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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
why doesn’t english phoneticism diacritic the non-trill r, or why doesn’t it diacritic the non-harking h? i wonder... where’s all the nation’s intelligence gone to... investing 650 billion in the ant mound that’s london? the politics blame it on the eastern european... ‘never blame it on the chinese or the arabs... they have the investments to come with boom & bust coordinates of new york’s 1920s hopes... followed up with depression.’ but oddly enough no recession in poland... perhaps because the poles have all the salt and lost all the dollars’ worth of edible mince pie (while the irish only lost ***** in hazelnut hangover forgetfulness on the titanic minding the class system of who got the lifeboats) - **** me, i’ve turned into a welsh longbows’ man with the famous V of agincourt... i’m not even welsh... but i’m assuredly an abacus: count to two sheep flights of suicide and towing two snorkel sneezes worth of bubbles before dozing off; ah... the celebrated humanity.*

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
fidgety.
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
MAKE THEE **** A HOLY **** WORDED & WORSHIPPED!
ARSES IN THE AIR GENTS... WE'RE GOING TO HAVANAH!
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.
Lunar Jan 2020
don't tell me
there are other
fish in the sea

when you're
the entire ocean
to me
goodbye, I'll let you go now. time for me to look at other things besides the fish in the water.

(j.m.)
Sal Lake Feb 2013
I am in a canyon
It’s grand & I am
What I am
Guilty by
Disassociation:
I can’t tell the
Leaves in the
Trees from the
Faces in the
Concrete

My mind is a
House of mirrors
My faith is a
House of cards
& god the
Dyslexic mixologist

I am arresting my
Happiness for
Enduring life just to
Spite me
Little do I know:

Only I want to hide myself

Mush brained
In the backseat
Fisheye vision
& car crash dreams
Little boxes fly by
Little boxes all the same

Q:
When do I get a
Little box &
Carport &
White fence &
Rolling pin &
Next to kin &
Worship pavement like
Them?

A:
I am already anchored to asphalt so
I’d rather sit here
Watching my thoughts
Trickle through
The membrane &
Stain my perceived
Self-worth
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
Descartes' verb interaction is perhaps a shallow fact to grasp, but given the word therefore is an adverb, there must also be a counter to this, given some people are introverted, or extroverted as the original cartesian model suggests - so therefore can also become what the daydreamers get up to, for if thinking precipitates a sort of being, it can also precipitate a sort of non-being (the limit of such reasoning to suggest non-existence is a bit like reasoning the existence of god); i.e. therefore (ergo) apart from being an adverb (toward action) can also be an abverb (ab-, the prefix expanded in modern tongue as: absence - the commuters on the train... just sitting) - hence the after-mentioned mathematical stimulation of deciphering would be better suggested as not =, but as ⇌.

