educated
by the school of life...
   sure...
  but my time at both school
and university?
  was spent being self-taught...
beginning with
this lounge of a tongue...
you know?
  you can write ENGLISH
    like so:                       ĘGLIŠ?
somehow...
i have no heard of dyslexia
as being evident in any tongue
other than the ĘGLIŠ zunge?

**** it: postcards from
H'america and from
           Oh'stray-bullet-trails...

now i know why such
*******...
i'm completely enthralled
by the engineering
of A.I. and phonetics...
given: English speakers
would not have involved
their A.I. algorithms
to be affected by diacritical
markers...
given that... d'uh...
the english language
doesn't use them...

still... "cyberpunk"...
no... i have no ambitions
to be published
    by the poetryfoundation.org
as i am, just about
to "compete" with
something akin
to the unauthorized
autobiography of jung ****
...
jockey... Jack...
                          ū.3708/?
ah ha ha! ja! gustav...
                             bad joke...
but you get the idea...
so when did soy boy
       predate bleach boy:
last time i heard or seen:
best bleach afro curls...
    and call them: churros...
but ******* a black girl
doesn't exactly make me less
of a racist than
a bigot who minds tongues...
am i?
   so... that whole Malcolm X
tirade of...
  you know the one...
    on the odd occassion...
yeah... two...
(not at the same time)...
but was that ever to be an excuse?
something from being fed
video footage and then
having to resort to:
music, before i open up
a parachute standing up
and still think i'm falling...
often or not...
             or not...

hell... this beats scribbling
graffiti on walls,
or becoming a sensible
quality proof for...
the jobs of worth already
being taken...

and i almost pray for
the work of ******* collector
vacancies to be
advertised for the unemployed...
i'd love for the unemployed
to be subject
to advertisements
akin to the jobs
            of a ******* collector...
i've looked...
     no ******* collector
vacancies available...
           oh hell...
    i forgot about wanting to
be a veterinary physician a long
time ago...
                but i guess:
no chances for me being
a ******* ******* collector...
so 'ere...
                         eat this.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
honestly? it was the best part of the day,
drawing those electron-migration diagrams
when conceptualising organic compounds...

       plus i like the culinary aspect of the whole enterprise...
ever sniffed esters?
            sweet *******...
          if i remember correctly: the basis for
                            the art of brewing perfumes.

but it had to happen... i was going to become
     a heretical linguist of some sort, having taken to
the organic chemistry diagrams
                              that state how electrons migrate...
well... "state"... first they tell you they're in orbit,
then they tell you they're in clouds...
                         and then... they go back to the orbit
theory with how            H H
                                        |   |
                                   H-C-C-OH
                                        |   |
                                       H  H                  (ethanol)
is broken down, or used... to make something
else... it's usually a canvas chemical...
                    you don't want the impurities of
water...
                        **** knows what breeds in that
liquid... ethanol? you know that whatever could
have bred on a microorganism level would die
off from the fire aspect of ethanol...
                    what is funny is watching this website
over the past few days...
                      are these critiques concerning
   the improvement a bit like:
                               oh no! digital eugenics!
     christ quote: seperating the sheep from the goats...
                       i'm more bothered about being
constipated and trying to figure out
                     a laxative from natural materials than
buying synthetic products...
                on this level of medical advice: i'd be
considered a quack-doctor... but then best before
yogurt mixed with milk... **** me...
             considering my bowels?
                         i'd be a 100m sprinter
                          all the way through a marathon...
    oh by the way: ʒ is covert way of indicating
                           ż - which, as you can see,
has a diacritical distinction encapsulated...
                         capital version?    Ƶ -
                 and that's rare, it's a bit like seeing a yeti
on a page... rare as ****...
                                      so i'm thinking... is this
the spot where the german (es und zed) ß came from?
              chopping off the head on the particular?
            oh look... they correlate... Ƶ and Ł -
    but that really depends on your linguistic palette -
depends what century you were born in,
                and what the vogue of a tongue invoked.
   but now for the critical part....
       several things... all at once...
               ever made a schnitzel / a schabowy?
                                            sh       ­         s ha    v
you know... when you get a pork fillet
  and you have to flatten it out with... tłuczek...
      o.k. (hand signal... index + thumb
   touching for an O... and the remainder:
         K = III... that's middle, ring and pinky fingers)
               the only transalation i have that's even
remotely accurate is                "pestle" -
but you see, to flatten a pork fillet you use something
akin to a maczuga / a culinary bludgeon -
                   then you put the flattened pork fillet
into egg goo... and then into breadcrumbs...
                               anyway...
    the archimedes bit...
                          it's the opposite of having that quote
ring true: give me a lever long enough and i'll
move the earth...
                                to really flatten a fillet of pork
you have to hold the tłuczek close to the tip
          of the metal-head...
                                i don't know why that's true...
maybe because this isn't a problem for archiemdes
to use a lever, and lift something up...
             but it's a case for hammering something
down, flattening it into a schnitzel form -
                             you need to hold the instrument
really close to the metal-head tip, rather than
    at the end of the wooden stem...
                             it's just the opposite of what's
true within archimedes...
      and yes, i know that schnitzel refers to chicken fillets...
but do know you what else?
                 when you wake up the next day
and have a nicotine hangover?
                        and you're coughing?
              it's also called: coughing up a schabowy -
                                     sssss    ha              bo'h     v  
            and by now you realise this y
                                          is not related to an i -
rather a "dried" out sound... equivalent to the metaphor
of swallowing your tongue;
                                        i.e. enter hades.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/              there's currently a historic heat-wave
happening in england...

indistinguishable
   from, the perfumery akin to the:

inside(s) (of) a barkingside 25m
pool with a diving tower...

part of the higher education
of chemists
belongs to sniffing around,
esp. after having synthesißed
esters...

               one one...
    chlorine...
        within the framework
of the current english heat-wave?
i'm picking up a scent of
chlorine...
                  it's a variant of
public swimming pools -
            which utiliße chlorine
for minority report
   advance: on employing hygiene...

but in the air?
    i can sniff it out...
    it has transpired, translated for me
to pick it up...
   there's chlorine in the air,
notably, i'm guessing,
from the raised temp.,

         you would know,
if you've been to a public swimming pool
that uses oxidised water
as a chlorine alternative -
         O subscript 3,
                 the clarity of the air,
simultanoeusly begging a comparison
with the air inside a 4°C fridge environment...

well, there wouldn't be any "conspiracy"
surrounding the distinguishable signature
of a chanel no. 5 perfume...
     so... i can tell you a scent of sulphur
is sulphur...
        hence... hell yawned over england,
and from its gob, came the scent
of chlorine...
  the second component of identifying
hell -
   sulphur being the first...
   chlorine?    just shy of first, coming
in second.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2021
"The power of freedom to overcome tyrants and terrorists"
Moral clarity accoding {cording} Natan Sharansky,
he mustabin seeking seeing through a moral window
besmerched wi'traditions
radiating

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

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

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

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

----govern yer own damself

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

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

Hubris gotcha down- be humble, win a crown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this way, see

ear? Practice makes perfect opportunity next

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

could be a numbered aphorism in thoth lost long ago.

Freedom from pain? When? When the pain ends.

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

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

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

priesthood of the programmers, defiled
by HyperCard…

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

distant Homer's combed the beaches, sifting shipwrecks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

interesting times, said the chinaman to the BIC guy,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

who cares

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

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

MMM, I get by…
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i still can't get over the genius of W. H. Caruthers, the man who found polyesters, esters were usually used to make the prime composite of perfumes, when their application took off in the realm of clothing? ****... that's when their actual property exfoliated...

early Winter, in England...
ugh...
   wet... you know the harrowing
aspect of when the cold
mingles with wetness?
ugly... i can't say it better...
it's like... stroking an Irish
wolfhound, which just came back
from a run, all muddy,
cold, wet and... somehow sulky...
jeez!
            give me a teddy-bear,
real quick...
  i can appreciate the continental
cold...
   it's dry... there's frost...
sometimes the snow, an insulator,
and when it's really cold,
and there's frost,
whatever remains of
the water, turns into a glittering
expose of a metaphor for
a red carpet... tilt your head
to the left, tilt your head
to the right...
oh look! the paparazzi are taking
pictures!
the frost... my god...
it just glitters!
only when the winters
are dry, but they rarely are,
in England...
i hate England during the winter...
the rain just ****** me off...
i can do a dry minus 10...
but a minus 1 with the rain?
you have to be kidding me...
****'s sake!
    cold & wet don't work...
cold & dry?
  after a while you build up
an immunity,
there are invisible ***** in the air,
pinching your face as you walk
to the local supermarket
for the groceries...
i have to admit...
this is the first time i'm actually
anticipating leaving England...
****! i need a holiday!
the current state-of-affairs
is bugging me...
i want to turn this *******
time-bomb off...
even  the alt. media has succumbed
to the legacy media
sensationalism...
just give me over a month...
a grandfather with dementia,
a grandmother with neuroticism
humming some unknown song
in between staying silent
while drinking coffee and solving
crossword puzzles,
and then... a ******* thistle flute
jamming her imaginary
didgeridoo...
   wait till she hears my
mouthpiece...
**** it... throw me into
the monolith...
i'm tired of these tirades
of language anchoring in England...
there were three partitions
of Poland... how many,
are there of England...
too many to draw a geometric...
i can't watch this...
i need a break...
within the confines of a logic...
why would you go to somewhere
where it's warmer than where
you left from?
i'm going to a place that's
colder from where i came...
so?

well... the genius of polyester
clothing...
   i anticipating to cut my internet use
to a minimum this time...
i have the massive task
of reading potop by Sienkiewicz...
winter... it's either chess
or it's reading...
the second chapter of the trilogy...
the Swedish deluge of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...

oh... now i remember why i wanted
to block that fella...
he started to sound, a bit too much
like my "friend"...
you know... that Anglophone
overlord...
who could have said:
you're not properly integrated
if you still speak your language
of birth... ******... THEN LEARN
FRENCH! OR SPANISH!
your pick... i hate people that
begin to sound like the friends
i had in high-school...
i hated all of them...
now i hate them even more...
like i'm responsible for him...
having a ******* apartment
provided by his father...
the fact that his mother and father
filed a divorce,
that he has a ******* younger
sister he might have to take
care of...
               my fault?!
what am i, god? i fake the rules
of the existential roulette?!

no, i need a break from speaking
this tongue,
what i will need is some Polish
radio,
some Polish t.v., and forgetting
this language, momentarily,
when i return, in situ,
while reading a book in Polish...
about the Swedish deluge,
when the democratic monarchism
model failed, when a king
of the Vasa stock was enthroned
on the "rule of thumb"...

generation prior, to mine?
***** off to Costa Rica...
to the beach...
i? i ******* to a place much colder
than, this here England...
winters in England would
have been just fine...
but i need a release from
this... island claustrophobia...
i need the continent about
2 times a years...
ha... funny...
the two times i tend to ****...
are... with the Bulgar women
in the Goodmayes brothel...

once after Christmas,
and once after Easter...
which makes me practically
the ugly twin of Jesus...

but you know what i learned
about home-grown terrorists,
that i learned about immigration
in Australia...
the concept of... heritage...
watching Australia's Master-Chef
i've learned how
Australians acknowledge the concept
of... heritage...
in England? you know why England
has home-grown terrorists?
the concept of heritage
is... completely... missing!

who are you, without a past,
but only a future, and a present?
i know i'm a psychological
mongrel...
but do you know...
you're a mongrel, through and through...
no... you're worse...
what they have done to you,
with enforced assimilation
by your parents...
you know what i said to my parents
when they suggested
that we only speak English
in private, at home?
******* - well...
it was more a subtle: NIET!

- and how do you respect a foreign
culture?
by respecting your own...
you can't have one, without the other,
otherwise the mimic subversion
of yourself will not work...
please, tier the cake...
there's more depth to a migrant
than merely talking the *******
tongue of the natives...

yes, i will speak English among the English...
that much is requested of me...
but... to... do... what prior migrants
did... and ****-up, ****-***,
****-**** of the natives?
how about the natives learn a second
language?
and not come out as the tourists
that can, truly be, sedated by foreign
cultures of H'america,
or Australia...
       being the... "tropic fruit"...
the... "exotica of diacritics"...
while, forgetting...
you go anywhere else...
guess what?
     what?
                   what?!
                           intimidation;
yeah yeah, some anglophiles in those
places...
   but guess what, tourist...
i speak yours, i don't expect you to speak
mine;  
  the moment you "ask" me to
translate speaking yours into
thinking "yours"... guess what...
i, have, mine!

