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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!'
Zero Nine Mar 2017
Innocence
becomes
passe
Sin again
within
favor
Gestures of genuine penance,
all shall be refused
Jaded to the long term touch
I shall now renew
Sin
     Again
               Within
                           Favor
Sin
     Again
               to
                  Favor
Balcony beckons escape to only fetishists' invites
God would not rain *** and skin in test
So
   Remain
                Godless
....
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
back when people worked Saturdays,
and there was a Jewish aroma in the air,
where people had only one day
to recuperate, just before the office jobs,
and the mundane trollop of
Saturdays free, Sundays free -
you'd never believe the things that went
on under the iron curtain: later known
as the iron skirt: oh boy, those girls flew
the nest and established a well-knit
web of deceit and lies, but they were
happy housewives in the end...
the men? if not strong enough: expendable;
i'll see in 2 hours, when you finally decide
that theology is half as harsh as Darwinism,
first you want to hear the rational, rude
and crude, then you defend Disney...
make your mind up!
you wouldn't believe what went on under
that iron skirt... they lived their lives glorifying
the Sabbath... because they knew:
if i have two days off, i'll grow lazy,
and the Chinese will sniff out my laziness
and say: **** yeah! bring in the jobs!
and boy! ye-ha! they managed to bank on a swarm
of herring then the west lost its plot
figuring out history with nostalgia,
or the reinvention of the wheel...
dizzy, yuck: *****... repeat, repeat, repeat...
have you noticed how grey-haired western
leaders become in the anglophile sphere?
give them four years, and after that you can call them
grand daddy'oh...  the Soviets? well, i'm like
one of those Napoleonic fetishists,
i care to mind the whip and the guillotine,
why? because some people are so stupid that
it's complimented in their unruliness -
it does't exactly spell out H A R E M...
it usually spells out G Y M...
there's weightlifting with that plump one over here,
oh yeah, she's the late comer, i guess that's
the rowing machine... etc. etc.,
you jealous? i feel like strangling my cat for excesses
in meows - but do you you really think you'll
converse with a communist party member,
apart from reading Trotsky or Marx and simply
daydreaming? you probably will,
i have a contact, i have heard the reality,
i see it too: he's in his seventies and comfortable
with a pension... the state actually exists in his
comfort zone... most of the pensioners in the west
can start their denial of whether or not the state
exists... well... we know McDonald's exists...
but the state, i.e. England, America? i'd put my bets
on Nike first... the state doesn't actually exist for them...
just recently B.H.S. shut down
and the pensions went down the drain...
i wish i was spreading propaganda on purpose,
as if it was my job... i'm just digesting the facts...
you will never become Red when you haven't spoken
to an old-school Red... no point reading Trotsky and
thinking big when ******... sure... pout and pose
your little socialist escapade, turnip shoved up
a badger's ****... that's how it looks to me...
so you really want to be a communist? you know what
that actually means? i know what it means:
a comfortable retired engineer of a steel industry,
i never chose to be a poet, i was expecting chemist,
but i live in a country hell-bent to create as many
entertainers as possible, i don't mean circus antics,
i mean: bore me to death with karaoke -
they'll get one single out after being the village bicycle,
then they'll write a book, and then the n.h.s. will
collapses: what ever happened to the joys of physical
labour? i knew it once, fair game my health sorta
deteriorated without my wanting it to spiral into writing...
but what i was given i exploited...
and the pitched maxim describing the times we live in?
oddly enough from Charles Manson:
everyone's mad these days...
                            the quarter synagogue...
excuse me while i talk to the secular priest (a psychiatrist)...
weaving the trigonometric snail trail of
doubt, deny, doubt, deny, doubt, deny...
                              and that pretty much sums it up -
oh right, only now you hear the truths...
yeah, in the Soviet era people worked Saturdays,
being an atheistic model, in managed to incorporate
all the good bits of Christianity, Judaism, Islam...
the one day's rest fed it, primarily,
because it secured the fact that people could enjoy life
as plumbers, electricians, etc.,
in the west, the extra day means everyone wants or dreams
to be an artist - i think a falling leaf in autumn is
more entertaining than Liberace on steroids
milking the old ladies while hiding his homosexuality...
but that's me... sure, go ahead, go to your little
therapy sessions in protest on Wall St.,
but don't expect me to be there... you all end up
desecrating the statue of liberty: gagged and showcasing
a ***** rather than a torch...
freedom only goes a certain distance: before it just becomes
someone's bling raging exfoliating plight into extortion
and exploitation...
               so, you think you can be a communist?
looks to me that the Chinese are doing alright -
                             i doubt there's a Mongolian sentiment in
them - mind you, the first Communist society,
as canvas for later implementations of the theory?
Mongolia... that's where it started, Mongolia was
the testing ground... and i do love the fact that Islam
doesn't play along to having interest rates...
                 0% APR and other such jingles...
Communism was only "wrong" undermined because
people mentioned Marx was a Jew...
the western powers at be actually preserved Zionism
and kept Zionism and establishing Israel when,
at the same time, undermining Marxism -
no one really mentions that antisemitism: primarily
because the Egyptians think they're Semites...
i think the Egyptians are the greatest plotters known to
man... it was bad enough giving them Christianity
that emerged as Coptic, it's even worse giving them
Islam... someone should have just given them
Pythagoras or something to dwarf the pyramids in terms
of real-estate know-how... a pyramid, but at the centre
a semi-detached English abode / "castle"...
who the **** would ever stress a need for a brotherhood
or man?! i feel no inclination to eat a meal
with those camel jockeys... real person ****, real personal...
and here they come: the grand defenders of
all of mankind... picking cherries of opinion,
choosing what's to be said, what't to not be said,
subsequently what's to be thought, and what's not
to be thought... and if ever a man from the east
was to be convinced about the superiority of western
values... well, it would have to be via a woman...
but since there aren't any about... he's not convinced at all...
and if an opportunity came that a woman would
come about to teach him the superiority of western
values... he'd simply turn around and say: it's too late.
AA Phi Sep 2013
first,
a raccoon wrapped within its own intestine.
the asphalt is its grave; i swerve to miss it.
we shared the same air, maybe even a
common ancestor.
someone moved too fast to care.
its the ones with
fast cars and slow minds
pretty faces and ugly intent
artificial kindness but genuine hate
i'm not your friend
just a similar sense of self
it is
fat priests playing golf
lottery ticket paradises
restaurants
embellished mechanized slaughter
fake laughter and even faker love
shopping mall environmentalists
lexus-driving christians
paychecks, TV, lawn mowing sundays
drink yourself to death
please.
the least among us in control
deprived of the mind
the stench of their egos
and their hypocrisy
the gasoline, the cash, and the forced smiles
as i write people die
children die
i'm like many
the fool who knows
but does nothing
the one who doesn't know
that's the good person
the moral person.

second,
a rant, a ******* rage
the days are stale, self-actualize, the Earth remains the same
dry and motionless
middle-class frustration, planetary confusion,
the ***** of the Earth,
capsized like dying branches
in a wal-mart state of mind,
stupid slobs, rodent minded social egoists
over-organized, clean freak object fetishists
the evolutionary dollar sign
they bay at the moon, it's made of cheesecake
phase transitioning,
you blood clot, Earthly blood clot,
you don't know art
now there's ancient blood on my hands
smokeless, plantless, Earthless blood
detached from Gaian consciousness
stain on the mind
confused, clogged pathways,
clogged with
self-righteous mind flood
piles of ***** tissue,
waning and waxing
force feed me your ******* please
because i have no idea how to answer
in this cultural blood bath
it is the
end of time
the end of mind.