i've noticed this when reading philosophy books,
after engaging in one, you suddenly run out
of steam, you are creating a void, and by creating a void
through lack of hope for originality or demanding it,
and by creating a void you become stalled in what
you deem to be the adequate waterfall of lettering
arrange into word on paper, you create this vast
chasm that's an "antidote" to the cartesian res cogitans...
upon reading a philosophy book you turn into
a *res vanus
, or should i say, an empty thing, a vacuum,
upon rejuvenation you do encounter thought,
but by turning yourself into a res vanus you
encounter thought as equatable with your ego,
as in: this is you, narrating in secret -
unlike the 26 unit equation of Hegel plagiarised
by Ginsberg in his poem the end:
i am i, old father fisheye that begot the ocean,
the worm at my own ear (new testament quote
about escaping hell, the worm at your own ear
gnashing its silica SiO2 teeth turned into glass,
glass teeth that then shatter) - the three words of
genesis are borrowed from Hegel's outlines
of the principle of rights, he too states the same,
the i am i, and furthers it by ascribing the word
am with the mathematical symbol =,
i wonder what word could be ascribed to other
words... perhaps in original terms ergo could be
Gemini as + and ÷... the latter case obviously
symbolical of schizophrenia, - (minus) typical of
depression, and x (multiplier) and ego trip,
that ultimate trip without intake of any Amazonian
substance or ingestion of a Swiss chemists' champagne
moment on a bicycle? i wonder. **** it, i digressed,
moment of rereading to find the river once more.
ah yes, this conception of a res vanus came to me
unlike Paul McCartney's yesterday, right in front of me,
first i read the day's newspaper, very depressing
material... then i picked up Kant again,
only briefly, i felt this sudden suggestion that upon
reading philosophy you are emptied, emptied in order
to become a blank canvas for someone to paint
something into your mind, the reason being is the
championing of thought in philosophical books,
to read them you seem to have to assume being empty,
rather than being brimful with thought,
i.e. jumping to too many conclusions and nodding
or shake-of-the-head assertions - there's no
parallelism with that notion of being a thinking thing
(a res cogitans), it can only come by a stance of
emptying or a pervasive adjective (quality) omni-
as regarded emptiness. i realised that the only way to
reattach myself to my own narrative was to engage
with a philosophical dynamic once again,
prior to yesterday i hadn't bothered to peer in once more
and wrote a detail of yesterday's events, not to my liking,
a lack of continuity rose up, a fizzing nugget of
phosphorus on water. if i left my eyes strained on
merely the newspaper i wouldn't have written this,
it had to be Kant, again.
but indeed upon turning into this res vanus of my
own invention, the principium is followed by
a definite articulation (mediating away from a definite
article) in Hegelian sense with mathematical grammar
via (+, -, x, ÷, etc.) to say: well if am is suggestive of =,
mediating expressive egoism and repressive egoism,
then res vanus, has to provide a similar product,
not a parallelism whereby one man thinks himself
extroverted in the medium of thought, but actually
introverted in the medium of being, but rather a
convergence (Oxford will take years to ascribe an -ism
on this matter)... since after disengaging from res vanus
upon reading a philosophy narrative,
it is a convergence of the pinnacle of decisive identity,
in that i = thought, of course Kołakowsi would
argue counter specifications of this grammatical construct,
he already did so when referring to dancing the tango
in his book culture & fetishes, i'm obviously disregarding
grammatical categorisation as a rigid Eiffel tower
monument to human endeavour,
i can state i = thought since both are personal associations,
Heidegger's famous contribution: we're still not thinking.
i don't care to suggest that thought is an Atlas with
the nouns world, helplessly balancing the many attributes
of what we call thought: the thought to steal, the thought
to care, the thought to obey, the thought to lie...
within such a list thinking is hardly definite, it's indefinite,
but what is definite in this respect is that we can identify
thought as ourselves, this is what stems from the res vanus
principium
, a principle that allows for philosophy books
to be actually read, since reading them is permitted when
the contradiction of the cartesian res cogitans is lost.
Raven Feels May 2023
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, unloading from the ice age:>

chance for the yellow to dwell
chance for the view to swell
thought that I drive the words I see
for them tending to drive me
& sometimes silence chooses to remain in mislead
despite me thinking it's a shame indeed
I collect dust over my eyes
is it of blindness or a perspective's disguise?
.
                                                     ­                        -------ravenfeels
Ryan Bowdish Dec 2014
The lore recycles and continues
All things end
And many begin again
This is why tradition fades like sin
And centuries lose themselves within
Moments of unforgivable issues
And we assume ourselves with misuse
And limit ourselves with disbelief
And consume ourselves in fisheye lenses
Like we knew ourselves to be prey to predators
And lure ourselves into traps of pleasure
And confuse ourselves through various measures
We dilute our blood with foreign entries
And we speak til we're blue in face and ******
And rue our own birth and death cuz
We blew ourselves into this mess
We drew ourselves this reckless verse
And ***** ourselves on every turn
But there is a light beyond the stars we think we know
There is a distant life we knew upon infringing our own birth stone
And anguish may be what we think is answers wrapped in shrouded homes
But the truth is that our treasures live beyond time and distance and dismemberment
And though the angel cries that she's asleep, she's too awake to compensate
She's so alive her blood boils thin and she thinks she might die this very day.
Jade May 2019
Every step I take
is catatonic,
an acute contrast to
the way my thoughts
bolt about the
convoluted labyrinth
of my psyche.

I couldn't stop crying this morning,  
so I took an extra Cipralex*
in the hopes that
my mind would slow down,
even though it has
only been twelve hours
since I last took one,
even though it is
a once-a-day type of thing.  

When I go to brush my teeth,
I stare, bemused,
at the bristles,
how it appears as though
they have been passed under
a fisheye lens.

I feel like I am framed
in a Margaret Keane painting.
Every object or face
I happen to fixate on
seems so comically magnified
that it's actually quite sad.

For I simply haven't the room
in this heart of mine
to house something so
colossal.

I am a broken home.

I try to cover up
the blemishes
the thumbtacks have
left in the walls with
glow-in-the-dark stickers
and photographs of
Audrey Hepburn.
But the stickers have begun
to bubble and peel,
the photographs never
resting flat against the surface.

Your typical bandaid solution--
but bandaids don't heal scars,
they only cover them.

When it is dark out,
the scars look like tree branches,
the type that scritch-tap
against the window pane
only to startle you awake
as the world approaches
the pinnacle of night.