- i still can't get over the genius of how
polyester clothing interacts with
the cold... i feel the cold... but i don't feel cold...
ingenious!
W. H. Caruthers... Michael Faraday...
my "new" two favorite people.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
that's the second time i was offered to have a *******, i honestly wasn't ready for this one; Khedra was telling me that the girl with the glasses was in a good mood, she stressed it as: she's really, really in a good mood, how about you give us extra and i tell her to come up? i replied: i've just come back from a 12 hour shift, i'm only after a quickie... SLAP... well yeah! i slap her *** during *******, pinch her, bite her... i follow the Kama Sutra to an exactness, obviously i have read it... i know that some women don't get it, but the ones that do? well... it makes ******* all the more fun, after all, we're not slimy mollusks wriggling about, there's more to us than mere caressing and *******... you don't have to **** out all the alternative kinks, although... i'd love to enlarge the ****** to a full body latex suit... i'm not going to lie...

she clearly missed me, i missed her,
but when she came back she knew i was already with
two other girls, Michaela and... oh my god...
i forgot her name: but not her face...
the one that talked too much during ***...
i hate talking during ***:
i don't need "god" in the bedroom...
eyes speak for the eyes,
lips speak for the lips,
phallus speaks for the phallus...
etc.
            but in Khedra's presence i couldn't
just... pick someone else...
i picked her because i knew i'd be guaranteed
unprotected ***...
that's how the rock rolls as it were...
you establish a trust with a woman when
she sees your approach to hygiene...
and then she doesn't even bother asking for more
money... hell... oral and actual genital interaction
unprotected... i forgot how good it feels:
although, like i already mentioned:
i'm also a big fan of condoms...
why? you never know how a woman will
put it on... it varies so greatly...
one will **** it on... another will stretch it
and put it on... various techniques...
  some will look you in the eyes others prefer
not to look: probably reimagining you as
some monster...
i'm no Don Juan, not some Casanova:
my pockets are not that deep...
                        i'm a crustacean lover...
                               sure... if i had more money to shower,
buy gifts... alas: all i have is Ovid's lament
to girls... i can... give them a book of my poems...
a ****** gift, i know... but hey: beggars can't be choosers...
but i knew Khedra missed me...
why? she wanted to be on top this time round...
she usually wants me to arch over her
and do her... sorry: take her to the monastery
of missionaries from Portugal in Japan
(some ******* of my own, thinking)...
i was startled at the fact that i left a ******* imprint
in her...
she sat on my slid it in: right...
*****... it's like with bras... it takes rigid fingers
to undo a bra... the whole point of penetrating a woman's
******? you don't aim for the floral pattern for the *****:
that's for oral ***...
   for the gob to slobber all over it... tongue whirlwind...
when penetrating? you're basically "pretending"
to be aiming for the *******... the distance between
the ****** entry point and the ******* is pretty short...
it's strange how it works...
but i knew she missed me because she recognised
me... already two or three cowgirl giddy-up attempts
of her and she was having those hot-shivers...
she was quivering... hey!
she had to stop from time to time because:
the hot-shivers were attacking her...
    no... of course it wasn't a full ******... but a microcosm
of one...

point being: i didn't ask for permission to try all
the other girls... she told me, she told me:
YOU HAVE TO TRY ALL THE OTHER GIRLS...
she also asked me... tell me, truthfully:
which did you prefer? Michaela, the short fat
girl with ******* or the girl who was sitting opposite
me? the tall, legs to the heavens?
so i told her... the former...
i had a thing for this pornographic actress...
oddly enough also Romanian: Jasmine Black...
and i was like... i need to find me someone similar...
hey presto! Michaela!
the exact proportions: i wouldn't say fat,
i'd say: a pretty plump plum of a woman...

Khedra just kept slapping my chest...
i just kept slapping her ***... biting her chin:
the usual round of bollocking...
i'm done with the English approach to ***...
double standards: yeah: ooh ooh... keep it in the bedroom!
shh! shh! and then once in the bedroom!
all the ugly kinks come out...
all those ungodly conversations: "conversations"
about mummies, daddies and "god" knows what else...
there's no talking when i'm *******:
again... i will no desecrate the altar of this much
pleasure by bringing: and in the beginning there was
the word and the word was with god...
and it was... ever heard of an Eclectus or a Quaker
Parakeet talk, without man talking first?
no! in the beginning only the gods could talk...
mind you... hmm: ooh! ooh!
if Prometheus (the titan) brought down fire to men
and was punished for it by the gods...
who brought down the word (communication,
writing) down from the gods to be left among
men?! who?! who?!
was it not the jealous god, who's name i will not utter
but encrypt?! so the Hebrew deity
would be seen... in the Greek mind...
as a Titan! well... no wonder he's jealous:
the people who venerate him are constantly punished!
why? if Prometheus was punished for brining
to man the fire... the Hebrews are punished for the fact
that their deity brought down "telepathic" communication:
writing, scribbling... and the gods watched
on and saw: well... ****'s going to hit the fan proper
when they start scribbling graffiti on cement walls
thinking they're ****** clever...
dyslexia strong! they'll muddle up the sounds
and overcomplicate their spelling(s)!

i love it... writing *** and about the gods...
it's like the perfect combination for... ah ha ha: disaster...
the days of scientific rationalisation are over:
it's time to return to mythology -
look at it this way: mythology is the antithesis
of journalism: i'm sort of having a backlash
from all the journalism: degraded journalism,
tabloid rather than investigative journalism:
we're not talking high quality journalism
of All the President's Men... we're talking trash:
at best a journalist tells me that X happened at Y...
or there's the editorial section of a newspaper
where i get opinions: a cul de sac of opinions...
since, it's the "rhetoricians'" corner... what sort
of dialectic do you think newspapers allow?
    it's slim... with those "letters" to the editor...
journalism as shambles...

    as i'm writing this i'm gazing at the most beautiful
in heaven... a late summer lightning storm...
lightning without: either thunder or rain...
as if the sky was a giant jellyfish + brain and i'm seeing
it think... wrestle with itself...

- i honestly don't know why i allowed the *******
of my cats give them names...
but they stuck... shouldn't the owner of the pet give
his pet a name, rather than allow the ******* to name them?
QUORUS... honestly? it's not that bad...
quo rus: where are you going, Russian?
and he's ginger... fair enough... makes sense now...
but he's what? 7+ years old...
so... back in the day any conflict with Russia didn't
make sense... my cat's name just makes sense now...
i didn't name him... perhaps: qua rus,
id est: as being Russian... Quorus?! are you a Russian?!
last time i heard Maine ***** came from Maine:
north America...

mind you: Andrew Lloyd Webber got it spot on in
Cats... when he, or whoever did: wrote that cats don't
have one name, they have several names...
they have a name for whatever i feel like calling it...
my female Maine **** is usually
called ヤマモト (ya-ma-mo-to) whenever she's
imploring to be let in to the house:
but in her persistent silence, she just sits by the door
giving no indication to be let in...
i forget how many names i have given Quorus...
but i sometimes: secretly give him the name
******... but that's between me and him...
either ****** or AZRAEL... poor ******...
each time i go into the garden to refill my cup with ice-cubes...
i leave the bedroom: he's sleeping quietly
as if pretending to be a cushion...
the moment i leave he's up and standing on the spot
of the windowsill where i perch to drink and smoke...
looking out for me...
whether or not i will return or not...
then he'll jump onto the roof above the kitchen
and play the CERBERUS' role... watching the lightning
storm (without thunder or rain) with me...

hmm... what happened today?
today i was relaxing after a mammoth shift juggling
over the weekend... i didn't feel like doing much...
i cleaned the house... because i'm a ******* pedantic...
i need the house to be clean:
i can't allow my parents to clean the house for themselves:
my mother's arthritis doesn't allow me to just
leave a massive stink... mind you: it felt so pointless
vacuuming... i wasn't picking much dirt from
the floors... and then obviously mopping the floors...
i like the smell of citrus on wood...

then? a quick bicycle session on my Trek Merlin 5
"Rolls Royce"... recycling empty glass bottles...
buying a whiskey and some pepsi-cola...
oh... and some MAJOR good news...

what's for dinner? pizza... homemade, what else?!
there's probably one thing i love making more than
ice-cream... esp. mint choc-chip ice-cream...
one day i'll make me chocolate ice-cream...
i hate chocolate ice-cream...
i have this fine potent mint growing in my garden...
the ice-cream came out amazing:
i didn't even have to add any artificial colouring:
just the right sort of colour... pale green...
much much paler than the colour of my irises...

ENDLICH, REGEN!
         ich brauchen wasser für mein bäume im mein garten!

but there's only one thing that gives me more pleasure
than making ice-cream... ooh...
making pizza-dough! i love sculpting that
*** of a lazy lady of yeast... the smell of yeast
is about as intoxicating as the scent of wet
rosemary or thyme or mint in the night
when it rains and rains and rains...
nothing can compare to making pizza-dough:
well, apart from making mint choc-chip ice-cream...
or synthesising esters in a chemical laboratory...
or synthesising polyester...
the event horizon on that ***** of an experiment:
ha ha... two liquids... and you're just pinching
the "good stuff" from the two liquids not mixing...

like i told one coworker: i rather enjoy listening
to music when i fall asleep...
but... but.
if it starts raining? and i'm about to fall asleep?
the music is turned off and i fall into a lullaby
of a symphony of necessary tears...
some people would tell me that there's no Bach in rain:
i.e. that there's no polyphony that can be ascribed
to rain: i **** right disagree...
that's like saying the sound of the sea is the same
as the sound a river generates or for that matter
a lake... or... a foot stepping into a puddle...
or the sound of a waterfall...

it's only a Monday and i'm already exited for the week ahead...
i couldn't wait for today because i knew i would
be recharging... father's lunch for tomorrow?
sweet peppers and sliced iceberg salad as the base...
on top? pancetta, strawberries,
goat's cheese... figs... with a balsamic glaze dressing...
tomorrow? Khedra didn't appreciate my ****** outgrowths...
she told me, strictly: your kissing is prickling me...
i agreed... my moustache is too long...
i ought to know better... it becomes half a bother
and a bother fully to boot when my moustache
"wets itself" when i take a sip of ms. amber's metaphorical
**** juices...
of course i'm still growing the FU MANCHU...
upon strict orders of the Turk... my love-patch needs
to be as long as my actual beard... and my beard needs
to hide my entire neck...

so tomorrow... i'm excited about visiting my Turkish barber
and getting a trim...
that's tomorrow...
Thursday? i'm off to the brothel to ****... simple as
1 + 1 = 2... i'll do the West Ham shift, finish at 10:30 and
then get my silly ***** wet...
maybe have a *******, maybe not...
i'm paying back a debt... i already stashed half of it
(£200) in my writing desk... i'll take out £200 more tomorrow...
a ******* Lynyrd Skynyrd sing-along
when you're debt free and only working on a debt-system
without any credit... i never understood
the point of the credit system...
why, would, you, use, credit?
why, spend, money, you, don't, have?
after working level 5 at Wembley... for that... tribute
concert for Taylor Hawkings... the managers asked me...
do you suffer from vertigo?!
which vertigo?!
the height vertigo?! didn't i tell you that i used
to be a roofer?! i must have...

height vertigo? yeah... i sometimes have this wild "idea"
in my head when i'm standing at a decent amount of height...
my legs start trembling, i start to grip some barrier...
some stable object... why? i start thinking about jumping
down! that's my height "vertigo": i start thinking that:
just perhaps i have a parachute or an exoskeleton!
although i have another "vertigo": it's a monetary "vertigo"...
i hate to be in debt... i never spend on credit...
either i have the money and spend it...
or i don't have the money and, ergo: don't spend it...
i abhor monetary "vertigos"...
     of course i think about money...
some people are geologists... some people are economists...
it's not that hard to confuse the two,
equating: pebbles = coins...
after all... what are coins? if not peanuts... certainly not
peanuts... then most certainly pebbles:
nuggets of copper with insignia:
"things" of "value" that are only allocated value
because someone said so:
like the usual critique of religion... it's all man-made...
sure... and economy is also man-made...
i abhor gold: i could never don a gold ring on my fingers...

sure... press some gold into a circle...
slap a pretty face like that of ol' Lizzy on it! hey presto!
"value"... otherwise, what?
mind you: a tickling on my legs...
it finally started raining... a spider was made into
a... a... banana-boat man...
escaping conflict of rain... i picked him up from
my tickled leg... put him on my hand...
dropped him off on my private library's shelf...
on... level 3... the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam...
i should get some flies for him at some point...

eh... spiders... flies... foxes... it's not like they're
exotica that certain women like...
i just figured it out... the men women choose to mate
with... oh! it's so certainly most necessary
for the men to have "sleeves"... yeah... at least one
hand covered in tattoos! women love men with
sleeves... the only "tattoos" are on my brain...
but i've witnessed the aesthetic of reproduction...
on the sly... the men with sleeves get to...
oh this one dude... i could "hear" his testosterone being slurped
up when he was giving the duties of daddy
with the buggy watching over his 2 week old babe...
or that guy two doors down...
mate! you're ******! why? you mother-in-law
is coming to see you 5 times a day! you're living about
20 metres from her! you're ****** mate!
me? i have ms. amber and philosophy for company!
i don't think i could talk to a woman: "privately"
outside a specified environment...
sure... women try... we talk on shifts...
if i have to be cold and exacting: exclusive...
hell... this one manager tried it with me today...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
so i replied to his "ha ha": fair enough...
i'll be more EXCLUSIVE next time...
      
                     i know that they employ complete air-heads...
retards... and they are licesened as security "guards":
i was telling my coworker: i'm really reluctant to get
the "baddge"... for (1) the hours are longer...
for (2) the pay is not much greater...
for (3) i only want to do this part-time,
don't get me wrong... it's great... but it's only great
when i say it's great... not when "management"
tells me it's "great"....
there's probably a point (4) and a point (5)...
but... ah... whatever...

hmm... it's back to Andrew Lloyd Webber
and the Cats musical lyrics,
coupled with the 13th Warrior transcript...
between
            Ahmed íbn Fahdlan íbn...
  and Herger... íbn this íbn that... name? IBN...
ha ha... that's like with cats...
Quorus "íbn" AZAEL "íbn" AZRAEL "íbn"
RYCERZ ZAKUTY-ŁEB....
   i.e. knight-mutton-headed...
a mutton-headed-"knight"...
                 chained-head... i too thought that
cats ought to be by the fireplace when it rains...
this one? prefers the company of the activities' of dogs...
i wish i owned a dog... instead?
i own a cat with an invisible leash...
he doesn't go far... i wish i owned a dog for the simple
reason that he might eat what i ate: letft-overs...

but i can't wait for Wednesday... the woman doing
my mother's nails called up: she's having trouble with her
1 year old toddler...
it was supposed to be a Saturday for my mother
getting her nails done...
i just sat there...
she can do Wednesday... but she has to drop off her
autistic older girl and come with "that" BAHOR
(crying baby) to a manicure and pedicure session...
but the baby is a RUGRAT... a little DEMON...
ooh! ooh!
me me! me me!
i just heard that there might be an issue...
i jumped in my head: hit the imaginary ceiling
then came back down (no glass)... i can do it!

come to think of it... cats are predictable creatures...
why? they're changeless...
but babies?! oh wow! it's like i'm back
in a chemistry lab... but instead of dealing
with potent substances... i'm dealing
with the "non-existence" of a soul!
i love it! i love it more than slapping prostitutes
riding me while they slap me in the face
and i slap them in the ***...
that's not true... the only girl that ever slapped me
in the face was Ilona... a Russian rich girl poor boy's wet-dream...
Khedra slapped me in the more appropriate place
while admiring my chest and stomach hair...
pinching my *******...

i'm going to have the time of my life on Wednesday...
i'll be baby-sitting! what's wrong with baby-sitting!
at worsst and at best she'll be pulling at my beard
and i'll be reversing the "talking parrot" sounds
of mimic... i'll be clucking... she'll be clucking back...
i'm too STEM orientated to think about life
subjectively... i'll be a male with a baby in my arms
on Wednesday... and a ******* in my arms
on a Thursday...

of course i'm going to take a picture!
i love babies... it will be so unlike petting a cat...
but it will be like petting a cat...
but unlike a cat: babies are forever unpredictable...
i'll slow down on drinking the "amber juice":
why? i want to have some fun with a baby...
i hope we can do whatever it necessary to
not relate... like the memory of my great-grandfather
in the kindergarten... him as a shadow
playing the big piano and me playing the toy piano...