:aaphi
Arabs are on their knees
Command them left and right, whatever you please
The female goddess with her divinity
But she mustn't succumb to her desires
Cursed with a voidhole, a witch with no flying stick

Strike the strings and they will shiver
Their Gods with invested interest in genitalia,
Debating vice and virtue
Perverted thoughts, oh, let them pass
As she rubs her blood oozed inner thighs
I can hear the delicate moans and quivers

Society under her thumb
Quickening breath, fast paced heart and wide *******
At last, the land of promised *******
Virginity fetishists with holy manuscripts
Tribal war, the darkest of blood

Mount your ******* to the highest heights
Reach their moral mountains and hijack their sanity
Fear stricken by your circular thumb-motions
For they will associate ***** blood with vanity

Ignorance at their gates
No light escapes, shattered lives
Facts infecting their pride
Worshiped not for her intellect nor beauty
But for the voidhole she carries
In the desert sand, she remains a liability
Until she becomes a miserable bride
Virginity and female sexuality in the Arab world.
Dylan D May 2011
-



I’ve been accepted in a number of small-town organizations,
Constructed by some confetti-fetishists who craved nothing more than
To write their thoughts onto the underside of a bridge,
Abandoned due to incredible uprisings of what some would call faux water.

They’d told me,
Multiple times actually,
That I was bound to their ideals and morals forever;
That they’d essentially taken the parts of my brain that mattered
And the sections of my heart I knew couldn’t feel emotion but
Hoped dangerously that they, under suitable conditions, just might
And tossed them into a box
Snuck down to the river
Let it drift away as I slept alone.

I’ve been afraid to try new things, always afraid,
Always wandering about with a finger to the air and a
Paintbrush to mark where I‘ve been.

To think that they “saved me,”
Or “kept me from a suicidal afterparty” is now
Only a thought rather than action.

And now
Slowly, gently,
He lift a glass of dust to his mouth
Wondering who he used to be
As I watch myself from the corner.



-
ryan pemberton Nov 2013
All hail Eris.
Sometimes she rolls the dice
and good things happen.
Sometimes she rolls the dice
and bad things happen.

The way I see it
you've got two options:
a) cross your fingers
b) don't cross your fingers

There's no use shouting at dice.
That precious breath would be
better spent
hailing Eris,
or laughing at the whole facade.

Everyone you'll ever meet is just
another roll of the dice.
the sinners, the saints,
the foot fetishists, the celibates
the Muslims and Jainists
are created and destroyed
as they are
by a fickle flick
of Eris' wrist.

The friend who lied
to your face,
the ex who cheated
on you and never
had the guts
to tell it to your face,
the man locked in prison for
child ****:

What separates you from the monsters?

A roll of the dice.
Bogdan Dragos Dec 2020
the *** was good
She loved to swallow. Even
from the ******. Had
a real fetish with it

They passed out eventually
in each other’s
arms
and somewhere towards
the morning he
woke up with a blade in the
gut

It twisted hard

He gasped for air
and watched her eyes, demanding
an explanation

Her response was a shrug. “Just
wanted to see what it
feels like. I think I
love it.”

He didn’t survive
and she faced no real consequences

The world is full of fetishists

some girls like to
swallow *** and carve their
partners up for fun

and some men
like to hook up with
psych ward patients

There never was a time in history
when madness was not
romanticized
and idolized
and alluring as sin
https://drbogdan.home.blog/2020/12/10/the-world-is-full-of-fetishists/
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
a 2nd reiteration
listening to
dropkick murphys'
song
i'm shipping off to
Boston
...

you ******* quasi-paddies
and Iraqi Aladdins
have ****** up "my"...
******* jukebox!

no music video ever came
with a ******* news channel
recommendation!

wankers!
   sprat boilers!
  brat spanking fetishists!

give me my ******* jukebox
back... you *******:
toddler's little pinky
wankers off!

it's not enough that
the blood starts to boil...
my thinking becomes
all scrambled!

i turn into a Danzig hunger-strike
when i don't get
to listen to new music!

wankie ***** wankie *****...
sure...
but when i ******* while
taking a **** and taking a ****...
i don't make a *******
video out of it, do i?!

juggernaut... juggernaut...
juggernaut...
  say it thrice like Beetlejuice...
and... well... shazam!
a rhino appears!

i'm taking prisoners...
the ones attached to the charge,
as they scream...
pretending to... "tag along".

give my jukebox back you
******* invertebrates!
wordvango Feb 2016
if I am elected president  of this great country,
next month will be a month long
holiday, a celebration of blacks
whites yellow red brown cellophane
imaginary characters, superheros,
invisible mystery movie stars
country western, Rap stars, long haired rockers
Disco even ( among the most reviled)
rhythm and blues, blues reds
those with accents, those without,
homosapiens and bisexuals lesbians thespians the gay and those happy
foot fetishists, my subscription to wow toes lapsed,
biologists psychologists street pharmacy dudes
Marilyn Monroe (oops my freudian slip, there)
women men boys girls , old young two and four legged
disabled American vet or not
truck drivers , doctors nurses garbage collectors(I gotta give them cred)
machinists secretaries liberals conservatives socialists ummm
communists?, maybe not so much,
waitresses even bill collectors,
lawyers the clergy and those elected,
maids kings queens prostitutes pimps
bad  weak , rednecks Santa , I seen him today at the seven eleven
he works construction this time of year, the DEA
the Armed Forces, probation officers
the unemployed , the guy in the suit at the grocery in front of me buying Ribeyes with food stamps, teachers, septic tank pumpers  
.......whew,   I gotta take a break. I left many out , but this month long holiday is going to be inclusive. No one left out behind.
All colors all sizes all sexes all religions.
Gotta for once stop dividing this country into us
and them, see us all as Americans.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i drink like a peasant, maybe i am of peasant stock,
which is nice, which makes value
the simplicities of life, oh, and i write this
while someone somewhere makes democracy real,
by evaluating the need for bureucratic complexities,
and it's oh so lovely to watch,
like i'm a seagull chic being fed regurgitated, things...
for lack of a better word,
i finally met a philosopher who engages with
the utility of grammatical words, who finally sees
categories... but, not so much a case to argue an imperative...
heidegger... once more, and thrice over!
maybe i am only slightly like him,
   although speaking a self-acquired posh-tosh accent,
coming from a catholic school, that isn't all that bad...
and to think i'm actually amused thinking
this through, given that there's no reason to state
that i need to fulfill an ought subsequently...
or... aphorisms 205 - 207...
     or what i call my work canvas-antithesis:
my vocabulary did this to me, the complete work
of jack spicer, alternatively called:
an ode to gabriel lorca -
   imagine, watching *****, where a dead poet
gets ****** by a living poet, now, also dead...
  some people go to the zoo...
just saying.
                    i have to watch my female cat take
a **** and later pick it up with a plastic bag...
she peers into me with a grimmace and a touch
of quizzical... i look back and am doubly
solipstic... and if you're uncaring: just call cats
autistic; that said, cats are perfect companions
to autistics... you sorta forget them,
sometimes you pet them, most of the time you
let them sleep...
   meows are annoying and a dog barking is
soothing... don't know how that works...
thankfully the greeks out-did the whole theology
bog argument of being trapped in a 1 + 1 = 2
logic of using words, or encoding sounds...
my my... the ancient greeks, weren't they the one
that said: you trampoline off of me...
  so thankfully we have the θιτανς
(well, that's how i imagine a greek might say it...
thigh-tans)...
yes, τιτανς...
     all that linguistic ******* of keeping a lisp,
but in this case: a clear transmorphing F sound...
sort of a signature by my way of thinking it through...
did i say the english language has no clear
syllable system? no diacritical marks,
   i never heard of dyslexia when i lived for a century
(of 8 years) in poland...
  ah crap... there was this one word i was thinking
of when i woke up today that proves
that english is a "two-faced" language...
i.e. you hear it, but then you see it differently...
what was the word?
   sight, site, cite, sigh, sire, citation, eh?
      always, always make writing conversational,
rather than anything remotely needing controversy...
fast and nimble, enso principle,
  what diacrtical marks, what diacritical marks
to use?
          ah, let's forget about it...
     **** it, let's keep it as pristine as a ****
marble statue of David somewhere in Italy...
Naples? Pisa?
but i did find that word i was thinking of with that
optical anchor leaving me bed-bound
and doubly-gravity prone to "waste" it with some
classical music...
        while figuring out why tapping my collar bone
vs. tapping my forehead gave a variation of sound,
how i tap?
          ******* tapped against the ring
finger against the protruding bone...
  doing a joke about buddha's stiff hand gesture,
that could never be translated into Braille...
  the fact that he bends his ring finger and creatres
an enclosure with hi thumb...
  that's a statement of continuity...
then you have papa middle and mama index...
the child is always the pinky... or the Chinese
one-child state policy...
this day was never going to make sense sober,
    in england you don't do sober,
unless you're really, really serious about buying
vegetables in a supermarket while
sniffing them.... a bit like angelique kerber
sniffing tennis ***** before a serve...
           some proper fetishists playing tennis
these days... i can't say i'm any better...
what with performing oral *** on a *******...
yes, to the talking donkey of her ****
and to the ropudy chimpanzee of her ****...
  yes, some people really do play a trombone
to get the music, others blow into *****
and get a vivaldi of something according to
an onomatopoeia... like looking for vowels
in hebrew...
   stretching... aching... agonising...
                                                    ­       pleased.
so, **** adam (english), walking about
the garden of eden... without a bay leaf to cover
his genitals (diacritical marks)...
it would make sense to call the existence of
the roman empire as: yesterday...
  was i wrong about the docile jews in the holocaust
and the story in the monday newspaper,
about how 850 migrants scaled a 6 metre barbwire
fence to get into europe via spain?
    the poles say two things about the jews
the germans wouldn't have said:
a. they shot with bent rifles...
b. and this one is true, wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
which translates as: your streets, our tenements...
that's a true quote, as remembered by my grandfather,
which i'm transcribing into my work...
   that's what the pre-second world war said in
poland... your streets (i.e. you can be homeless),
but our tenements (our buildings, dogs)...
   and to think that my mother cared for two
elderly jewish ladies, to the point when they
bent over to do the eternal kip (sleep / death)...
well, as a foul mouth goes...
you read de sade and perform oral *** on a *******...
you're hardly going to speak like
you ate caviar and drank champagne at the Ritz...
are you?
well, i have ate caviar once... in St. Petersburg...
it was orange and let's just say:
you might as well drink a bit of fish sauce to get
the picture... but not the texture...
of what caviar tastes like.
orange caviar is the cheap **** russians put in
pancakes...
  and it really was revolutionary, when i ate
a pancake consisting of ham and cheese in Paris...
i never knew pancakes could be served as savory...
until... the world opened my eyes and i ate
that pancake... when Paris was what it was,
back in in the first decade of the 21st century.
Micheal Wolf Jun 2013
My toes are ugly
Well I think they are
They look so strange
Down there on the floor
As though added on as an after thought
Now imagine if we had none at all
Fetishists would suffer quite a lot
No way to get themselves off
Athletes foot would be a thing of the past
And I'd never be nibbled by dogs or cats
As it is there here to stay
Just ugly toes
Down there
Ok
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2023
there is a very infamous instance of bez-osobowość
when you cross the Polish border at the airport
and get searched...
the celniks (guards) - provided you know the zunge:
will address you in a without-person(ality)
language / syntax...

how / i.e.? verb laden, verb exclusively,
averting pronoun usage...
i guess this is a counter to what....

oh i love Jordan Peterson aging and in full
schematic rearrangement of
post-modernistic mode "word salad"
buzzing... i'm buzzing too:

two nuggets of verbal beauty: a shine
on a sheen...
sheen being the already available glit of
a metal... shine being if a metal is exposed
to light and almost, "almost" reacts like
water or mirror...

- negotiating identity into adulthood...
- "terrible war in our culture"

     what war? what culture: to be exact...
cf. kołakowski's: culture and fetishes...
really? is there a culture "war" or simply...
this is not a war "war": this is a civilian fetishazation
of combat... this is passive-aggressiveness
of atomized-***-drive-derivatives
a cis-mutation parody regarding
a concept of: species...
this is one massive a-hole (forgot the bomb)
of an anti-Darwinism...
one might stretch it to the extent of calling
it liberal Darwinism...
or: on the basis of a humanistic whim
we can't harness the power of a lightning strike
nor can we harness the winds of a tornado...
but we'll sure as ****: make pretty boa-constrictive
grammar out of how we forget about trading,
capital...

identity "politics"?

- ideas of identity are narrow, hedonistic,
unsophisticated, self-serving...
- identity groups: whim-based, ****** identities,
race, ethnic...
- predicated on the notion of the immediacy
of...
- you're not a *** machine...
- anxiety hopelessness misery...
- subsidiary solution
- integrated self...

   hmm... so not the differentiating self of self?
to integrate a self "off" a self: toward the self?

consumer model?
integrating integers or integrating the collapse
of fractions?

a poem written while listening to a podcast
rather than music, which would be echo chamber
solipsism...

- play with someone else...
- invite someone else...
- there's you and now there's you that's a husband...
- responsibilities and opportunities...
- not gratifying your short term whims...

fair enough... go on herr doktor...

- immaturity vs. non-negotiation...
- learn to love someone...
- 20 years ago: self-consciousness and negative emotion
on par...
- flesh yourself out...           stretch...

huh? community? what community?
i have lived across from my neighbours for over 20
years and the closest i got to them
was when she and her daughters paraded
naked in the bedroom and later
moved on to getting another hubby...
married or "married"...
cohabitation... moved across the street
two doors down and still no ******* conversation
about: oh the weather is dreary and oh:
the garbage men forgot to take my garbage
or: oh the traffic is bad blah blah...

- definition definition definition:

the defining of the finite
the indefinitable infinite...
time is a flexibility of not counting / not measuring...

in out in out

- no action without the good...
ah... nugget! finally!

- consumerist capitalism
- idiocies of a degenerate protestant liberalism
driven by postmodernism...

well, given that when Moses spoke to unsaid X
said: ehyeh asher ehyeh...

i.e. i am: that         ↓
                        → i am ←
                                ↑

and not... i am what i am... since...
there's a clear distinction between the pronoun
'that' and 'what'...
conclusively...
by 'that' i'm implying vectors...
by 'what' i'm implying: questions...

what? well what?!

i am what:                 !
                             ?  i am  ?
                                     !

but Moses wasn't interrogated in a what whom
fashion, no: i am what i am spoke to him:
who spoke to Moses?
i am: that, i am...

  that... precisely that, i am that: who?
would god ask who of / off who of / off himself?

i still find it preposterous that this commandment
is so vague on the Islamic mind
as to not cherish the name Allah
but shout it while killing innocents:
and in his greatness the jinn swarm
to take the metaphysical procrastinators to
the hell of the 72 "virgins"...

la ilaha illa allah -

    mind you: the Maltese word for god is
borrowed from the Saracens
and is also blahllah... no: allah...
all? ah!
a relief it would seem...
how easily you could censor that word out
of a person's vocabulary and not take it in vain...
it's a Hebrew game i very much like playing
since i make-oaths of ****'s ******* ****
like a cobbler...

i still can't figure out whether to think of
culture wars as civilian fetishes of warfare or not..
culture war is a fetishised term...
war is a fetish term for poets who
are living out a rigor mortis of intellect...

now for the gates...

א                                                      ­               ע
    
i might be behind the literature,
what i know is: kametz (a)
     tzeré (e)
                  chirek (i)
cholem (o)
                       shurek (u) - pentagram...

hmm... Greek Satanism... which is not very much like
WASP Satanism that mingled neo-******
with a sour-**** vibrancy of proto-*** chimps
of the North American "sentiment"...

the revised niqqud from the niqqud
i learnt outside the realms of the internet is as above
(cf. aryeh kaplan meditation and kabbalah
samuel weiser inc. box 612
york beach, maine 03910
isbn 0-87728-616-?)

chirek became hiriq (בִ - i.e. BI - ב, bet hiriq) - i
kametz became patach kamatz gadol (בַ בָ - b'ah) - a
tzeré became segol zeire (בֶ בֵ - i.e. b'eh) - e
cholem became holam (בֹ - b'oh) - o
and...
shurek became kubutz shuruk (בֻ וּ - BAV) - u

a story of the gate:
א                                                          ­           ע
(ayin)                                                     (alef)

through which: הה Heh and Heh walked through
to find the husbands י (yod)
  and ו (vav)... oh sure: bot sisters...
Heh and Heh walked through these gate(s)...
and so became coupled into a name best associated
with "jehowa": i.e. he who hides them (vowels)
like the niqqud and the niqab...
some sort of conspiracy theory against
a society built upon monogamy...