MALVINA... that's the BAMBINO'S name...
the first girl i ever fell in love with:
i must have have been 6.... she was this albino blonde...
and her name was MALVINA...
this is going to be such a trip (if it happens)...
she's going to be pulling at my beard...
i'll be looking into her eyes
of disorientation...
thank god... she's not mine...
i can gladly keep watch of children that don't belong
to me... more willingly than you think...
i couldn't... some ideas need brushing up on...
i need to keep an eye on those...
but... from time to time?
if i get to become a baby-sitter?
i'll be a baby-sitter...
it's a welcome alternative to having to please
prostitutes...

hmph!
perhaps i'm an arrogant "****"... today i walked to
the local saying good-afternoon to one old woman...
saying another hello
to: hello Matthew... hello Matthew...
we grabbed each other's hands like in the 1950s
movies... when two Roman noblemen greet each
other... i.e. shook arms instead of hands...
we pulled the left hand on top of the hands
shaking: so? the four-hand-greeting...

there's something special about acquiring the "familial":
locus orientation that 20th century cosmopolitan
existentialism simply missed...
i can't wait for Wednesday... twice: thrice better than
sleeping with prostitutes... a sample of fatherhood...
i just... eh... what can you do?
it's not up to me... is it?
i can't exactly make women choose what's
to be chosen... if they chase after idiots.. idiotic times...
i came to one single mother once...
the one that "thought" she smelled alcohol on me...
i came back to her:
with homemade wine: cloudy... so? i chose
Franziskaner Hefe Weissbier...
you, girl, are going to drink my homemade:
cloudy wine... i'll drink...
a coorporaate cloudy beer with you...
single mum... her son's name? Friedrich...
i read his poem out-loud to him...
i also brought around a homemade banana loaf...
***** wasn't buying the myth...
oh well...  a guy comes round on a bicycle:
he has a banana loaf... homemade wine (cloudy)...

there's this much of love i am willing to give!
beyond that... ON YOUR, *******, WAY!
there's no point!
you've been hurt, i've been hurt... no!
i'm happy to just deal with a woman who needs
baby-sitting... doing my mother's nails...
needing someone to take take of her baby...
i'll do! i'll do! i'll do it!

it's ******* sad... for however much you want
to love: you're told to love less...
and by the same amount of "less":
you're asked to love "more"!

to love as yourself: you're never going to love
yourself as there might be a male "self"
to speak of: you ******* idiot!
you're a ******* toothpick in the waterfall!
i'm not saying "man-up": i'm just saying...
there are reality checks in place...
why do you think all the grandmas are *******
grandmas beginning and ending with?
where are the men?
in, a place, allocating, the most, bothered, men...
their... safeguard... from... interacting... with...
women....
me? i like to be the mediator...
that's me... between ******* and toddler...
eh... "ring baron" of a woman of: "beached whale"
value... what?!

that's Wednesday though... toddler Malvine is
here on Wednesday...
tomorrow's a Tuesday... that's a trip to Istanbul
for a beard trim...

i lost my beard-envy when i heard this one
Arab colt say: i love your beard, sir!
sir?! beard? i have a beard?!
i need to trim my mustache to kiss her in a way
she wants to be kissed...
but a beard?
i can't wait for Malvina... the toddler...
i want those:
chubby-bubbly-bub-bub-cheeks pressed
against mine... pretending to be a father
knowing that i'm not: a father...

i want cheese on top of the toast!
i want to keep all the Talmud secrets,
i want to keep the secrecies of babies
akin to the alignment of women.

p.s. and i have to agree with Bukowski in his
wisened post-mortem publication about
"going all the way"... there's no battle worth fighting
except with oneself... going all the way...
writing into the night... watching a lightning
storm: hearing no thunder...
thunder eluded me yesterday: there was only
lightning and then the glorious fall of rain...
in his own words:
and you will: you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame fire...

i am alone: i am not alone... i'm writing this post-scriptum
during the day because i felt that the night
was too beautiful to waste it upon completing
this "little effort"...

i just can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll take a picture of the two of us on the grass...
hopefully i'll get her mother's approval to jump
into the hot-tub with her... my little BAMBINO...

hmm... why is it that babies are as generic as old people?
when we're born we have universal needs...
when we're at the closure of our mortality:
it's all the same for either man and woman...
babies look alike: whether male or female,
the same is true for old people...
it's only in our prime that we seek out diverged
***-based needs...
men want particular things
as women want particular things...
men crave solace in aloneness...
women despise any talk of solance
equating aloneness with loneliness...

   what happened to the inquisitive old men
of antiquity akin to Socrates?
why have men not bothered to inquire about the intellect
when all their youthful toils of the body
have been completed? it's so stereotypical
of middle-aged men to assume that philosophy
books ought to be read in old age...
nope... that's completely untrue...
philosophy books ought to be read in a man's
20s... and by the time a man is ripened for old age...
he ought to be able to mix his early reading of philosophy
books (a priori) with his experience of life
(a posteriori)...

but it's not enough to simply say: logic... philosophy...
reason...
the Chinese Taoist sages covered pretty much everything
that modern science: finally caught up with...
what's ontology in Chinese philosophy? XING...
what's inherently me...
no... whatever the current trend is in western thinking:
implosive "western" & "thinking" i will perform the rite
of Pontius Pilate over... i will wash my hands clean
of the whole affair... this pseudo-intellectualism
this... GAME... of "GRAMMAR"...
there are far more interesting categories of words
than simply pronouns... nouns: for a start are more
interesting... how there's very little chance to catch
a diminutive noun in English... hey! that's a start!

you can't say beak (of a bird) in a way that beak:
allocated a diminutive suffix to the noun...
you have to say: little beak...
ah... but in other languages you can do just that!

dziób - beak... the diminutive being?
   dziobek... little beak...
                                             like i explained to this
older Turkish woman i was working a shift with
(god i fancied her, only later did i find out that she was
Turkish... that doe with fear in her eyes...
i still fancy her...) when she asked me about my accent...
i told her: to have an Essex accent you have to be born
in Essex... she lives in Kent and the Essex lads are
horrid to her... but i told her: since i'm bilingual...
there's this natural buffer zone for me to not have
a localised accent... i can have an generic: cosmopolitan
London accent... but even then... i'm a chameleon...

ha! to think that i didn't ask for permission to **** other
girls: Khedra actually demanded it!
she told me: you have to try all of them...
her ******* habbit and harking at non-existent phlegm
from her throat and nose...
well: good that i don't like *******...
enough of caffeine and nicotine is just about the same
for me...
the moment she mentioned having a *******
i was like... this second time ought to be better...
the first time i wasn't prepared...
i'll juggle the finances and take out more next time...
first time? with all that ****** changes i was sort
of disorientated...

but i can't wait for tomorrow... why?
i'll be babysitting! i'll have a BAMBINO to look after...
this gorgeous woman is coming over to
do my mother's nails...
she wouldn't have come because her bambino
is so much hassle these days...
as my mother was talking i was erratically nodding:
please bring her! please bring her!
i won't be drinking too much tonight...
i need to wake up at 7am and make an important
phone-call come 8am... then i'll wait...

seriously... that's the best dichotomy of: the life
of the other in your hands...
from slapping and biting prostitutes to then ensuring
my large hands take to tender care of a baby...
ooh! i'm sizzling with giggles and burps and farts
and stomach gurgling sensations...
i'll put on some vinyl record for her...
i'll focus a bright light on my little Frankenstein...
i'll bring down the word from on high into
her ears and then through her mouth
i'll try to steal the first word from her mother's
attempt at communication...
she already performed a mimic of me when i started clucking
my tongue... she clucked back:
the cluck of a horse buckling on cobblestones...

i'll have my little Frankenstein experiment...
i'll work around words and settle for onomatopoeias
first... i'll imitate sounds that humans are allowed
to make... it will be like going to a brothel:
but better... better still: it won't be my child...
it will be someone else's child...

come to think of it... it almost feels like that scene
from Game of Thrones... when a baby is brought before
the Night King... it will be such a welcome break from
the already idiosyncratic, unique character of my cats...
i can't change them: not that i can change a cat's ontology...
or for that matter being able to change Quarus...
ibn ****** ibn Azreal...
                 but i can travel to the moon and Antartica with
this baby... i can revel in leaving my first footprint
in the psyche of this child: not mine...
grant me the bare minimum of at least 3 hours
with this loose canon of an **** that will probably ****
the entire length of the Thames' river...

nothing to do today, cleaned the house yesterday,
there's still plenty of left-over pizza...
i worked the entire weekend... even yesterday
i didn't drink that much... but my body went into shutdown
relax mode... i went to bed at 12am and got up at 12pm...
Show Me Love crushed me...
walking around so many women fried my brain...
the moment one approached me for a handshake
and a wave another approached me to dance with her
then another approached me to "face the mirror"
and make me smile while doing a mirror-wriggling dance...
not even in the brothel did i see so much:
ripe, flesh...
by the end i was exhausted like a Solomon might...
3 years later... one for each night... and he still didn't
manage to make the rounds of his harem...
so? well... back in the day they didn't have ******...
so? he asked for a few willing men to be castrated...
he cut their ***** off and said: here... be their playthings...
otherwise female homosexuality will not allow me
their arousal upon my return!

well... sometimes a little bit of bitterness does seep into me,
it comes in, but: it does take off its shoes,
it asks me whether it can smoke a cigarette,
it does all the very formal things i except certain states
of mind to allow me to "challenge"... it only comes
when a woman ponders my state: why aren't you still
married?
i swollow the "pill" and in turn ponder...
hmm... why? why?                       hmm... why?
isn't it obvious?
                             i could swear it was obvious!

the best conversations i ever had were with myself:
on paper... akin to this...
the cost of living is not worth putting too many hours
into working...
working is far better than stealing...
but i'm also not going to follow the route of rich people:
how do rich people get rich?
through loop holes that poor people can't navigate...
like my neighbour (who killed my cat)
she only own an off-license shop...
   but she... blah blah... she had three "bulgaries"
in the past 4 years... some that happened at noon...
some in the middle of the night: me? i'm usually perched on
my windowsill until 4am... i saw jack-****...
evidently: a scam...
                  
born into a Catholicism: yet i have retained all the Protestant
traits of honesty... even i once exclaimed
that England "used" to be a high-trust society...
it still might be: but in London you better have
double-standards... esp. with the Somalis taking breaks
on shifts... some you can oil-up toward your
persuasions about work by managing to
give them free food... otherwise... Sisyphus at his toil...

until tomorrow Malvina... until tomorrow my temp.
joy of a Bambino.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
i could really, really, find a purpose
in life, by ******* off
a mystic, like Sadhguru,
which would be nothing short
of spectacular...
      and not for some personal
gratification,
                         but for equilibrium
of some sort...
           notably on the topic
of ailments...
          having studied chemistry
and, oddly enough, gained a degree,
i resorted to a drop-out mentality...
what can you do,
    when your brain becomes your
laboratory...
    and the times when you once
synthesised esters is reduced to
perfecting, a chicken saag recipe...
**** me their cuisine is
breathtaking...
     never mind the mistic...
  apparently the news from India
isn't good...
         Hindus doing Muslims in,
    a ****** is told to do 100 sit-ups
as punishment for ****** a 16 year old...
  hence the mystic simplicity...
     mind you...
    for years I was prescribed
an antidepressant, amitriptyline
(25mg)... but for some strange reason
I treated it like a sleeping pill,
or at least that's what I thouht it was...
blatantly there is an instruction "manual"
for the drug...
                   DO NOT MIX WITH
ALCOHOL... and what does this little chemist
do?
    he mixes it with alcohol...
      the odd naproxen...
     but the question is...
    do most people take antidepressants
before they go to sleep,
    or during the day, before breakfast, etc.?
I'm a ******* cheap-***, can't afford
a laboratory, might as use this
****** fatty-sponge as an alternative...
curiously still:
  Alzheimer is caused by killer protein,
and the pop consensus is:
to train the brain to work as a muscle...
straining it on puzzles...
   mental "exercise"...
      but the yogi is right...
as my res vanus reworking of
the res cogitans suggests:
    perpetual "thinking" is exhausting,
Nietzsche had a macabre take
on things: when the you look into
the abyss...
           seems that, fear,
rather than puzzles,
    can be a greater motivational
artifact, than some banal puzzle in
a newspaper...
                 as much "exercise"
   is achieved by not thinking, than is
achieved by "thinking"...
   example:
               emptiness is substituted
with a cognitive custard when necessitating
a complete brain coordination,
notably when changing lightbulbs
subconsciously thinking about:
  how many blondes it takes to...    
    remembering that you too had blondish
hair, once upon a time worn long...
   oh we can play the words game
with the cited yogi...
     bud-
            (dog kennel)
                      -da-: (will give)
   on da / ona da:
    he will give, she will give...
            which is half of what
Budapest was built on...
                   do most people prescribed
antidepressants, take the pills before
bedtime?
               unlike taking hormonal pills
having had your thyroid gland removed,
I. E. half an hour before breakfast...
   I can't see how,
    overcoming the "placebo effect"
   of almost all psychoactive pharmacological
drugs isn't compensated by
the taxable, and notoriously
evident effects of psychoactive...
      pleasures...
                            stigma schtigma...
      are people really reduced to
a sort of shame equivalent to being
a child, caught stealing cookies from
a cookie jar,  when talking about
the most subtle of ailments?
                            last time I heard
is that there is nothing worse than apathy...
apathy breeds no pathology after all...
        but to call these subtle, ether ailments
as self-generated...
                begs the question
of the "self", and the per se...
                              at once frivolous in
the guise of depression,
  but then authentic in the genuineness
of lethargy... and in the extreme example:
narcolepsy...
       sure, sure, I know:
hot **** and a bag of marbles...
                       thank god I do not
hold responsibility or have the authority
to prescribe drugs...
     sly rat Timothy Leary...
   trying to slither out of an interview
after populirising LSD
   and the girl who jumed out the window...
good to know that if I am hurting
anyone, it's only myself, and it's done
by no other, than yours truly...
    and, apparently...
while saving the Amazon and not wishing
to exhaust these words to be on
a printed page...
      sometimes, there's simply
a rhythm to writing...
    there is not actual concentration
on the content...
       there is only a rhythm to writing...
since I never managed to
play the piano...
      at least there's the rhythm in
writing, and not a chance for
a desperate, exasperated poet making
it to centre stage...
         and with that sort of
honesty:
       I'd love to have the chance to
pass off a Hindu yogi...
                             or repaint
every Christian icon...
              with a needle puncture in
each of the saints' halos...
                 early prototype of
astronouts or something?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
well... there's the fun activity / pastime
of watching paint dry...
or there's the fun activity / pastime
of not watching dry yeast
being added to a concoction of
warm water, olive oil, salt and
flour...
                       **** me!
      you've see this?
          i thought i used too little...
   now i'm looking at...
well... dunno...
       cancerous growth,
         a volcano about to explode?
             a hot air-balloon!
i have to concede,
dough, using yeast?
   the funnest dough to fiddle around
with using extra flour...
rolls out like a dream...
a dream of...
a La La Land designated to celebrate;
bubble-gum.
i was always good at organic
chemistry...
  no wonder cooking feels like
that one experiment we
crafted esters.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
sitting in the garden while there was no visible
sunset... no fuchsia tinges in the sky...
no blood orange... no moon or stars for that matter...
no moon: ah... it almost feels terrible...
just a darkening minute by minute...
a crow on the roof teasing a nibble consisting
of a nocturnal insect...
me... sort of too: taking great joy in killing
a mosquito on my forearm...
sitting drinking wine while looking at
the eucalyptus tree and the grapevine...

contemplating death: in earnest...
thinking of death as a she...
strange... the english language doesn't really allow
nouns to be either masculine or feminine...
all are pretty much: asexual... tools...
chair... table... although it's hard not to think
of a hammer as masculine...
death as feminine...
the sun is also feminine...
the moon... masculine...

contemplating death in earnest...
long gone the maxim: memento mori...
it's a bit different when you're thinking of death
via suicide... not yet...
not yet...
i don't need to remember that i'll die:
i haven't achieved enough to be lost to all
that's life: death is but the extension
of my shadow... death is seeing my shadow
at night...
my bride to be...
i gather: all terribly... gluttonous / pompous...
you can... alternatively...
listen about death at a funeral...
in the formal tongue of the undertakers...
i think of her in earnest...
she deserves as much...

suicide... well... there's only one detail missing:
the only thing scarier than contemplating
suicide is: contemplating a failed suicide:
an attempt at suicide...
oh... not by hanging... i or falling from a height...
or drowning or shooting myself...
i felt by body up to find the cruxes of where
i could find my... pulse (tętno)...

under my right armpit... and just above the collar
bone to the right side of where my:
bulging neck is throbbing...
well: i have to think about it...
i better think about than...
say... be so engrossed in life that i might
forget about... like i might forget
where i put my wallet...
i even conjured up a "suicide" note in my head...

it would read something along the lines of:
i wanted to transcend ******...
i wanted to find a higher variation of an ******:
the antithesis / antonym...
i hope i'll find it: bleeding out...

because, why should i be allowed to say:
i can encapsulate all that's life in the 35 years
i've already lived...
dying within the confines of a life expectancy...
say... 70...
in the grim scene of a hospital anaesthetic...
not in a forest at night
sitting under a dead tree...
or... in a field... among horses...
it's really unappealing...
                 it's already unappealing to be
be smothered when someone inserts a needle
into your arm and tells you that you did some
******* magic...

life no longer seems to be able to appease
me thirst... or hunger...
i'm not even going to bother having a Bukowski-esque
competition of reaching old age...
am i expected to live life to all its banal totalities?

life... seems to be its most beautiful... when one is
conscious of it: also having to be surrendered...
the living part of life:
for some... aspirations come... aspirations go...
vivo per se...
                      is another matter altogether...

for now... i'm greatly satisfied with how
this;

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
4 ­     0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0      9 ­     3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0      0 ­     0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0      1 ­     9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0      7 ­     0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0      0 ­     4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0      3 ­     0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0      9 ­     0

can end up looking like this:

5¹³    8⁴⁰    6⁸      7³⁷    1⁵¹    9⁵⁰    2⁴²    3⁴⁷    4¹⁵
4⁰     2³⁹    1²³     6⁰     8⁴¹    3⁴⁹    5⁰      7⁴⁶­    9⁴⁸
7²⁵    9⁰     3⁰      4¹⁶     5⁰    2²⁶    8²⁴  ­   1⁰     6⁴
2²⁷    1²²    5²¹     3³³    4¹⁷   6¹¹    9⁴³     8⁴⁴    7⁴⁵
3⁰      7²⁸   4¹⁸     1⁰      9⁰    8¹⁹    6⁰      5²⁰    2²⁹
9⁰      6⁰­     8⁰     2³²      7⁰    5¹⁴   1³⁸      4⁰     3³⁴
6⁰      5⁰     7⁴     9⁰       3⁵³   1⁵²   4⁰       2³⁰    8³⁶
8³      4²      ­9⁰    5⁰       2³¹   7¹²   3⁰       6¹⁰    1³⁵
1⁰      3¹      ­2⁰    8⁰       6⁰     4³    7⁷       9⁰     5⁶

that'll do for now... no great mystery...
but more joy from that... than from a crossword...
so... aged 35 i have hobbies of a 70 year old...
and by the time i reach 70 i'll be...
life's too beautiful to... what?
end it with loitering at a car-boot sale
on a hot summer morning?

i'm already starting to lose patience with what
life has on offer...
apart from repeating mundane tasks
repeating pleasures is:
life's great - when looked at in all its stillness
among birds... through wine-goggles...
cycling... most certainly:
i can imagine an eternity on a bicycle...
who wouldn't want to **** a beautiful
******* for more than an hour?
it would take a perpetual night to give
proper alms of hands and kisses and
phallus to that altar...
saying that... cooking... which is probably
the elevated variant of that stale *****
that's chemistry...
although... synthesising esters...
top tier... or that joke of an experiment:
pinching plastic from the event horizon:
i don't remember...

i think about sending someone a postcard from
Jupiter... what the naked eye can see...
n'ah... not Jupiter... no... Jupiter...
life must be fun when there are people
in your life that can complicate it:
dramatize it to pursue... whatever it is that
might be pursued...
but when there aren't any...
come now: find your peace... after that:
the zenith of said peace...

i have to be... self-consoling...
everything else in this world is becoming
a self- prefix orientation:
self-checkout... self-employed...
being or becoming self-sufficient...
"independent" is about much fun as...
*******...

solipsism was only a theory: an idea...
but it's becoming more and more the modus operandi...
not needing other people in your life
is: not needing life per se...
i'm not willing to satisfy myself
looking at people put up veneer structures
and... occasionally meet up for a social
drink...

hell... once upon a time two bottles of wine would
leave me eating flowers in a pub...
puking into a toilet of a nightclub...
taking a snooze on a bench before
asking the police to taxi me home...
now? well i'm writing this...

the mere thought of death should be a great
liberation... i don't why society treats
suicidal thinking...
at best it is all placebo... the act itself
ought to be thought of as transcending ******...
it's the last remaining freedom:
every time i think of death and suicide
my mind turns into a phoenix...
i relinquish all my memories
and take to focusing on the stillness of the moment:
hell... there's even a concentration
of pareidolia
when peering into: not at:
inanimate objects... the earth is not flat:
it's also not inanimate: therefore
the perception gulag of animate vs. inanimate
objects is a farce...

how i adore merely thinking about
my proximity to certainty:
the inevitable... the fatalistic crescendo!
i can ******* first kiss...
all the girls saliva as i down this cheap wine
mixed into a kalimotxo with some pepsi...
i can taste the mouth on her
all her snot and all that came together
testing the waters being a teenager...
kissing in the park...
having long hair having: LESBIANS!
shouted at us... getting a hand-job
under a tree... all the while: donning a catholic
school uniform:

thank god i haven't been confirmed...
one baptism is enough: not that i asked...
i wasn't going to fall for
a formal baptism... being ******* conscious
and what not!

maybe... ha! "maybe" i should suckling at ms. amber's
**** altogether... she only ended catching up
to me the following morning:
with a numbing that was never a hangover:
and most certainly a bad breath...

treating suicidal thinking: come on!
it's the most assured hard-on left!
it's like... all that can be conjured from the sensations
during ***... but thrice elevated!
i'll have to turn my brain
into a chemical soup to somehow argue:
some... "otherwise"?

a pagan in full attire of: his most earnest...
life is... then... life isn't...
i'm not going to live with accordance that
his farce can be somehow perpetuated:
i'd prefer jump the queue and give
my amends... i want to make my peace...
before i'm finally gratified the proper peace
of having my fingers stitched up
with cobwebs and my tongue ****** out
from mouth and being given
a lobotomy so i can:
cucumber the rest of my days...

reemphasising pareidolia:
  they're hardly human... humanoid... yes...
but hardly human...
in the clouds... in the trees...
maybe i'm being just a tad bit myopic...
perhaps i'm just ******* blind...
perhaps i "forgot" to rhyme and this should
all be served as prose sushi...
perhaps Anne Sexton had more time
to rummage in: the proper way to make
emphasis: perhaps she punctuated "better"...

i like thinking of death:
it makes all the little itches of life...
seem all the more, necessarily: robotic...
and that they can be understood as such...
whatever transcendence comes:
whether cycling, drinking or *******...
there won't be a carnival on my behalf:
as i... nonetheless sing their praises.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
while contemplating tomorrow's dinner: an aloo gobi (potato + cauliflower) curry, and a chicken korma - wishing it was a little bit more of a "cultural appropriation": seems i can't get a turban for the love of god, or becoming a transvestite in a sari.

could have been an employable chemist,
working on esters in a dolce & gabbana
perfumery; the cardamon pods got me,
what can i say, other than:
      other than - they call themselves
storytellers, artists, these modern chefs,
i'd prefer to call them the understudy of
chemists;
  and **** i was good at organic chemistry...
the other two branches:
  dead, inanimate often, inorganic (geological)
and the physical... too dead for me,
not enough perfumes, enough colours,
just digits, chemistry for the autistic.
beside the point,
you want to know my favourite cycling
route?
  when in one summer i lost almost 20kg
and then "faked" putting them back on,
oink, bloated from alcohol?
              that french braid in school didn't
help steer away the jealous eye either...
about a 50+ km route...
  let's just say the following:

1. radwańska (route 754)
2. down the 754 through:
       sudół, krzemionki opatowskie,
      magonie, maksilimilanów,
    ruda bałtowska, reaching
                                         bałtów
3. heading into the masovian voivodeship,
  and then a mix of
4. wółka bałtowska /
         borcuchy /
          eugeniów /
              stara dębowa wola /
         sarnówek duży /
        adamów /
           leśniczówka /
      wółwka trzemecka /
  wółkwa bałtowska /
        nowy olechów /
              and then into the home straight
on
5. siennieńska back into ostrowiec
         świętokrzyski...

of all the places i cite, i'm pretty sure no
google car ventured into...
i'm not going to check, i'm just going
to assume...

yes, i lived in a city, where you could
see timber structures from
the krzemień period in human history...
krzemień? flint!
                         a flintstone settlement
lies about 10km from where i was born...
looks kinda cosy...
     a wooden wall and all...
   sure, the english can boast about their
stonehenge,
but i was born near a very, very old
flintstone settlement...
                i never realised how
potent its existence is to revel in...
that's older than the iron age, the bronze age...
that ******* old, i'm telling you...
     and look at me, still defiant with
the darwinistic **** of studying history,
how we have managed to jump so far back
and leave a massive grey area in between..
i was born next to the flintstones,
          where were you born?

p.s. and as i can remember, along the route,
i used to buy goat milk from one of
the ladies in the villages i passed;
+ badass of a bike too,
   dubbed the "terminator", crimson red,
hard frame,
        a mountain bike, heavy tires,
i can tell you i beat a guy on
a *kolarzówka
(tour de france type bikes)
one time...
    they don't make 'em as they used
to.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
you won't hear it officially, not on any meteorological briefing, the "official" end of summer has yet to arrive on the calendar day... but summer seized to be on this very day, in merry ol' england; and that's the thing about writing every single day like an elvis costello song: you see things more sharply, even the slightest changes. like today, the winds were blowing hard through the streets, there was a slight drizzle, but more importantly? the crackling of fallen first casualties of autumn, the first leaves being pushed like scuttling fast-forward caterpillars down the street; and so too, the first fallen acorns, and too: the first pine cones.