so i met this pretty little 5ft2 36D Puerto Rican
all the way in Hawaii, or to be more specific: Kauai...
on the internet...
and since any mention of formality and inception
i'm on the phone to her every Sunday
(and i'll probably call her today:
Monday's and Tuesday's are her days off)
and we talk for an hour and i feel: ****...
only 10 minutes have passed...

but i'm still engaged with the current trend of anti-cinema...
culture war my ***...
a bit like revising that vision of St. John's...
believe you me when i say:
four horsemen... and one donkey-rider...
so that's 5 riders... the donkey rider
being obviously slower than death
since he'd be the one riding last giggling his ***
off... maybe him and the donkey would
be laughing... maybe even a talking donkey...
the vision is grotesque:
hyper-parody of Islam stealing the "saviour"...

now i know why i didn't drop any acid or ingest
any magic mushrooms...
this one time in Amsterdam me and this
Egyptian were mesmerised or rather fearful
having drank some ***** and smoked some marijuana
watching these two roomates of ours in a hostel
ingest magic mushrooms and waste the experience
on watching American Dad on t.v. in a darkened room...
Germans: so go figure... p.t.s.d. of history
or whatever you want to call it...
you'd think that ingesting psychadelics
you'd want to be in the sunshine in a forest
for some transcendental speech impediment onset...
not some dingy hostel room watching t.v., right?

case? the opposite, ingest some alcohol, fast,
then think about the hebrew alphabet...

yes, the great advent of anti-cinema...
a cultural shift...
when actors became producers...
notably? true detective... starring matthew mcconaughey
and woody harrelson...
when actors became executive producers...
perfect hell-storm to **** of cinema franchises
for the children...
from the days of: parents go out for a date
and employ a babysitter to...
kids go out and shoot up laughing gas
and eat fast food and fast **** in an alley
while the parents sit indoors and watch decent content...
maybe because actors have more time
therefore more freedom to feel into their roles
maybe because to write something good
you need to waffle for more than the space
of ~3h or like a pop song becomes prog-rock
after the 3min mark?!

in a way modern Polish "behaves", or rather:
is structured like ancient Latin
in the pronouns can be omitted to give meaning
to sentences:

ja myśle (i think) can simply be expressed
as myśle (pronoun-verb) compound of (i) think:
thinking... myśl (thought) myślenie (thinking)...

i.e. cogito ergo sum is a summary of
current Polish...
since there's no need for:
ego cogito ergo ego sum...
there's no need for i think therefore i am:
there's an anti-pronoun imperative
in sentence structure...
this without-personhood dynamic
perfectly compliments...
the anglo-protestant queer fetish for
exemplifying the plurality of it
via they...

       also...
borrowing from Greek Satanism the pan-Slavic
distinctiveness of
the following:

     щ: šč          ?: ść

deszcz: dešč: H hiding, or how the hebrew god
lingers in European psyche...
funny... that the **** Germans thought
themselves as Aryans...
given that the Polacks from the 15th century
onward compassed the arrival of an Iranian
tribe of... no... not Samaritans...
but the Sarmatians...

deszcz: rain
    dość: enough...

szczerość: ščerość: truthfulness...

i never thought the fetishes would spill out
and over into my reaching out with my tentacles
and start to... squeeze... out all the fetishes
into apple pulp sort of goo of glue sort
of averting the nasal thrill...

for a people who made ***-identity into politics
like Darwin and the lesbian faction of
existence running its course: cul de sac
existentialism of ******-identity politics
"politics": these days you have to say
"red" red... "blue" blue...
"train" train...

  mein englischleash: nein nein: niet ein leine!

what culture war?
perhaps a cultural lethargy, a cultural exhaustion?
i can see it as that... but a war?
for what? a quibble?
a ******* carrot on a stick?
a war for a donkey?
no one spotted the unearthing of the Nag Hammadi
library coinciding with the Dead Sea Scrolls,
how Isaiah died (being mutilated
at the torso, cut in half)
and how "suddenly" Christianity quivered its
last to estrange the European ontology
from the European will borrowing
from the nurture of winter in the Hyperborean
realm of melancholic rejuvenation of intellect...

the Slavs would sooner wage war against
themselves than allow
the Germanic self-flagellation of importing
cheap labour from former colonies...
these "good Christian" vessels of soullessness:
vacated by the riches from Arabia
eat ******* camel jockey types and typos
in H'arabic...

there is no culture war... there's only a cultural vacuum:
a lethargy: a great stink about this whole
myopic miasma...
with the established state of Israel and what
remains of the jewry in Europe
the fascinating dynamic of the arrival of a muslim
cohort of: sensibly minded idle citizens
that uber uber uber uber...
kamikazee delivery drivers from the mouths
of Bengal... hey presto: cheap as chips analogies...

so there's no problem with calling they it not i?
after all: it is a pronoun...
it's coming, they are?
          hmm... fetishes to the fore...
*** first: but the worst kind of ***:
non-procreative ***...
that's the worst kind of ***...
me and my old lady... i sort of told her:
it's an ancient practice borrowing from Roman times...
surrogacy of males...
i don't mind that you have a daughter
and she's not biologically mine...
guess what? that means i'll be less hung-up
if she "fails" morally...

     i clearly don't mind leaving a fractional imprint
of mine, hereditary on a passing fleece of a feeling
with an offspring...
i'm here to play a game of her throwing
three pebbles into a pool and both of us diving into
it to find them... mystique harry potter esque
the philosopher and the two women in his life:
life rediscovered... lazily tripping up over
sunlight and the predictability of daylight hours
on the tropic of cancer...

the rest of me is unpredictable like the weather
in northern europe: esp. England...

but these fetishists could have chosen a different
angle than latching onto grammar...
by the looks of it i'll gnash at bone
and grit by iron teeth (eisenzähne) with a "debilitating"
glee of: welcome, welcome, all are welcome
to the knochenernteausgraben (bone harvest
unearthing)...

even in sub-culture pops... hormones?
am i that bothered about testosterone levels in
males (like i might have some control over it)
when it comes to how stubble i can deal with
like i might sniff ******* or who's not living with grandma
like this woman is fertile, no, this woman is not fertile:
she's renting her womb to two homosexuals
vying for a proto-baby
    and this ***-first dynamic is going to go on forever
before Russia joins forces with China and India
and leaves the atomised man in
shrapnel still clinging to the crucifix-*****?
as if 2000 years of the rabbis warning us against
the advent of the self-sacrificial saviour were not
a lesson in diabolical narcissism...
it's plain as day to date...

          even with the structures intact...
christianity is unlike hinduism...
this makeshift monotheism with
polytheistic tendencies for schisms
is unlike any original European polytheism...
there's a U.B.D. / B.B.D. (use by date,
best before date) attached to it... like food...
given... well... christianity is food if you think twice
about the metaphor of the bread and the wine...
**** me... phoo! the wine has become a rancid
balsamic vinegar and the bread is mouldy!

islam on the other hand is only bound to the strength
of the dino juice... black gold...
it's strength is only temporary given
no longer needing to burn wood and instead
using gas and the mechanisms of oil propellers...
temporary ibn Saud paradise...

hardly a critique of capitalism: which is a force for
good... should the capitalist be the one
building railroads and autobahns...
giving wages, providing stable work,
pensions...
but the current capitalist is a capitalist in name alone:
chances of an honest wage for honest labour?
chances of a pension?
gig economy, the underclass of workers i'm in
already dictate the failsafe dynamic of
"contract" with: an "optional opt out"
regarding a pension scheme...
there is none...