but that's beside the point, i admit,
i rarely take pictures of food,
esp. not the sort of pictures people take
at restaurants,
but if i make something **** tasty,
i'll take a picture...
and post it into the public sphere:
even i'm not immune to this practice...
so far? well, this will be the second picture
of food, but the joy comes from:
well, it's ****** well fun to cook.

what was it? ah... i'll expand beyond mere
name:
    the hardest ingredient on the list was
tamarind* - god it's disgusting raw -
it's like a rancid peanut butter -
  i hoped that it would change upon cooking,
luckily it did.
so two chicken ******* were marinated
in tamarind soy sauce, sesame oil,
rice vinegar & white wine vinegar
   overnight...
    later, drained, and coated in cornflour
and then deep-fried 3x 30 seconds -
god, every time i counted to 30 i lost
the count, so i counted 3x 10 seconds
extending thumb, index middle.
   rice, obviously.
    salad?
        beansprouts, chopped coriander,
mint, zest of a lemon...
    salad dressing?
        lime juice, sesame oil,
          a chilli + salt.
    the most fun though, came in the form
of chilly soy caramel...
mmm... you know, caramel can entirely
fill your typical english house...
just came out the bathroom up-stairs
after taking a dump and immediately
i got a whiff of the caramel...
  which was simply sugar melted in
a frying pan, infused with a little bit of water,
soya sauce, lime juice and a chilli.

as i once said:
   if i can't find work in a chemistry laboratory,
well, guess i have to make the kitchen
a laboratory...
    if i can't craft esters, i'll just conjure up
       triple fried chicken with chilli caramel;

and about posting the photograph into
the public sphere...
   well... i'll probably abide by the:
three-strikes & you're out motto -
                         to at least retain some cool:
then again - if i was a carpenter and made
a chair by myself, i'd also be proud,
so nininini... naggingnaggingnagging...
            seems it was a rather, special day.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
& even i didn't think it would be possible,
but whereas the mainstream
elsewhere is anything but the mainstream,
elsewhere, the mainstream 'ere
can only be commented on in broken depeche

   – – •   • – • •
          a             ß

                 ⠥ • – – •  – – –  ⠝

– • – • on           ⠞ ⠁⠉ ⠞

only the tender hands of  a child
could read the intricate dice being thrown
against a moon blinking with its shadow,
but not the blind fisherman,
the blind st. peter, on a boat juggled
by the waves, could only read a blindman's morse,
coarse fingers bulging and half frozen
from the Atlantic, morse-braille.

any 24h news channel, esp. those in England,
24h means: 30 minutes of the same news
being repeated, which is why in England
the American variety of the dittohead
is so exhausted,
                head east, no further than Warsaw,
TVN 24... Monday to Friday,  10pm,
szkło kontaktowe: a political magazine,
certainly no crass satire,
    the church and the political class
liberally commented on...
          
     glass upon contact, or rather:
   szkło tuż przed kontaktem -
   bo poezja nigdy sie nie bedzie tsymać
ni kupy, ni dupy - prawie to leniwy
Kashubian,

            in Silesia they still say ja as
they might say da near the Ukraine...
    danken für denken...

                      evidently i imitating my younger
self, stuck in the Joseph Black building
in Edinburgh, brimming with sulphuric
perfumery among esters and the more
pristine end products of higher tier
apparatus.

               all you need to know is with regards
to the blind fisherman, since a Daltonist
will use sounds to, e.g. distinguish brown
as A#... Braille? looks like a language
    with six faces...
     tender skin of a child could read...
on the high seas, a blind st. Peter could
read you nothing but Morse-Braille.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
everyone can agree on the fact that scholasticism
existed in medieval Europe...
i'm not even going to tackle the dichotomy
of scholasticism "vs." humanism...
but... what is apparent... from what i've heard
and seen...
scholasticism wasn't replaced by humanism...
but... pop-psychology...
i.e. the schematic-ism of man...
        Oxford dictionary has yet to approve the term:
schematicism...
   from the "holy trinity" of Freud -
the father the ego
   the son the superego
the holy spirit the id... blah blah, blah, blah...
the fragmented man in search for...
for me... less of a "soul" and more of
   the sigma... the totality of what is man...
   such the fragmentation of man...
it's almost impossible to find the right sort
of geography one can orientate oneself
around...
i find man too fragmented... too splintered...
i am sure of this...
scholasticism has been replaced with
post-humanism of schematicism....
we have the supposed schematic of man...
but... this ******* genie is not going
back into his lamp...
unless he is put back together is some
jumble, some, dissection freak-show...
    why didn't i pursue a career in chemistry:
even though i studied the art (science)
until i was 21... i didn't want to be the rat
in a laboratory...
           the hamster on the wheel...
apart from the experiment that took almost
a week... synthesising esters...
the best experiment i ever conducted was
in high school... synthesising polyesters...
the event horizon of pinching plastic akin to
how you can't mix oil with water...
how oil is a layer a "tier" above the water...
this is where i am...
   schematicism... i find man trapped...
choked by pop-psychology...
putting himself back together like some...
Frankenstein's monster...
              it's painful to watch, to hear...
it lies so heavy on my heart that...
it almost makes sense to: xiao xin...
   small heart... careful heart...
                literal ******* complimentary...
overt complications / nuances of Chinese
ideograms like i have a ******* spare
day to nuance emoticons, for, ****'s, sake!
yes, because Latin script was not destroyed
by the Hebrew deity like cuneiform
or the hieroglyphs... only that in Chinese
the X could be / ought to be written as...
                                                                      Ź...
******* lemon ******* paper dragons...
squint at my ******* sour: ooh... ooh...
gist gist: ******* juicy plum Hoisin duck
sauce! mmm... ******* yummy!
get my ******* cotton spindle threads from
Sri Lanka or Bangladesh...
Europe is the existential ferment of
existential values... as useless as a fork when
you're presented with a bowl of soup!
slurp up, and hope for the soup to be clear
and have some vermicelli to boot!
but... how else to look at public conversation?
if once upon a time in medieval Europe
there was a trend for scholasticism...
that was replaced with humanism,
romanticism, existentialism...
no wonder... post-humanism...
a return to scholasticism: schematic-ism...
i should reword it as:
a day in the life of an evolutionary
psychologist...
    but, but i thought the soul does not
exist? what logic, what soul?
since, ergo, there's no god?
           somehow the Copernican revolution
could back-peddle... return to the background...
i'm with Nietzsche in my argument
against Darwinism...
   Darwinism has mishandled ontology
beyond comparison...
it hasn't even elevated our attention to detail
/ increased our fascination with the natural world...
with... mantises... with spiders...
i'd love to rid myself of my stupid
arachnophobia... in all honesty? i love spiders...
******* super freaks...
but i think i'm more fascinated with
frogs and earthworms...
   i'd love to take a selfie with a freshly shat out
tapeworm... no... i'm not scared of spiders...
just... there's never a spider
the size of a 10kg Maine **** cat when
you need one to scuttle alongside you
on a leash... ****** reality...
i just don't get it...
               if i was once diagnosed as schizoid...
for being: bilingual...
sorry... this world doesn't want me to make
sense of it... i tried... supposedly "sane" people
are not making sense any-more...
sure... i was diagnosed as X...
but... this X is sort of... it sort of has become
a backstage: ooh: oh! ****'s about to become
acquainted with the fan... time for proper ****** blitz...
i mean: i could understand Soviet style
leftism... empire solid: cheap metal...
loads of nukes... but... western style leftism
is a ******* joke-prop...
   flimsy hair-dye brigade...
and i do come from a former satellite state
of the soviet union... the Czechs still hate the Polacks
thinking that it was Polacks that moved
in the tanks into Prague in 1968... maybe...
it was a Warsaw Pact brigade...
  whatever...
                      i still have a fetish for:
die Deutsche-Zunge...
             but see... the Copernican perspective...
you can sort of ignore... great...
   we're on a pebble in an ocean of nothingness...
nothing changes...
but... Darwinism? has been hijacked...
it's... insufferable... it's so in your ******* face...
like... feminism... Darwinism = feminism...
next you'll hear: stoic darwinism... like you might hear:
cynic feminism...
horseradish load of rubbed-off *******
*******!
          i get it! i get it! stop, rubbing, it, in!
that's it... the ******* universal explanation...
like Jesus on the ******* Cross
Herr Darwin with his space in **** similis...
odd... the ancient people had knowledge
of the existence of the apes...
but... hmm... how much of a comparison is necessary?
when you start to look beyond it...
say: well... that's ugly... that's animal...
let's do something better... let's conjure the beautiful!
these days? good luck with that!
but like Nietzsche i abhor Darwinism...
when it comes to Darwinism i'm a *******
Mary Shelley advocate... Darwin throws me a monkey...
Mary throws me Frankenstein...
i'm siding with the Frankenstein...
what the hell has changed since the geocentric model
became the heliocentric model?
from the very public interactions:
we've managed to reach the "dark side of the moon"
perspective... no... this world is...
lunacentric... everyone's ******* cuckoo...
and i will, ******* die on this little hill...
with firm affirmations and said convictions...
because... why not?
but that's good... i can scribble these little "protests"
while pretending to be the... cool... collected
normie at work... and i am just that...
but inside... i'm ******* boiling...
i'm screaming... i'm Atlas wrestling with Prometheus...
but that's also good...
   because: i'm jealous...
of whom? Charles Olson... the Maximus poems...
call me stupid but... i'm jealous of those poems...
no... i could never be jealous of
ol' Ezra... hmm... King David... oh yeah: him...
to have been the man to have written the psalms...
de profundis...
     let's face it... i couldn't be jealous of king Solomon...
brothel owner...
             but with a man like Day-vid...
   to be so absorbed in music...
               my kind of man...
                  such a beautiful man...
          as sang about via Leonard Cohen in Hallelujah...
and yes... Jeff Buckley did it better...
such the glorious spectacle of the most
absorbing sort of pain... you actually want
to feel his pain... trans-empathetic....
to hell with your trans-sexuality confusions...
    oh to feel this similar... to sigh like Jeff sighed...
this hidden-rot-of-anger in me at the political
language that's current in England...
   this... ****-fist-fake-leftoid pseudo-Soviet imitations
with no grounds in reality!
blah! blah!
                    ******* more: blah! blah!
pink-hair-dye frigid pseudo-sociopathic virgins...
or is that sociopathic pseudo-virgins?!
still ******* frigid... not good luck either left
or right when trying to shoot a load...
          i'm 35 and already tired of life...
libido insomnia... war-esque perpetuated: also
insomnia... but... clearly, apparently:
no ******* war... not the sort of wars one might
conjure when having to conscript civilians...
back-of-the-head sort of "wars"...
              shape-shifting chess... the horses ate too many
rotting apples... became drunk... stumbled...
then had a Picasso diarrhoea session of...
E-HA! let's paint! oh no... this world doesn't bother me...
it's just a massive ******* joke to me...
it's counter intuitive...
if... i were placed... in a more primitive society...
there wouldn't be a talk of a Bernie Ecclestone...
     there wouldn't be a Rod Steward...
            believe me... if Darwinism was to be done...
proper... men like me...
we wouldn't be restricted from utilising our...
naturally gifted capacities... of... wrath-thirst...
how we must have... nuanced it... hid it...
                oh... but those feminists and their:
patriarchal construct arguments...
       sure... it's only safe... when you have a boxing match...
but... i know it: there's a terrible beast sleeping
in me... i know it... when i... sometimes relax...
drinking my white wine aphrodisiac...
when having two sessions of exercise...
and then... ******* the brains out of a Turkish
******* in a brothel...
but... no no no... if Darwinism was true...
               i could follow a Longshanks... an Edward...
we're doing counter intuitive things...
Napoleon? and then, what? ******?!
the latter i can understand as a sophist / rhetorician...
whatever...
           if i were to exercise my natural rights...
if i were to exercise my natural rights...
i wouldn't have to deal with these *******'s worth
of social constructs of appeasing the time-wasting weaklings!
if i were returned to my natural state...
rather than these... polite... politeness-titillating:
Christian *******'s worth of timidity...
i hate it...
                                         everything about this world
is unnatural, counter-intuitive, overtly-feminine,
weak, pardonable, fake...
horror-stricken, worth demanding more of,
too ******* "artistic"...
       smelling of a mingling of acid and rotten eggs...
in a world where society delves into
the appreciation of staged violence...
but abhors actual violence...
    this phobia stricken conglomerate of weaklings...
if Darwinism was done: right and proper...
no... you wouldn't have these sordid discrepancies...
if nature had its sway...
          if only nature: had its sway...
and not the mind of man...
              the feminist angle: of the social construct
of patriarchy: would be the least of your worries...
i'm lethargic... borne from this...
hideous weakness of salvation born from
a suffering... never to be celebrated from
the advent of vitality that was once glorified in
the years B.C.
           Darwinism never promised anything,
it just hijacked the strength and overturned it
with psychologism - bogus explanations of
CUCKS! it ****** the vitality i was originally equipped
with! and what did it do?
the Star of David inversion...
what was once on top, singular...
now became a flattened plateau of a "democracy"...
i can't believe this anglophone *******...
Ezra rallied against usury...
   me? i'll rally against Darwinism...
a man of my stature should not have to bow
before someone biologically inferior
to him... naturally! naturally this shouldn't happen!
but it is... pray: send you earthquakes,
tornados, all the elemental proofs!
   but i bow, regardless...
                  with as much... hatred as can be
easily disguised... with more animosity than
hatred... and that's still: the sort that can be best
hidden... because... society expects me to do so...
but... should i ask nature...
oh... oh... nature would have a really troubling counter
narrative: that it would allow me
to exercise! ******* dim-wits, Dickensian *******
dim-wits... happily married to exercising the play
of cricket... ****-wits... English-****-wits;
such....eagerness...
the weak shall inherit the earth...
     and make it... a shored stone outside the realm
of the fertile grounding...
                if the vitality in our midst is not
protected... then... SUFFER!
you ******* schmucks! your ******* wonderbra
elect gimmicks!
*******: die! be: born of death!
             you've had your say / your sway:
my turn!
                ***** with anvil!
               you ******* pederasts!
                    **** glory! i just want to love
a woman... but... seeing clearly...
you people are making finding a woman...
a lot more difficult! ****-jobs of the dodo-project!
i'm retiring from outright verbiose
momentum... that's it...
                      i stroke my beard...
i cushion a feels for ****** of a woman...
the end... that's the *******: the end...
                          time's a tired type.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
posit iota

posit: i(ota)
  then follow up
with the following
posits:
the D of id...
    iota's cousin
is spelled:
iota delta omicron
tau...
although some languages
extend that via:
iota clashes with the macron I
of the J... idjota...

mourning makes me so ****** *****

oh hell: mourning makes me so ****** *****...
i can't help it,
as i can't help the idiocy that i succumbed to...
tomorrow? i'll have to wake up at 4:30am
and leave the house by 5:20am...
catch the second bus, then the train then two
tubes to Charing Cross for a shift that's:
sign in? 7am... shift begins at 8am... ends at 7pm...
i had to "bash the bishop" tonight
without climaxing but establishing a good blood
flow to the *****: because?
well... if i get a whiff of the scent of oak of the coffin
passing near me... i'll drive myself mad
like a horse bashing its head against a brick
by being irritated by a grain of sand being stuck
in its ear...
i've spotted these ******* in these UCLA t-shirts...
what? you didn't study at UCLA...
prior to that there was a trend in school with guys
wearing hoodies with the word: DUFFER on the front...
Catholic schools: we'd have non-uniform days
to raise money for charity... duffer? the meaning?
a stupid and inefficient person... well: d'uh! no wonder
it would sell...
ooh ooh... liver tingles: it's pinching my ribs...
how many ciders have i drank today?
can't remember: i figured: better start early
and finish early... 10pm the latest... 6 hours sleep
ought to be enough...
stone temple pilots: art school girlfriend...
one of my favorite songs... so much better than that
Brit Pop intellectual-trash of... what's it what's it?
ah... PULP Common People: same theme...
man... i'm really *****: i don't know whether it's
the idea of ******* death: it's no necrophilia, no...
she wasn't my grandmother: oh boy, believe me:
i won't be grieving my grandmother's passing:
either one of them...
my paternal grandmother didn't even see me,
i don't know what she looks like...
she abandoned my father and left him to be raised
by his grandmother and her second husband
(a foster grandfather)...
  while my maternal grandmother? you know:
i'm pretty sure the invention of the telephone works
along the lines of: someone can call you...
and... you can call someone...
               my best friend, my grandfather... ****'s sake:
he was dying for about a month... stabbing himself
in the leg with scissors... some other *******...
did i get a phone-call?! nope!
two days prior to his death: the worst part being?
my now estranged uncle was in on it:
he came round once and talked about "perspectives"...
i remember that time rather vividly:
that's when i started to explore myself: lose weight...
i walked marathons...
i had this funny feeling once when i walked into
a field and toyed around with a blind rabbit...
i swear to god... the hawks were circling...
i picked up this tiny little thing: this blind rabbit:
his eyes doubly shut with some weird looking dried-out
mucus...
and yes: thank "god" that i didn't have a camera with
me... i'll let some dwarfs into my head to dig a proper
hall of kings in my head filled with memories
and no gold! ha! that's what i'll do...
well... thanks grandma and grandma...
at least ol' Lizzie provided me with hope and a promise:
don't **** yourself, not till i'm dead, Matthew,
no problem Lizzie... i won't...
****... she's dead... well: i don't see a point of contemplating
death given what i've strived through...
drinking will **** me, i know that...
but? until it does: i'm going to have one solo party
after another solo party...
i'm already buzzing about waking up at 4:30am tomorrow
morning...
mind you: that soaring eagle of a sun that was with
with in Scotland... well... obviously she was going to
receive a dreary reception back in London:
if it didn't rain in London i'd be calling a horse a *******
zebra...
my prediction? there will be glimmers of sunshine:
there might even be a rainbow...
i like flipping coins from time to time...
don't know: something must be wrong with me:
backgammon? yes... chess? not really... i hate chess...
Edinburgh... it was rather funny watching the old streets
i used to haunt as a chemistry student...
i remember my first year: i seriously can't remember
any rain... Scotland is apparently famous for rain:
my first year? i don't remember a single day of it ever having
rained...
- so i sopped myself to a state of pretty:
hmm! well... i too can don a university of Edinburgh
t-shirt while i cycle into central London...
yes, dearest Lizzie... i'm way ahead of you...
if people could don t-shirts with the word DUFFER
i can be "sort of proud" of my education:
sure... no Lamborghini... no Di Caprio harem to boot...
crustacean ****** habits...
well... if it has to go down with the prostitutes:
it will go down with the prostitutes...
at least i have one Turkish one who prefers to
"live dangerously":vi.e. **** without a ******...
whenever i stop thinking about exploring
this one last fetish of mine: wearing a latex suit
while getting my phallus donning a ******
****** off: hmm... i'll let you know what
flesh on flesh feels like...
who hurt me? who hurt me?! do you know?
i think i know...
no wonder i channeled all my energies into prostitutes...
it's no ******* wonder...
i can pay to be tender... to be a cyclops
with these massive hands...
in my head i'm already eating away at my own hand:
i need the "comparative literature":
i need to do away with the pinky and its knuckle:
to her the hand proportions: just right...
the last girl i was with? to my surprise...
i thought she was going to ride me...
she inquired as to why i was kneeling before her
and why i had so much INTENT in my eyes...
dunno... why are you naked?! stupid question...
no no... she spent the entire half an hour
******* me off.. i must have mentioned it...
i thought: i felt like i was being circumcised...
i wouldn't go as far as: Prometheus having  his liver
eaten by two eagles... but at some point i thought
she would stop *******: hey! no milk comes from this part!
o.k.: whatever...
i like a girl that employs a sense of sadism
in giving pleasure at the same time...
very much appreciated... her mouth and lips
turned into a Mantis wedding the Venus Fly-Trap...
i know why she was so stern with me...
i "rejected" her on at least 3 occasions...
she actually asked me: why did you ignore me?!
i should have replied, something akin to:
i didn't see: hide & seek in you...
i didn't see the playground...
i see it now, is that: "fair enough" between us?!

my god: when you concentrate on so little details
and focus on ***: how many pixies and kinks suddenly
disappear! when you've been *** starved... wow!
now i sort of understand why cats sleep so much...
i'd sleep so much if each dream i had would
begin with me scratching my finger-tips on a brick
wall: then... touching a woman's body:
to compare texture... yummy! yummy yummy yummy!
it feels like doing the butcher's work
(esp.) around the bones before
dipping your fingers in a tub of butter... ooh!

nothing compares to the inner-thighs of a woman...
no! no! nein! niet! nie!
and the eternal sacrifice of the birth of Buddha
of the most sacred ****: i could: i would...
slobber over it: into it...
like a leech! like 12 leeches!

no: i'm not a political animal, i'm not a social animal:
i'm a ****** CREATURE...
creature is not animal... i'll have you note...
ha: the day begins with dealing with a toddler...
a girl...  we're playing with cat playthings...
i teach her to roll ***** after she establishes the ability to throw
them...
blah blah: centuries later...
the queen dies... oh ****... well... PROPER ******, no?

me? **** me... i'm running out of prostitutes...
i think there's this other brothel in Stratford...
i need to look for a new brothel: i'm running out of women!
well, no... there's this one more i'm: well: she's craving
to hoodwink...
she dons glasses: those wide-rim glasses that makes
you wonder: what would she look like if she took
them off?! a bit like a fat girl... that: "what if"?
i'm running out of prostitutes:
i need to find a new brothel...

who ****-hurt me? whoever did... at least i'm loved up
with the "close encounters of the other-kind"...
i'm happy... my feelings are an ocean
and my heart is a sinking pebble...
these women are not so easily hurt...
well... at least not by me...
for years: i, my parents... esp. my father wondered:
are you a, munchkin?! are you, a dwarf?!
this was my inability to find a "friend" in the spectrum
of the entirety of the English lady...

please, don't, ask me, that question...
it's not my problem!
i stopped caring...
i can't give two shots of a whiff of the ***** against
the wind to even contemplate sharing
a life with a woman these days...
what?! what?!
i'm a 30 year old self-sanctifying saboteur!
i'm a man in his prime!
am i going to give that up?! nope!

summer is finally over:
back on the menu? fish and chips! and? curry!
LAMB and DHAL DALCHA...
but as i explained to the person i was cooking for:
if you're making a dhal dalcha:
you need to blitz the dhal... esp. since it's chana dhal...
mind you: chana dhal is popular in central
Europe: "my" people make a soup out of
chana dhal... a lentil soup... known in central
Europe as simple GROCH... the soup is called
grochówka... of course she was going to disapprove:
but if you're making a dhal curry
and adding meat to it? you need to blitz
the dhal...
          
             after making it i realised i'm a big fan
of making curries that do not include adding tomatoes...
and this dhal dalcha is probably better than
a chicken Korma... also: lamb is so much tastier
in a curry than chicken: chicken sometimes dries
out... mind you: i was using leftover lamb from
the previous day when i roasted a whole leg of lamb...
and this dhal dalcha is so much better than
a Korma: it's sweet in its own way...

    ****! no Garam Masala... where was that recipe
including 18 spices? ****! can't find it... well...
the one with 10 or twelve ought to be just right...
as long as i can find that black cardamom i should be o.k.,
bingo!

what a splendid summer it was... i'm glad it is
finally coming to an end... the long days are passing...
the eternal night is nigh...
more time to write: more time to drink...

i'm back in the elements of cooking the sort of food
that's seasonal for any European:
curry in the autumn and the winter...
everything heart-warming: i'm back in the kitchen
like a devil razing (best curry recipes?
the ones without reviews from the NDTVfood
website) the cooking of sinners...
well... a chemist in a chemistry lab...
                             i watched a few cooking shows...
Australian Masterchef is probably the best...
    today Marco Pierre White was on...
scallops and calamari served with squid ink sauce...

a labourer works with his hands...
a craftsman works with his hands and head...
an artist works with his hands, his head... but also his heart...

hell Marco Pierre White can see art in the culinary
industry... i don't... whenever i walk into a kitchen
all i see is a chemistry laboratory from my days spent
synthesising esters in the organic lab...
my heart wasn't into chemistry: my brain was...
but also my phallus and the mythology of Faust...
i.e. whether it was Goethe's version or Marlowe's
when Faust asks to see Helen of Troy...
i too would have asked for that wish from Mephisto:
was she worth it? was she really that beautiful?

when i cook i don't see art... i see chemistry...
the kitchen is the closest i ever got to getting back
into a chemistry lab... i'll gladly stay here...
i have other areas of life to explore.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
a raw challenge of words - not some tartar genius -
it's a "question" or not - and it's a roulette -
it's a gamble -
it's: words not roasted -
words not roasted in an oven of academia -
esp. oven roasted via a masters in arts:
english lit. or jane austen studies - majors -

i can't exfoliate just yet -
i have to catch the midnight train into tomorrow...
because - "something" needs to be tended
to - and i'm about to become
a very responsible nouveau adulte...
i have no time to talk about philosophy -
how i found the time to read it
is another matter -
but talking about it...
seems pointless if... not also weilding
a hammer - heidegger's:
can we talk while doing something else,
menial - and escape the banality of breathing
by on the side - supposing thought?

the crux of the hammer and the nail...
and this talk - or no talk - escapism of sorts...
the isolated words to be "thought" about...
"representation content" and...
what... "what": "reality" is made of...
a speaking that has to return back
into the yoke of thinking -
and not something as practical as...
hammering nails in... ad infinitum...

knock knock... who's there?
Descartes who? Descartes i doubt the table
but not the chair i'm sitting in;
ever knock knock on a leather chair?
there's no superstition of "jinx" associated...
or i could just as well be drinking...
my "thinking" is already
on the train about to leave: come midnight...

raw tartar steak of genius -
words not baked via an oven of an academic
degree in the direction of... modern linguo?
my way all the way back from:
esters RCOOR'
aldehydes RCHO...
carboxylic acid(s) R-COOH...
all that but above all this...

the austrians really do know how to
make the best coffee...
something a christoph waltz would say...
the austrians are (a)
the germans are (b) - high, low - whatever
floats your boat of comparison -
and i do only have an address and a name...