                            some daydream akin to the ****
project circa 1950s with a home a stability
without the frenzy of hustling...
one generation old one generation bound...
some eugenics variation
and oh how the women love to call out
the men who didn't reproduce
but seeing some of the women that have
i do wonder what sort of pristine genetics are
being pressed and passed on
since i'm in an intellectual-zombie-land
from time to time... or pretty much all the time...
so i drink: to numb the pain...
so i drink: to numb the pain...
hmm... maybe that's why i drink:
to numb the intellectual dead-weight i have
surrounding me...

it's a good excuse... there is no other...
jeez... coming back to that without-persona language
the Polish border guards sometimes you:
the verb-exclusive pronoun-de-clusive
pronoun-non-inclusive of:

zdjąć - take off.. achtung achtung!
i.e. not
            zdejmij - czy czy: could you?
czy mógłbyś zdjąć twoje buty?
could you take off your shoes?

               so much for some vagary of an upheaval
in the queers for grammar in English...
it's almost very funny: but it's only just slightly
funny coming from a people not used
to how depersonalisation happens in language
when spoken off: rather than of or to...

like that saying from true detective...
am i a good person?
no... i'm not a good person...
i'm a bad bad man...
the sort of bad man that keeps the other bad men
away from knocking on your door...
i'm that sort of bad man...
the sort of bad man that keeps your
idiosyncratic selves in check
before they are no more than a statistic
in a serial killer's tally 正

                but even i have rules and sensibilities
that question when experiencing questionalibities
of: basic structures, like in language:
grammar...
       that sort of **** just makes me hit the monster
button within me...
and my ego becomes less a unit
of identity... and more akin to...
      a mouth that chews, grunts, burps...
bites... my ego is currently in the form of:

mundnichts... mouth-nothing....
        pupilleessenauge...
pupil eating eye...
                   in mich: ein legion von
alle der schrecklich gedanken!
         ha ha! wie ein teuflisch zirkus!
kfaye Oct 2016
as i cast a spell into the gap between the
knucklebones of your toes.we
dangle before

fetishists like raptors

a little too costumey for you to hold me
well

******* ****** toothbrushes to encourage
their
*** of pink
foam into the basin of the sink.reaching
down
the gullet of the drain.my

eyes rinse  past you

in hopes that my blasphemy
will be
as beautiful as yours

though i sort each hair on your head one-
by-one.across my
satyr
lips

in
crepuscular finality


.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
ι.

you might call them terrorists, or islamic fundamentalists... me? i just call them sand-*******, or camel-jockeys.

ιι.

imagine the movies from the 60s... esp. cleopatra... see that long roman armshake? they don't actually shake hands, they pause in the middle of holding each others' arms, just below the elbow. this practice was translated, but in a verse of insult, not the shakespearean (romeo & juliet): flicking one's thumb against someone... i.e., lodging your incisor into your thumb on the inner side of the nail and then flicking the thumb from the grip of the incisors lodged in the nail gap... anway... this is the elevation of showing the ******* at someone - *tu sie zgina dziób pingwina
(here's where a penguin's beak bends) -
                     and all you do is fold your arm and point
with your protruding elbow... to basically say *******...
         i call it the last roman revelation,
         the long handshake being one,
                and the protruding elbow of the folded arm
as the higher form of expressing the *******.

ιιι.

this is the state english "existentialism" is in, in an article written by a ms. day... she uses the reference of a vowel with diacritical "tattoo" (marking / stressor) as an ambiguity, i.e. she calls ā (an A, with a macron "tattoo") as a long "a"... that could **** anyone off... long "a"? that's canadian short for asking for approval? the ****'s matter with you? ah... no diacritical marks in general, in the anglo-spreschen... i can't even be bewildered by this expression, given the facts of a lack of prolonging a vowel / breath, akin to speaking africaan (africān) when stating: **** i'm ******... let's go to the turk for a kébāb.

ιv.

western fascination with buddhism, the peddle-stool that westerners treat buddhism for a prop to hide their nihilism? what's a westerner's answer? in a cartesian format, counter res cogitans, i.e. res vanus;
and that's it... no mention of the spirituality of not thinking for a moment, very much akin to wishing to have written a fictional narrative as a form of escapism; so why buddhism, and not jainism, to be influenced by?

v.

ooh, **** me... hardly a strange comparison, but a *** and ms. pepsi sharpshooter... ****, white *** slithers down your mouth like a serpent without shedding its skin, that dark *** promotes; i think i'm going to swtich.

vι.

so regarding ms. day's saturday supplement article, the observation by huysmans (against nature) was correct... the aristocrats' greatest privilege isn't wealth to be exact: it's the capacity for being the greatest weirdos, unfathomable fetishists of materialism, and that's the transcended form of their ****** dubiousness, regarding the act of a swan's (actually noble) matrimony; ever heard that story? swan pair up for life... if one partner dies... the other swan remain in a perpetuated "limbo" of widowhood... for some reason, time expands, everything slows down for them; "aristocrats"? demented dogs, ******* your leg; ******* are weird as... well... ****!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/the music, makes the horror movie...


a schizophrenic definition by a psychiatrist
of a pauper: an Orson Welles
would be, pinch of
a Hitchcock adaptation gusto,
and you have Ed Gein
being the author of
America's sub-culture
narrative once
the milkshakes turned
to powdered milk...
you know the notables...
canary in the coalmine,
the kentucky fried mouse...
or cockcroach for the South
Asian, delicacy...
and thank **** the ****-
didn't export, and the cosmopolitan
sushi fetishists didn't catch onto
pickled herrings, Baltic "sushi"
as it were...
how harsh the word LOSER
sounds in th western lexicon,
dead... dead? like a *******
release from the zoo of
jerking off into bird nests
and wigs...
not to mention...
    you sure only the Russians
took dope?
have you ever seen
an asthmatic take on a marathon?
even I know, that
in the post cold war environment,
the Russians are bored,
simply, *******, bored,
or pretending to be the evil empire...
zee vest und itz glutton
suckling at the Dubai's camel
****...
               the Knightsbridge
gasoline riviera of clot, cement,
clot, cement...
     so the notion of:
having lost touch with reality...
hmm... today i walked into
a supermarket and bought goods
for 72.19zł (roughly 18 quid)...
I had a 100cl banknote,
and... spare change...
               namely 10 groszy,
5 groszy and 4 x 1 groszy,
1zł... 50 groszy, 20 groszy,
and 2 x 10 groszy...
   the LOSERS OF 2008...
    the sorts that can't get a hardon
without calling a uni hen sugg'ah
   or being called daddy...
EGO constructed on a one dimensional
slot machine dynamic, ching ching:
WINNER!
           death the sole democracy:
because what you must, is die...
    to counter post colonialism,
given the pre, or...
     so much for 'ard on baby boom boom
boomerangs...
couldn't you call a banker or
a Richie Itchy a schizoid personality
type?
        imagine the sort,
counting pennies...
                        crypto-"currency" existed
before any crypto-currency...
i. e., debit cards...
        a loss of reality for Wally-Wally
would probably be experienced /
attached to counting spare change...
take any of these authenticities
   and turn grief or anything profound
as the standard for which
a banker might...
be in touch with: "reality"
when being given pennies to count...
      the current wealth of people
is the same sort of nonsense ascribed
to writing stenography...
    oddly enought,  braille makes more
sense...
        since who has lost
being in touch 20th reality...
   i can almost imagine who drops
spare change on streets...
     as precaution...
a penny on a street it picked up,
and blown into...
sometimes put in a trouser pocket...
other times,
       dropped back onto
the pavement, like a tonne of lead.
a pneumatic drill,
   and a pick axe...
      a pneumatic drill,
   and a pick axe...
            not using pennies
while trading in millions...
is just... a high tier shizophrenia...
   or with that archaic
definition (premature dementia)
and focus "symptom":
a loss with "reality"...
            how ever did i return to my
pet interest, this psychiatric
ailment?
      well...
        being immersed in
Amrican sub-culture in my teens...
   but like i said,
some pepole pet cats,
walk dogs in a park...
     me? a pet interest...
   sometimes a word escapes
the zoo, the phobias and taboos
of established norms...
       funny...
auditory hallucinations are
more traumatic...
than visual hallucinations...
       my... that's an authentic
correlation with the horror genre:
the music, makes the horror movie...
but then take away
the horror movie
and leave the music...
      a Tim Burton
       every "weird" teenage girl's
dream...
               not that she doesn't
grow out of it and
becomes a materialist,
as the boy usually does,
and enjoys ***** with
only his own company.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
why would you argue the non-existence of
a deity, while still argue for
the academic study of an, extension
of a deity with: psychology?
         why is philosophy so sinister?
it's the question worth asking:
        why isn't it?
          these people are artful in making
automatons...
                     the argument for the non-
existence of god rightly follows that
that carstesian mind-body dualism
collapses, hence the trinity of
mind-body-soul arrives / agitates
the "status quo"...
               with god the coordinate centre
statement and with the soul being the
out-branching narrative,
  the questions resides with the people
who ask the correct questions,
i.e.: who the **** are you?!
                   the point being,
i simply abhor kiddy  fiddlers...
  but what i hate even more is cult-fetishists...
**** me, those perverts are mind-blowing...
it's like you almost want to roast
a bull numbing a cow in a slaughterhouse...
    drooling blood and
spell-checking intestines..
that sort of marine hard-on you might hear
when  investigating an iraqi ******* of
the most vile crime-scene: *******...
              *******,
i have about as much ammo to give a
**** about, as you have breaths, or your own,
god-forsaken-life.
            there are some things i' ve
seen in the real world, that i never,
want to, see, ever, again!
               no!
                   to argue the non-existence
of a god, is to subsequently argue for
the non-existent "necessity" or the "logical"
study of the existence of "god",
i.e. a, "soul"...
                             why make the
"non-existence of" tantamount to disciple,
a rigorous study of, a schooling in,
when the soul: an extension of god,
is deemed... non-existent?!
                       i understand discipline,
prior to university we understood discipline,
its only upon entry to university that
we learned smear, *******, and double creme
*******...
                as any young will attest
to i n england: by 16 i should have been
learning a trade,
  by 18 i should have been earning one,
by trade chosen...
    i was clearly ***** whipped...
   by 18 i was still learning,
by 21 i was leveraged as being male:
ergo? i was not supposed to learn anything...
at 21 i was a homeless ***...
     **** me... does it really matter how much
***** you get?
              in a narrative sense of
darwinism: should it ever matter,
mattering, being, besides the point?
likewise: the: don't think so.
  apathy is our strength,
only the collectivised known, perhaps.
heaven is no hell,
  since hell is best known by: gradations;
how grandiose that each in hell:
be given a special allocation,
while in heaven:
multitude in a congregation,
with by the one gradation disparity
of, a: god.
                                