Der-Franz (Vienna since 1929)
A-2512 Oeynhausen
Sachers Strese 7...
hazelnut flavour... coffee...

hans landa eating a strudel -
is probably the best strudel in the world...
and on all days...
but this... it's also a hugo boss uniform...
it's crisp cut... and...
say all you will...
when a girl might wish for a cindarella dress...
any boy would wish for a hugo boss
that clean cut and readied
for: being ironed twice daily...

as of yet: i'm yet to expect a darwinistic
furore - fever - of the coming of
the close of the 19th century and
the opening of the gates for the 20th century...
second coming of darwinism leaves
me hardly convinced -
oh but it's true - oh but yes yes -
some of us are working in the knitting
of the kingdom of the Brine -

this so-called culture war:
words make bad bullets and sentences
are hardly rifles to shoot them with...
paragraphs like bombs: would do...
if congested into... non-paragraphs...
end of james joyce's ulysses or...
jean-paul sartre's iron in the soul...

the rare events of a postcard being sent by
a philatelist...
or a lepidopterist coming clean
on the metaphor of: the most forbidden fruit...
of which king john of england
would never find out about:
sooner the magna carta...

i'm tired of and i have always never tired of...
byzantine chants...
what can anyone actually remember
of the remains - apart from the chants...
or the bureucracy?
the youth that riddled them with canons
and a library that contained only one
book...

i can't even bother to stomach the correct
grammar -
unless it's a translation...
english: red herring...
french: hareng rouge
german: regenbogenforelle
you wouldn't expect me to succumb to
Ablenkungsmanöver / heimlich maneuver
of a spin-doctor, truly!
english: rainbow trout,
french: truite arc-en-ciel...
german is already given...
polish: pstrąg tęczowy...

nietzsche was right... we are the slavic
equivalent of the french...
we share most of their grammar 1-2 1-2...
why i didn't learn it proper?
they write one thing -
then say another -
i can only see excesses of letters
in written french... once they start
talking... all those letters come
and disappear under the suffix- umbrellas...

otherwise... i'm tired of having the need
to sharpen words -
words: would be bullets -
are not pencils -
sticks and stones and all things
associated with infering information:

otherwise just as last night - attempting to fall
to sleep: giggling and imagining myself...
having walked into the north sea off
the coast of norwich...
shouting: i'm a whale! i'm the beast from
the sea! i'm a whale my primordial
mammalian ancestor! i will swim to Denmark!

talk about living through a drought of:
where the english seems to be the dream-a-lots
having never felt a leash of metaphysics
around their necks tighten and give themselves
unto catholic mantras of central europe -
or how the italians are still christian in name only...
otherwise the go to:
aestheticians and romantics of the fig...

these words are not...
how did i perfect cooking chicken ******* without
the torso or the limbs -
the torso and at least half of the limbs
went into a most perfect chicken soup...
the remains and some frozen goods
went into a **** chicken marinade...
thyme... thyme... check y'er dubliners'
on the surd of H in that one...
it's θyme... otherwise's it's t'inking: time...
not so, paddy o'brian? patrick?

snail-paced grammar:
2 steps forward... 1 step back...
at least in the confines of this leftover:
catacombs of Latin...
we are all the children of Rome -
the hebrew were wrong about two alphabets...
the greek and the latin...
spot on! spot on when it came to...
persian cuneiform and egyptian hieroglyphs!

back-up... the glagolitic and the rune scripts...
somehow accomodating the overlords
of judea... otherwise: really stretching
the history for a personal experience...
what alphabet is this?!

- concept of beauty in the 1950s:
none other than the bleach mingling with amber
that was marylin monroe - the blood of which:
and the modern "beauty?
ava lauren - otherwise i call it:
the mandible jaw of ***-appeal gymnastics -
leather beauty - some worn, torn and -
the jigsaw puzzle that comes naked and
there hardly a kennedy romance at stake...
because even in her mature years -
it's "something" that would appeal
to Rodin's hands...
it's already... it leaves me at ease to ****
like a shotgun into my one "crooked" leg folded
and hunched like a crow perched on a windowsill
of the new-born Papillon -
marylin the icon? untouchable...
ava lauren the limbo montage and:

even this poo'em is proof:
why lament the crux of a would-be Liszt performance?
"views"... if that's anything to go by:
i have an *** and a ****** -
implies... i have more than a head a spine to prop
it on and a tongue's worth of an oyster
dissected between the 32 shells...

that views should count: a fountain of youth!
of a body i am certain...
of a soul: i know what i have -
only after i have lost it -
shared company - rejoice soul! hell doesn't exist!
as they call say: via their slavic proverbs:
the devil is without a soul...

perhaps i'm asking:
are not some of my words infantile?
d(evil) and go(o)d?
do or do not...
come to think of it... what makes people
invite the ****** eye into their ****** *******?
to boast or gloat?
i hardly think so...
from the times i watched...
and from the times i was the protagonist 1st person...
sometimes the third person attitude
is... well... imagine being in a 69 position
of reciprocating each other ******* & "*******"...
faber & faber...

if you have a ******* **** in your face...
and you're slurping and slurping...
what out of body experience can you expect
to have... to really and you really
want to appreciate the face of a woman
pleasuring herself and somehow you
on the side...

bogus and boring the same old
*******...
in that cocoon of: under the bed-sheets...
like two foetuses *******
amphibian bode -
placenta erections and:
the place where no two mouths meet!
otherwise:
she rodeod to the point
of a complete tail turned coccyx erosion!

*** is ***... no need to bring grammar
into this "debate" with a bilingual "schizoid"...
otherwise: hello Chloe...
is Chloe ready for a circus?

for all the *** in the world...
it's never something appealing for the eyes...
it's numbing for the parts that
imitate ******* snipping...
and otherwise... it's always more fun
casually: in third-person...
very much akin to reading a book...

because this piece of writing will not topple
your below average amateur post
from the free-range harvest of:
and this one tested this *****...
and this one was showing off: how she can
still get frisky when pregnant...
and... this sore loser is hardly going to...
because...
the greater pleasure comes from music...
to me *** is a most:
dyssynchronyous act...

how some people still manage to focus on saying
something is beyond me...
i'm left with onomatopoeias...
half-wit compositions of somewhat consonant
leverages - somewhat vowel expansions
of breath...

never does god even into this brothel...
i show him the "niqab" and all that's visible
is either silence of the hebrew definite article: ha...
why would i somehow
fathom a god in forms? not words?
with a c.c.t.v. focus etc?

- ******* on the roses, eating the roots
and sniffing the ashes -
variations of the modern: fine and lean
cannibal... because none of this invokes
the mandarin: specialz elephant ivory
"herbalism"...
cos if beijing don't sniff it...
we'ez knot snifz it... woz!
n00b wording and "get some"...

ל... find me a F(ucking) in 'ebrew, levite!
kametz = no aleph or ayin...
chirek? "i"?
well... it's и in cyrillic... א in 'ebrew...
but the latter is: an A...
the other gay Adam to Ayin...
and: whenever jeffrey "napoleon dynomite" dahmer
went along...
hiding vowels... and two vowels
treated as consonants...
you'd have to be born in London,
Golders Green to keep up with
the Hasidi...
because wherever they go...
the quarter is followed up with a ghetto...
like a bayz payot caduceus... listening: sparrows
chirping!

would a myth of Eve the prozzie Lilith
even matter at this point?

it only comes down to: integrating
or keeping with the purity of the forbidden fruit
that isn't *******...
but... cousin *******!
i've seen how this old forbidden fruit looks like...
it slobbers... it doesn't speak...
it's wheeled around: it doesn't walk...
the old fruit of eden: ******* your mother,
******* your cousin...
because i know what the next forbidden fruit is...
the circa 16 year old...
but that doesn't invite genetic: non-chernobyll
"status teases"...

inbreed far enough so that no outsider
will ever want to meddle with the ****** politics
of: the first ever niqab ultra...
because the muslims were never:
but really were about... the power dynamic
played out in rumi's *******: sufism...
a tier up from: gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
Lawrence! ***** in the air! adhan!
compensated by the christian *******
at the altar...
religious gesticulation toward proving
the existence of incubuses: a very feminine affair...
when the broomstick stops "working"...
and there's no sabbath to attend...
and high-tier french socialite society
moves to London...
and the Viennese patisserie was always better
than the Parisian yoke-riddled flat and custard
agitation prone...

i poke my head out of my whittle
hermit cave...
and oops is supposed to happen...

or... drink enough cider and a shot of whiskey
at the same time... and...
it's almost like you're part of
the baltic culture of eating... kashubian herrings...
or generally pickled herrings...

why the **** did Amon Goeth say...
casimir the great - so called -
told the jews they could come to Krakow -
well, even history says:
first they were jews...
later they were polaks...
or: no... they weren't polaks to begin with:
not with that history allows us to entertain...
likewise...
"they're" not h'americans...
israel seems to be...
somewhat of a safebet gamble...

if i heard that one palestinian had roots
in saudi arabia...
like all those "pakistanis" circa 2001 that
had roots in saudi arabia...

the subject - the **** -
the tender geopolitics in between -
the 7 year madness of nebuchadnezzar
that never made it into a ben-hur esque movie
****...
shame i say...

of course this will not reach a far greater audience...
ah... what am i missing?
a ****** - a plump *** - a decapitated madame tussauds
monsier de sade *** toy / would be barbie or
an otherwise ripe cucumber...

my agony: extending the *******
into a cusp of a bone hard hand...
rather natural -
not unless - the proper deal is associated...
me and my ******* and
the girls being circumcised...
well then...
that would almost be like me...
being james cook having just visited
the Easter Islands!
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2019
Wheat flour, wheat flour, Gluten,
Niacin, Thiamin, Iron, Calcium
Carbonate, Water, Yeast, Salt, Soya
Flour, Emulsifiers, Mono- and
Diglycerides of Fatty Acids, Mono-
and  Di- Acetyltartaric Esters of Mono
and Di- Glycerides of Fatty Acids
Sodium Steayoyl-2-Lactylate, Preservative,
Calcium Porpionate, Vegetable Oils
and Fats, Palmed Rapeseed, Flour
Treatment Agent, Abcorbic Acid.

                     <>


These ere the ingredients of Fresh
Sliced bread from SPAR in Ireland.


                    ENJOY
Teddy S Jan 2021
The sound of a symphony, an orchestra’s music fills the room
A large room with marble floors and golden walls
Beautiful people fill the room, dancing to their hearts content
Waltzing with their partners, some smile happily
Others frown at their partners, full of disdain
Some cast fleeting glances at the ones they truly love, as they dance with another
Colors dark and bright fill the room
Gowns sway as their wearers dance the night away
A beautiful lady descends the large staircase, looking at the gigantic diamond chandelier
She casts a glance over the railing towards the crowd
Her gown changes color with every step she takes
The crowd stills and the orchestra stops playing, all that can be heard is her foot steps
Click,
The dress turns a deep, vibrant red with rubies and dark roses
Clack,
The dress lightens into a pastel pink with lace and hydrangeas
Click,
The dress turns a deep emerald green, ivy trails behind as a train
Clack,
The dress becomes like the sea, deep blue, with every swish of the fabric sounds more like the ocean as white tulle hangs off the end
The process continues
The crowd stairs in shock, everyone frozen as they watch the beautiful woman
The light catches her slippers,
Glass
Beautiful, beautiful stained glass that glitters and changes as well
No one dares move
She smiles
Quietly at the end of the staircase, she whispers, “What a lovely party.”
People lose their breath
She looks at the orchestra and they start again
Everyone resumes dancing
She is pulled into a waltz
The lady dances the night away before escaping to the garden
A lady in a plain white gown follows her
The garden is large, filled with every flower imaginable
The scent of the flowers hits the woman in white’s nose
The garden is practically pitch black, the night sky dark with very little stars
Yet the woman continues walking
She stops at the fountain, the lady in white does the same
The woman in the gown turns to the lady, “What is your name?”
The lady responds, “Ester.”
Before Ester can ask her name in return, the woman starts to speak
“Ester, why are you wearing such a dress at this party? Would you not prefer a lovely dress?”
Ester’s eyes widen in the darkness, humiliation barely visible in the dark
Yet, the woman continues,
“Perhaps, you would prefer a dress like mine?”
“Yes!” Ester exclaims
The woman turns to Ester,
“You can have my dress and my shoes if I can have yours.”
Her voice is calculated and with little emotion
Ester does not even hesitate
“Shake my hand,” the woman says
The orchestra can no longer be heard
Ester grabs the woman’s delicate hand,
She smiles and as does the woman
Ester moves to pull her hand away but can not
The Ester’s hand is stuck, she gasps in horror
The woman’s smile goes wide and Ester sees row upon row of razor sharp teeth
Wind blows around them as flowers and leaves get caught in the small tornado that is forming
The sleeve of the ballgown moves down the woman’s arm and travel up Ester’s
As does the other
Then the entire dress is on Ester
She would be delighted to have such a dress in any other circumstance but all she can feel is fear
Esters shoes slip off as the wind lifts her
She feels cold glass underneath her feet, and suddenly she is wearing the glass slippers
The woman’s smile is no longer jagged
Her hand no longer sticks to Ester’s
The wind stops blowing
The woman whispers a thanks as she walks away, wearing the white gown and the plain shoes rather happily
Ester begins to wonder why she was worried
The event was strange but she now feels amazing in her dress
She looks into the water of the fountain with a smile
Her face fills with shock as she looks at her sharp teeth
Dread fills her as she tries to pull off the gown
The gown instead sticks to her skin just as the woman’s hand did
Ester moves to try to take off the shoes
It sticks to her toes as she tries to pull her foot out
Her heel gets stuck as she tries to pry the dreaded slipper
The wind blows past her ear
“Until midnight.”
The clock chimes as Ester feels a bony hand grip her ankle.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
cultural appropriation... what?
  i like the fact that,
like whiskey, or beer...
     there are stories attached
to certain curries...

    namely this one...
  dhansak...
    the Parsi people are
a Zoroastrian sect who came from
Persia and settled
   in the Gujarati region of north west
India circa the 10th century...

but there's a story...
   and it's in the slow-cooker
waiting tomorrow's consumption...
why?
   i remember one one part
of chemistry entertained
me... organic chemistry...

almost like a restaurant kitchen,
what with the perfume base
of esters... and what not...
    but...
       alas...
     synthetic ingredients
and subsequent synthetic products...
like saccharine
compared to authentic sugar...

           no match...
     fry fresh chillies at a high temp.
with garlic, ginger,
ground cumin coriander
turmeric (properties of turmeric -
the poor man's version
of saffron - are only activated
using black pepper) -

           i know what i like -
i'll defend my mother tongue...
  i'll speak this english -
outside my abode...
      but in terms of cuisine?
i know where my stomach
is...
           it's in India...
    
   i could eat this **** morning,
afternoon, midnight...
it's like reading a bottle of whiskey,
the story behind it...
   like a tokai whiskey -
tokai: originating in Hungary -
within the confines of a wine...

but my head?
    if my stomach is in India?
my head is in Poland -
cf.
     the map of Europe
  during the bubonic plague -
and the map of Europe
during the migrant crisis
and terrorism -
       there is a similarity -
    a quarantine plot of land...
  
   my heart? on the Faroe Islands...

my phallus?
    in anything that moves
and isn't related to
     poultry or something
i'd ingest.

    my mouth?
                  always in England.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.Poland is getting too much, anti-touristy attention, i don't know what to do with it, i don't like it, that's for sure... this is not going to end up well... just saying... no tourist advertisement, and yet people flocking? i've spotted one mosque in Warsaw, traveling out Western Warsaw bus-station... hidden in the architectural *****...

not a great night for writing,
i feel like...
              can i just drink my cider,
*** and bourbon *******
and write nothing?
     no... not going to happen...
something was always going
to hang in the air...
           and the day they they learn
the language... hell...
i could levitate around
the concept of making you unlearn
English...
what's that?
          really pretty pretty...
i feel prettyoh so pretty
          literature from the 20th
century?
20th century... that's like a bad dream...
isn't it?
go back to... that?
  i'll settle for the current
mediocre...
               no grand war,
and no grand artistic expression...
case sold.. NEXT!
    we do live in the time
of the mediocre...
let, the, middle, speak!
    i don't need to be reminded
or induced to remember...
with great wars,
come great artists...
  responsibilities aside...
            death told me to stalk
my shadow...
  and you know what
my shadow showed me?
something, grander than learning
the literacy confounded to
the constellation of stars...
my shadow showed me the elevated
night...
              a camel walking
through an eye of a needle...
into anti-matter...
oh... you think that... even after
a star dies, the star, dies?!
what about the black hole?
the star continues its vivacity,
clinging to life like...
thought is what ego clings
to,
     faced by the mortal basis
of being... that great ontological
abyss...
                    thought is the ridge...
that the ego clings to,
holding itself tight,
with memory, imagination,
on the tip of the tongue cusp...
before falling into the abyss
of being, as being dislodged from
an accountability....
death and life...
          in mort et in vivo combine...
in the matryoshka doll...
or an onion doll...
    peel one layer...
another layer appears...
peel the other layer,
   another layer appears...
ad continuum...
             or rather, etc.,
    well then...
             VIII, 27, of Heidegger's
black notebooks...
               see...
it's not that you will not finish
a philosophy book...
some books, are like wines...
you need to allow them
the same treatment,
they need to mature,
in you, and... without you...
some philosophy books
can only be completed over
a period of, circa... 3 years...
     you need a ******* life outside
of them, however meager it is,
however despondent...
however: trivial, grey or
alternatively: predictable...
i required 3 years to read
Kant's critique of pure reason...
       now... if i had an elevated
imagination faculty...
i'd write a YA novel... including
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, etc.,
         but i have an elevated pivot
on the focus of memory...
Paris? alone....
Stockholm? alone...
     Athens? alone...
      Amsterdam? alone...
    Venice? alone...
        Krakow? alone...
   i'm already burned with a shadow...
why would i require, company?!
Barcelona? alone...
     the mere fact of
a shadow attached to me feels like
a claustrophobia...
i'm... unimaginative...
which is why i write this sort of ****...
oh... and if you're looking
for eloquent literature...
without words like **** that act
as more or less conjunction words?
Marquis de Sade didn't exactly
spare his fleeing tongue with
an exercise of courtesy...
    i won't either... i might stutter less...
not that i ever did...
by the way...
you want to go to university?
choose chemistry...
30+ hours of learning and...
              practicality of engaging
in experiments...
  funny...
        i'm a graduate, but also a drop-out...
thye chemistry i graduated with,
a silly number of hours in the laboratories,
12? must have been over 12 in
the third year...
        Esters and perfumery...
   like... my love for cooking...
organic chemistry experiments...
            cooking, basically...
and that stood at £1,250 a year,
tuition fees...
         but when i decided to take on
a degree in history at U.C.L.?
and the tuition fees rose to
£3,000+... dropped out, halfway
through year one...
    for what? 6 hours a week?
i was doing a roofing job and...
"studied"...
                 *******...
                   it started to feel like a *******
Dire Straits song: money for nothing...
which it was...
oh but i did meet strangers
in those towns...
   and of the towns i visited?
Paris...
        Paris...
        Paris circa 2004 - 2007...
            that's when Paris... was what Paris
was always supposed to be!
now...
    if i want to visit Tangiers...
i'll ******* let you know, o.k.?!
Harriet Shea May 2021
My people, my homeland, I miss who I've
been for centuries, I am an American Indian
from the Chippewa Tribe, am wild, free
as the great hawk, proud flying high
over the mountains streams and valleys.

My spirit walks among my ans esters of honor and
glory.  I, the flower of wild winds, catching dust upon
the weary faces of time.

My people are brave, raging across the universal skies
catching light beams among their spiritual guides that
console troubled hearts that can not adjust to the change
that's killing their spirit.

Defeat does not exist among my people, they move on
to follow Mother with filled waters of life.  Earth Spirit
collects treasures of memories past down among the strong.

Followers lead others to become spiritual beings of
time and space, collecting data of majestic freedom
strength from the young who shall become elders
and teachers.

I miss the warmth radiating through my being with
great wisdom and knowledge, the spirit of my people calming
the savage beast that lurks in the shadows of our world
of spirituality, love, and harmony.

Darkness shall not dominate the light of creation!

Shower forth unto man to be responsible for carrying
on with their heritage from one generation to another.

Where there is no belief there is no faith that we are
Divine Light Beings of knowing that knowledge we
carry deep will never fade away.

With this belief, we carry the light of Mother Sun
Father Moon, Stars sparkling down with love.

  Mother Earth shall flourish with our Master of
the Universe.

We are all Children of “Our Father God of Universal Love”.

Copyright ⓒ DerenaBree( All Rights Reserved)
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.you won't hear it officially, not on any meteorological briefing, the "official" end of summer has yet to arrive on the calendar day... but summer seized to be on this very day, in merry ol' england; and that's the thing about writing every single day like an elvis costello song: you see things more sharply, even the slightest changes. like today, the winds were blowing hard through the streets, there was a slight drizzle, but more importantly? the crackling of fallen first casualties of autumn, the first leaves being pushed like scuttling fast-forward caterpillars down the street; and so too, the first fallen acorns, and too: the first pine cones.

but that's beside the point, i admit,
i rarely take pictures of food,
esp. not the sort of pictures people take
at restaurants,
but if i make something **** tasty,
i'll take a picture...
and post it into the public sphere:
even i'm not immune to this practice...
so far? well, this will be the second picture
of food, but the joy comes from:
well, it's ****** well fun to cook.

what was it? ah... i'll expand beyond mere
name:
    the hardest ingredient on the list was
tamarind - god it's disgusting raw -
it's like a rancid peanut butter -
  i hoped that it would change upon cooking,
luckily it did.
so two chicken ******* were marinated
in tamarind soy sauce, sesame oil,
rice vinegar & white wine vinegar
   overnight...
    later, drained, and coated in cornflour
and then deep-fried 3x 30 seconds -
god, every time i counted to 30 i lost
the count, so i counted 3x 10 seconds
extending thumb, index middle.
   rice, obviously.
    salad?
        beansprouts, chopped coriander,
mint, zest of a lemon...
    salad dressing?
        lime juice, sesame oil,
          a chilli + salt.
    the most fun though, came in the form
of chilly soy caramel...
mmm... you know, caramel can entirely
fill your typical english house...
just came out the bathroom up-stairs
after taking a dump and immediately
i got a whiff of the caramel...
  which was simply sugar melted in
a frying pan, infused with a little bit of water,
soya sauce, lime juice and a chilli.

as i once said:
   if i can't find work in a chemistry laboratory,
well, guess i have to make the kitchen
a laboratory...
    if i can't craft esters, i'll just conjure up
       triple fried chicken with chilli caramel;

and about posting the photograph into
the public sphere...
   well... i'll probably abide by the:
three-strikes & you're out motto -
                         to at least retain some cool:
then again - if i was a carpenter and made
a chair by myself, i'd also be proud,
so nininini... naggingnaggingnagging...
            seems it was a rather, special day.

p.s.

once more, another draft, i don't even know
where to stash them,
      pop art... these drafts just seem to pop
out of "nowhere": certainly a somewhere...
like those Afghans jumping in and out
of caves like whac-a-mole joke for the Soviets
to contend with,
  under close, scrutiny and funding
by the C.I.A.,
              sure sure, as i told one ex-banker
walking his dog,
   oh no, no, Isis fighters were not on
                 that "miracle" drug of the luftwaffe's
blitz contigent (pervitin / amphetamines)
hovering over loon'don...
               oh no, not likely (wink-wink)...
      only the british walked into battle
****-headed, blind drunk...
    beside that...
      foreign films,
           notably Ingmar Bergman
   and Pedro Almodóvar...
      right... the chinese had the following
approach when writing:
   man begins at the head,
          and f
                  i
                  n
                   i
                   s
                   h
                   e
                    s          at the feet...
the waterfall principle....
**** gets written down, literally: down...
the semites, whether hebrew
or arab write from left to write...
how the hell they figured out
the cartesian "left" to whatever is "right"
i will, never, never know...
i suppose being right-handed
using their method of phonetic encoding
is quiet hard...
    
  my father remembers, someone,
who wrote in such a manner,
as the teachers would require
a mirror... yes, they would require a mirror
to "decipher" (read) what that
person was writing...
         the person "in question" was so
left-handed, that you'd require a mirror
to read his words...

ah... but the Hindus...
  their sanskrit...
                and foreign language films...
with no dubbing, the ones with
subtitles...
        can i ask you, a simple question...
wouldn't it be better to apply the sanskrit
method?
you know... that familiar two line...
the (______)
*being on top, hanging over each letter?
i swear, it would be much easier
to watch a foreign language film...
if the subtitles, became,
     supra-titles... i.e. above,
like in algebra              x squared...
chemistry ****** up placing
   H (hydrogen) "squared" as a subscript...
i can't see jackshit,
i'm looking down, i'm missing all the action!
but in the instance of sanskrit?
   the letters are placed above the action...
like the chinese model,
of a reading down,
                 it's much easier to read from
above, looking down,
than reading from below, looking up...
i'm not saying: in the middle...
  but come on...

(a) (
______) ↑
   and
    (b)     सअइद                ई
                        which, if you notice...
    there's a "roof" over the letters...
which looks like (
_____) ↓

               you can say: वए... ****... no R...
******* also forget to trill, to roll the letter
and imitate a rattle snake...
so no... can't say very true...
                  *******...
                  ah... perhaps:
                                                ईनदए(ए)द­
      (indeed...)
                  
   i can't read this phonetic encoding,
i would have to sacrifice too many of my
personal memories,
memories from when i was circa 4...
to erode my memory to the point
of memorizing this ancient systems...
by comparison? latin is so easy that
anyone can learn it,
   beyond learning it,
applying it to a.i. studies and
computer 2D fiddling with a piece
of a blank piece of "paper"...
i'm entrenched... i have no delusions
that i am...
            why would i think,
that a complex phonetic encoding system,
lasted so long with a ruling class / caste
in the instance of india,
  and didn't... in the european rule book?
how many gaping holes do i have?
q R o p a d b...
                                 7!
              it's like x-ray vision...
           7 letters that allow me to look
under the veil of reality...
     and come up with... the science...
     sanskrit? with me a ******* wheel in
there... and i'll show you Shiva jerking
of the ******* Brahman.
i'm not even *******...
             how much memory erosion
would you have to go through,
   to learn the hindu phonetic encoding?
as much if not double with what
was already implemented to erode memory
in the current education system...
**** me... where, where to begin?
  our father?
                 ave maria?
                          that's what they begin
with in Poland...
  last time i checked: the credo of faith...
catechesis...
            
  i swear i was actually focusing on
foreign language movies...
   and how the subtitles should be
supratitles...
        above not below what's happening
on screen...
for once in a while,
i would really, really love to see a movie,
a foreign language movie,
where i know what's happening
on screen and also what's being spewed
out of the mouths of characters...

   i don't need this latin base line
   (
_______)* ↑

note... sanskrit "hacks" the *italics* for
this website... i thought it was the use
of the _
__ underscroll... but no...
it's the use of the sanskrit...

i need the:       लओकइनग (looking) ↓
like any decent chinese might.
****'s sake, left to right,
right to left,
              up to down...
                       and up there,
in outer-space...
             there's a "chance" of figuring
out a copernican "east", or "west"?
       i don't think so.
Third Eye Candy Feb 2020
ozone esters drifting in tandem like sea salt barnacles
crusting the bell of every speck of dew
floating snow globe actual; northwesterly…
adorning the invisible with crepe sunsets, surging the pause
of a baffling miracle as common as time
with purple as deep as a chasm of frozen suns. a kingdom
of rain tilting the horizon with dusky mauve
tinkering with the afterglow of yesterday with tomorrow’s
Shanghai, low in the distant sky departing from derelict notions
of flat earth… hurling through space without ward
or talisman. entangled in the truest thing, curling a tempest
‘round a maypole, spoking the navel of Gaea…
at the center of the Labyrinth
that came with the void.

Blythe bounty vexing the verity of our span
like a boundless mote of crocodilian
conundrums.
beads of sweat gather at the lip of a luminous urn
perched on a plinth behind a waterfall
sequestered in a bank of fog
as noble as an acorn
with a cane.

or a funerary bog
tuning methane with a fork
in the road.

— The End —