of all places: heaven seems the rather
insidious, boorish,
   eventfully hellish, yet so
unheavenly, a crispness without a,
crunch...
               sullen, barren,
           a perpetuated reward,
with an eternity of:
                       purgatory's propaganda.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the ninth gate,
or how, even a bibliophile
can have a little
adventure...

perhaps there's a world
out "there",
but there's also the Heideggerean
retraction  from the world,
into Tao...
         or at least, Tao,
with a bit more of a European
entanglement of narrative...
or past 4 summers
to count, exploring
        moth flight into dust
made into sediment
on yawning bookshelves...
as much of a world out "there"...
as there is life in th vicinity,
in a myopic worldview,
almost aquatic...
        via the H. retraction of
dasein... being by a plateau-esque
increment...
rather than the synonym
big bang and 20th century
exponential circus of populations...
epoch of consolidation,
and cultural exhaustion...
since art could not be industrialised
with a focus on originality,
standing face to face with
industrialised "art" of household
decorum... back to the cave it went
to craft a think-tank,
and a safe space...

which begs the question
as to why certain people allow themselves
the chance to exploit the haiku...
rubric rigid, however-many
syllables it takes...
prior to, some Ching Shin Po
drinking heavily during
the night (why would
you ever drink during the day?)
laughing at the moon,
astounded, mesmerised...
terse saying, sealed lips,
never a haiku being intrusive,
never the haiku made into
a jazz standard,
or a because a sonnet rhymes
like so...
                 20 years,
and still waiting for a haiku...
not this, industrialised:
'aving a blueprint,
ergo: mass replica pulverising
tumult...

           tickling-fingers,
using bookmarks rather than desecrating
books by folding pages into pytharogean
origami...
                reading best investigated
as private tele broadcasting channels...
ad intermissions...

       tonight all i have to offer is this...
a bibliophile's tender woven care...
  holding a book, 3 years older than
me... namely 34 / 35...
in pristine condition...
namely... and the pages are still white...
ironic... since the content
of the book is about ghosts...
take a printed 1957
and the pages turn to sepia...
unlike those barons
and stubborn sycophantic
       wine, "conneisours"...
   the pleb turned snob
is harder to find among book
fetishists...
             the oldest in my possession?
a 19th century print...
     amrican...
     in one psychoice instance
i gave the works of Emerson to
Oxfam...
not that i mind charity,
but that I mind Oxfam...
                  
a new breed narration,
if art, for art's sake...
digression being the new form of
narrative... because
i don't remember what i was going to...

ah!

   Duchy Polskie: Wydawnictwo
         PTTK "KRAJ" (Warszawa 1983)
person in question?
the illustrator,
janusz stanny...
and notably the method
of translating a flint stone
into graphic...
                 hell...
a little corner of the world
and nothing as mundane as...
a postcard from the usual:
wish you were here,
and wish i wasn't,
      sending you this ******* postcard
making me look
like an utter plonk...

and what of the commandments regarding
a neighbour...
big town no neighbours...
small town... promotion
into gossip... little talk...
big town no gossip,
suffocated little interests,
plotki... suffocated to the point
when too it's too late,
and the straitjacket comes out...

the forgetful faces
and the dizzying carousel of urban
living...
              if fame is to be worth 15 minutes...
friendships have a life-span
of a dumb mosquito sitting
on the arm of a lucid man...
            teasing this minion
of the antithesis of Belzeebub
before the needle...
   SMACK...
                         pancake.

        the digressive narrative...
or in better grammar without
a doubled -ive...
digression as the new form
of a narrative...
    as such:
      acute amnesia...
    regarding the muse...

               not for any other,
other than the love of the craft...
or how to escape
the Alcatraz... of sitting through
and English literature / language class...

oh ****... would you loom at that...
a rhyming couplet!
   that's as rare as Van Helsing
finding out that... beyond the romance
of the sickly and sweaty sweet Bar-fe-lona...
all vampires are like mushrooms...
kept in the dark and fed ****...
namely... all vampires are albinos.

on the odd occasion of finding a rhyme,
without even looking for one...
esp. not pulverising a reader with it...
every,  single, or, other, line!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title - skim-reading
body- arrogant...
something, or other.  502 blah blah...


i was going to sit down at 8:15pm and watch some
footie...
Liverpool vs. Arsenal...
i looked at my father dragging a work-bag
through the house... oh... right... new contract...
i did watch a bit of Dortmund vs. Mainz...
if he's not watching the match?
i'm not watching the match...
watching a movie alone... esp. a horror... fine...
but a football match? forget it...
earlier in the day he called me
a drug-addict... what? because i went mad
from smoking marijuana aged 21...
while there are idiots who do not discover
the mystic aspect of the herb?
no... no choir... no great wind to disperse it?!
that's not my problem...
a lot has happened since 2007... a lot more is
about to come...
only aged 35 did i try some *******...
here's to me being a drug-addict...
         sure... drinking aside...
should i mention that my mother: your wife...
is addicted to... ****** painkillers?!
who's the ******* *****?!
            he says... give me three reasons why you
drink excessive...
in your 20s...
weren't you given a house?
didn't you have a wife?
didn't you have a child?!
       apparently i'm not working...
i need to have a hammer in my right hand
and a nail in my left...
that's work... crowd management is not work...
the Hillsborough Disaster could have been
prevented by: magical ******* fairies!
the Manchester Arena bombing could also have been,
prevented: by magical ******* fairies!
flap flap! flap flap their wings resounded...
not that there were fellow Islamic fetishists
working as stewards at the venue: that might have
allowed someone with a backpack filled with explosives:
not even sneak in... just walk in...
oh... i didn't feel like watching the match because:
i'm no longer entertained...
       he zeniths with:
you're the reason why your grandfather (his father in law)
died early... so i retort...
seriously? ich bin TOD?!
           i am death?! **** me... i have my SHASHKA...
where's my horse?! let's get this Apocalypse
going... i'm starving to have some fun...
i couldn't possibly paint...
the canvas wouldn't be too blank...
by definition: i'm not a man...
no colour, no shapes...
           perhaps if i dreamed a little: perhaps then...
i reiterate... to him...
so if these women are into boxers...
             if they want to be first abused...
then... somehow... loved... enough of giving them
banana loaf recipes... enough of giving them homemade
wine... ENOUGH OF THE FLOWERS ON
VALENTINE'S DAY! ENOUGH!
let reality become as miserable as it must: become...
i don't even have to become as vengeful
as a Columbine shooter... i'll wait...
i'm good at waiting...
           i'll fold my fingers into a pseudo-fist...
prop my chin on it... and... just... wait...
              how often will you hear your father tell you:
you're the reason why your grandfather died...
"early"... 80+ years is... ******* early?
that's ******* lucky...
                  psychological abuse: schmooze... blah blah...
i can deal with that...
i'm always on the counter...
              anyways... nothing new...
life is war...
                 vita est bellum... get used to it...
don't get too comfortable...
   comfort erodes the senses...
        comfort: blah!
                     on your toes! up up up!
UP!
              i was the sole reason that nailed the last
remaining nails into my grandfather's coffin...
i'm a drug addict for smoking marijuana:
sorry... i didn't exactly choose to go mad...
      who was the first person to scratch his head
absorbed by thinking? who discovered
the process of fermentation to craft the first beer?
do... we even know?
but we know... who had their first thirst for
necrophilic architecture with the ******* pyramids...
useless mummified **** and all...
people who raised graves as high as the mountains...
obviously Africans... retardo-experimento-primo!
who needs a grave... that big?
oh i don't imply... the Congo or Kenya...
fair enough: no-seasons people... it's all uilateral
thoroughly... but these... Egyptian *****...
can i call them *****? death cult folk...
               stack 'em! stack 'em higher!
JENGA!
           death cult platoon... people so advanced
yet... so scared of their mortality...
that they might have to...
   *****... graves so intimidating it would take
the ******* of the Eiffel Tower to overshadow them...
imagine waiting that long... after the Eiffel tower...
all hell broke loose.. vast urban areas...
desecrated by the shadows cast by skyscrapers...
man learned to get a second hard-on... it would seem...
i became non-existent during dinner...
even though i made the salad... the three choices
of dressing... blue cheese... honey-mustard...
olive oil and balsamic vinegar...
               hmm... cucumber... cherry tomatoes...
salad... red pepper... an apple... spring onions...
   anything else?
and when you were in your 20s...
you had a wife?
you had a house?
you had a baby?
why do you think i want your wife's (my mother's)
manicurist to bring her BAMBINO
along her with? why do you think i want to...
play around with a toddler?!
BECAUSE I DO!
    something ancient, by modern standards of life:
forbidden is waking in me...
like... me... eating a root head of a swede...
nice crunch... i hit 40 years old:
i'm pretty sure this urge will die...
but... right now? it's wrecking havoc...
  just taking the bambino to catch some sunlight...
while holding her exposed naked feet to escape
the cold... but hey... if the women are after...
boxers... men that will abuse them...
nice reality... nicely done...
          Pontius Pilate me... it... just... makes...
my... life... easier...
   i can sort of "disappear"...
                who's to be blamed? who's going to
chant that infamous mea culpa?! me?!
n'ah ah... not a fat ******* chance...
                          god is cruel: the world is crueler...
get used to it...
       silly little idiot me...
falling in love... stomach cramps... butterflies...
it was never going to work...
during a ****... swiping left left left left:
yeah: he left... how many times will you swipe
left in order to get it right?
             single mum... bankrupt...
thank god for my stomach...
             it was nice... i ought to give more credit
to the dog... for licking the wounds on my knuckles...
yeah... the dog gets full credit... she?
oh... ***** can ghost me all she wants...
i think she sort of... misjudged her value...
now i'm cleaning up...
                     i'm not a banker...
i'm not a lawyer... i'm much worse...
                     i can be freed from earning the sort
of money that might allow me to buy: ****...
see... i'm much worse...
   not caring... is a weapon...
             i don't buy status...
   i don't... celebrate status by showcasing
hierarchical bypasses...
    i just stand next to someone with a disability
akin to cerebral palsy... and they... respond to me...
like a normal human being...
fiddling with their hand in their pocket to give me
a promised cigarette...
i really wanted to learn German with her son...
scheisse! die meisten alt laden auf hoden!
so i replied to my father:
i'm sorry... the idiots want to reproduce...
i have no magic wand to make them stop...
if i'm going to be nature's outlier...
      the thinker outside the realm of *******?!
well... so be it... i'll be food for psychologists...
but wait... the logic of the soul... what soul?
given there's no god? you mean... the sigma brigade?
sigma, i.e. the totality of man?
those guys... no... thank you...
                                         they can fry.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
you can disguise the face:
but as hell can't
you disguise the arms,
and legs:
   considering the feet-fetishists...
an am i the first
to mind the hands?
nice, having the one-up
   on the melancholics
who's (apotrophe problem
no. 1)
      eternal laugh within
this dynamic...
   is supported by the youth
killed off like
lazying flukes,
     to mind denoting: flies.
just so happens
that i: went "mad" in
the proceedings section
of history...
       and what is to be
minded?
                 concession
in the comments section
of approving:
  can't tell the difference between
asylum and society;
trans- enough for you?!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
and sooner or later
you'll meet someone...

well, d'uh, a nice puerto rican
fat *** *******
from amsterdam...

      i really should have
been a *conquistador
in my
former life;
  those ****** features
of mexico
and nearby caribbean
are just an instant
             *******...

plus their woman's hands are not
as fat as those niqab
fetishists of the glory hole
in the arab world.

- knock knock.
- who's there?
- can my husband come along
   to identify me?
- nope; don't know, won't know, don't care,
  it'd be nice if you were selling
  bed sheets, &, flying carpets.

seriously, don't ask me,
   when it comes to latinos i'm
going to shove a beer bottle up my ****
and sing you cuckoo lullabies...
can't help it... a natural umm...
lack of inhibition.

pale **** compliments a tight
cinnamon ***...
   then again: cinnamon + cumin...
or turmeric...
definitely not coriander... mmm...
and this little piglet went to the aztec
version of 2017.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
title: VIII
body: hello 'enry,
how long are
those greens?!        again... another 502 bad gateway hack... with ref. to king henry the 8th composing: greensleeves


ich komme: belastet mit
geschenke...

i come: burdened with
gifts...

well, "for some reason" that sounds
better in Deutsche...
why am i not surprised?
warum bin ich
überrascht?

the two weeks i'll be spending alone,
i don' think i'll be switching
on the television...
if i only had a replacement
akin to a fireplace... or an aquarium...
no, **** that, i'll be drinking,
doing the house chores...
ironing shirts, vacuuming...

i woke today and started thinking...
maybe i should go gay...
literally: LITERALLY...
should i go full gay with a Greek...
last time at Fulham a Greek approached
me coyly... but adamantly...
he complimented me on my beard:
that i looked like a Greek Orthodox PRIEST...
that's what i'm saying...
maybe it might be easier to find
companionship among my fellow ***
if the opposite *** is so ******* opposed:
or rather hides symptoms of ugly
***... choking, strangling... ugh... too much
of too little to begin with...

and why is it that whenever i talk to
people i'm always experiencing
a ******* confession.... huh?!
why are people so open around me?
am i, one-dimensional?
of course i'm teasing the narrative...
i'm teasing the narrative because i know
that i have the one currency most people
don't have: truthfulness...

i'll be Thor in my youth and Odin
on my deathbed...
i already stated...
crows in England fly in a couple...
there's Huginn... there's Muninn...
or if there's only one flying: it's most certainly Huginn...
i.e. will... motivation...

there's too big an undercurrent of a cultural
retrospective happening in Europe
to find oneself Christian...
pagan music...
               enough, is enough...
the biggest troll of the Semites that
******* Lord of the Mosquitos: turning blood
into wine or vice versa... whatever...
the Hebrews have reclaimed their homeland...
or else: they're in North America...

sure... what's the consequence?
Pakistani "invaders"... paedophiles...
Saudi limp-**** fetishists...
gimps... fair enough: if that's the sort of thing
that floats your boat...
how long can a city in a *******
desert survive? 100 years? i give them...
100 years before the prophecy akin
to ***** & Gomorrah comes around...
100 years... sure... have your fun!
please, by all means due... have your fun!
i need to watch it... so that when i die
i'll by dying with a rare sort of comfort
of having predicted the future...

Nick? oh, that ******* from school... Nicholas...
i do hope he ended up living in Australia,
although... the thought of moving to either
Canada, the FSA (federal states of America,
they were never united, were they?),
Australia, New Zealand... eh?! what the ****?!
move there, to the penal colony?
i'd rather ******* to the Kamchatka Peninsula...
see a volcano explode every forthnoight
or something...

          freedom and democracy was something
the west was selling other people of this hearth
for much too long... now look where these people are?
in a ******* grammatical pickle...
just like the nobility at the height of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
it's sort of easy... shooting yourself in the foot...
what the **** have you allowed to be done
to your language? it really takes a foreigner to keep
up your ******* affairs?! seriously?!

one wasn't expecting such affairs to unfold...
but then: one wasn't expecting to remain
on these isles... are we agreed upon, that this sort of feels...
quasi-real?

i must be daydreaming...
there's no other explanation...
even if i begged a reply of Horace...
i'd get a jumbled reply filled with holes
and metaphors...

O menschen! was haben sie gar?

one thing is for sure...
the A on my QWERTY
is almost rubbed out...
   implying? am i going to suddenly convert
to the cult of Allah?
all?                 ah!
that bit?         ha ha...
or maybe that the vowel A is the most
used letter in the vowel category...
idiots write rules for idiots to follow...
someone else writes some ******* for
some people to feel a whole load of *******
about: everyone else...

i guess i'm in the latter category...
why would i care... i can forget about this little
project of mine when i go to the brothel
and when i play out the role of a steward
at a football stadium...
when i mind children and when i mind
old men...
oh man... that recent death at Fulham
crippled my heart for about 10 minutes...
but it most certainly helped me
forget Gemma for those 10 minutes...
i still can't forget her...
i love mad *******... the more problematic they
are the more i'm hard-on for them...
they have to be ****** up:
proper... both in the **** and the head
for me to get some magnetism from
them...
i don't do safe, i don't to sterile...
i don't do armchair opposite *** types...
like i already stated:
here's me thinking about going GAY...

but no... i couldn't stomach TRANS...
gay i can stomach...
two guys with beards kissing i can do...
it's ancient...
why would trans-phobia be categorised
as an "irrational" fear?
can't one possess a rational fear
of being deceived?!
that's like... the whole crux of / on the basis
of the experience / concept of reality and "reality", no?!

well, i'm thinking: go full gay or
just court the mad *******...
otherwise... ******* to the brothel whenever you feel like,
esp. when grooming your cats and the female
is gearing up her backside at you...
o.k., you know what, cat...
   i'm going to dive for that fleshy oyster
i'm, not, going, to properly, eat!
Walter Alter Aug 2023
my agent grew nervous when he discovered
like the rising sun on a sea of shark fins
that one must gauge and become the gauge
what is it that heralds an improved model
claiming to have superior knowledge
my hospital masturbates immobilized patients
the cure rate is astounding
it’s all in how we conceive ourselves
the oil and tincture panaceas
were giving me intestinal upheaval
but my inner cephalopod still had
a couple of pots of ink in him
and swore by his mother's *******
when info comes a-knocking
best let it find a seat unaided
everyone rigs the game of perception
permanently defiled by propaganda
we all want to be authentic
so gimme the straight story for once
the world may not owe us a living
but it does owe us an explanation
I think it all has to do with
branching cascades and nested infinities
is it rain on the roof or radio static
reports are that it's a burlesque sitcom
there's a lady in the front row
bearing her profuse ******* at me
I am made dizzy and quickly hypnotized
turns out the dowser was right she’s KGB
and I'm hoping to be the lucky stud
that gets to climb her endorphin ladder
in an experimental courtship ritual
so we rubbed pudenda to dawn
and she let me hear her secret name
it's still secret
her guillotine blade warm and wet
cut through me like a 3 dollar car wash
must have been the stoning squad's day off
tarred and feathered instead
OK why 3 d's for you double meaning fetishists
I'll tell you but you must obey my commands
they are buried throughout this message
because 3 is the logo of the ta tas of Venus
and he'd rather be thundering back at Zeus
which got him everything he wanted
not so much money clothes concubines
since he didn't set out to establish

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
an empire of invisible *******
but he was a free man
free to disintegrate periodically
which is why my advice is to keep
something for yourself no matter what
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
what has happened to my poems...
after january 13th of this year?

poems akin to:
a Young Man and his storm petrel of Tindhólmur
кaцaпы и кaкaшкa
broken record antics (a decade's worth of ***, comparative lit.)
1812 Overture: or the teasing plagiarism of La Marseillaise
the black cracovite & the three sisters amber
a most depressing diatribe
curating: for the meat fetishists
pokój cywilny (комната гражданский)

am i... uncomfortable for attempting to...
work toward 1 million words...
what... these twitter instagram "poets"
feel a threat?!
that also called... not sitting on your laurels...
or making sure you stop ******* on
your thumb and shove it up: where the sun
doesn't shine...

and my god... the internet used to be so much
fun!
now... there's no even a "warning"
or a precaution... i've been in and out of this
cv pile of ******* for a better worth
of 5 years worth of a whipping...
and there i was... about to write...

a movie critique...
well... you can't exactly write a movie critique
these days...
i was going to throw in the fact that:
dub-step was a really short-lived music genre...
unless you looked for the cherries
akin to: south london dross translates
really well into north east london drab of
the peripheries - given burial's album untrue...
and i can't forget distance
and i can't forget vex'd...

the movie in question?
berlin, i love you...
well... it's not a great movie...
it's not a bad movie -
it's certainly quirky in how the anglophone
world translates existentialism onto the screen...
and mickey rourke is in it -
probably my most beloved cameo not cameo actor...

it's not a great movie...
it's not a bad movie...
but sure as **** and pancakes flying past...
it's most certainly NOT a marvel or a d.c.
universe movie...
there's something beside packaged dialogue
and the quirks of a lame joke...

hellopoetry wattpad all these sites have become
the same...
filled with instagram and twitter poetics...
purposively trying to wipe clean...
oh... about 12 thousands words...
and if that's not enough...
the words just keep on coming!
mind you: instagram still hasn't bothered
to delete all the photos that "probably"
caused the suicide of molloy rushel...
i see f&%$! i'm harmed - inquisitor dyslexia...
not in the age of freely available *******...

this is a kick in the nuts...
almost a year ago i was given a polite breakdown...
now?
marie antoinette me... because... m'eh...
come to think of it...
i'm almost glad i never save my works
on my computer...
stash them on a hard-drive...
learn from the best... journalists...
better still... learn from tabloid vampires -
alias: journalists...
and spew... regurgitate... spew...
spew spew exorcist the fumes heads spinning
perhaps a quazi-gonzo approach will
appear...
as ever: to be left... without every having
being satisfied by one's own words having
been written...

included are reference to a...
most certainly hebrew associated...
i could perhaps call this...
a bout of anti-semitism?
but that's ridiculous...

once upon a time this was a most bountiful
site... oh! the editing! the spacing!
the style...! black and white! och mein gott!
cream of the crop...
cherry on top...

up to the moment when those group-think
enclaves of the sycophants start
turning on against each other...
and the comments are not exactly
constructive...
just... dandy... just plain jane... nice...

it was truly nice, nice...
while it lasted... i have to now get ready
for... so this is how it feels...
to be killed? mentally?
this is what ****** feels like?
those mentioned poems?
they have been erased from history...
i didn't save them...
i "thought" i left them in capable hands...
but... oops! they're gone...
just like those words from a tabloid newspaper
circa 15th of january 2019...
then again: maybe the ***** keep those entries too!

where is that internet i've been hearing
about? the one that days: it's forever?!
i might have said this once...
welcome to the dodo project...
i'll be your... pseudo Orwell and no...
this is not a simulation...
wordsmiths from twitter and instagram
want all of us to choke and gasp
at: red is rose and i love you by choice...
or some other... "headline" poem...
as always... missing the article...

well... beware herr zensor on this site.

— The End —