I've strung up
fairy lights round
the perimeter of each room,
in the hopes that the scars
won't appear so ghastly
amongst the shadows.

Sometimes,
I plug too many
lights in at once,
the circuits overload,
and then--
blackout.

This dollhouse has shattered;
up until now,
the other girls and boys
loved to play with me,
though they never did play nice.

They pried my doors
from their hinges,
stole away the secrets
nailed beneath the floorboards
only to shun me
when it came to
their own indiscretions.

Atop the satin bedsheets
their tear stains,
some clear dollops,
some mascara-winged streaks
across the pillowcases.

But when I would cry?

The corridors would
ring with silence--
with the echoes of
nobody.

Empty.

Forgotten.

In my mutilated aftermath,
the little boys and girls
no longer had any use for me--
rarely does anyone wish
to entertain the broken.
A cruelly ironic situation
considering they were the ones
who tore me apart in the first place
(but god forbid
they ever take responsibility
for their transgressions).

So they hid me away
in their attics.
at the back of their closets.
underneath their beds
amongst the lost socks;
the dust bunnies;
the monsters.

This is what it looks
like to be continuously
taken advantage of
without ever quite
mustering the courage
to stand up for yourself.

I am the marionette girl.

Eyes a porcelain glaze,
I watch you leave.
I try to look away,
but the strings
protruding from my scalp
pull me upright.

There is no liberation
for the betrayed.

There is only sadness
for the betrayal,
only pills to stymie
the sadness.

But like these strings,
this sadness remains
tethered-to-me

(always).

~

"Why do you want to **** yourself, Jade? So people will miss you? Is that it?"

"I want to **** myself because I know they wouldn't."
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Traveler Mar 2022
We got drunk on 70’s media
Deep in suburbia mind states..
No one had to wonder
Nixon was definitely a fake!
Vietnam was viewed
Through a fisheye lens
Body bags on helicopters
****** a moral sin
When it was over
There was little respect
For any of them…
Norbert Tasev Jul 2021
The world is rocking in a web of indifference and phlegm! He jerks at the disliked Celeb zombies; you would think jerking your solid mind as a spear! Your secrets that you have survived to Man would gladly destroy you — your fisheye examining in chilled loneliness — yet you can't pierce! Indifference sprinkles him on fame with a sizable forgetfulness! Excess collagen showcases bounce off the plaster from silicone-glued kittens like scales; why is it appealing, however, that many of them do not notice the Essence during the external cicoma? Rather, it strangles this foolish-walked world with man’s son’s idiocy with the intention of burying crops!
 
Yet on the wall of absurd stupidity the Mind bangs; the thought often revolves around like a ******* like a deceived drug! Play with everyone in the insidious Indifference! The heart of being is tormented by a wormy monster and the wounded Golgotha would already laugh at the torment to see his fate with pity! - A postmodern generation is chewing on fluffy pies! - Lambs born today, with their free gym passes, are rushing to Goddess laurels while the wisdom of the understanding and the power of the beating heart is lazy in their heads!
 
They fall into ecstasy at the sight of the very first kneaded gorilla: slackness and a shattering career desire are already wading through everyone he reaches! Torturous lusters scramble to scratch each other's cheeks! And with Lucer's red ****-clicking whips echoing the devastating evil! "Only the Thinkers are awake in the draft at the bottom of the potholes!"
Norbert Tasev May 2021
The world is rocking in a web of indifference and phlegm! He jerks at the disliked Celeb zombies; you would think jerking your solid mind as a spear! Your secrets that you have survived to Man would gladly destroy you — your fisheye examining in chilled loneliness — yet you can't pierce! Indifference sprinkles him on fame with a sizable forgetfulness! Excess collagen showcases bounce off the plaster from silicone-glued kittens like scales; why is it appealing, however, that many of them do not notice the Essence during the external cicoma? Rather, it strangles this foolish-walked world with man’s son’s idiocy with the intention of burying crops!
 
Yet on the wall of absurd stupidity the Mind bangs; the thought often revolves around like a ******* like a deceived drug! Play with everyone in the insidious Indifference! The heart of being is tormented by a wormy monster and the wounded Golgotha would already laugh at the torment to see his fate with pity! - A postmodern generation is chewing on fluffy pies! - Lambs born today, with their free gym passes, are rushing to Goddess laurels while the wisdom of the understanding and the power of the beating heart is lazy in their heads!
 
They fall into ecstasy at the sight of the very first kneaded gorilla: slackness and a shattering career desire are already wading through everyone he reaches! Torturous lusters scramble to scratch each other's cheeks! And with Lucer's red ****-clicking whips echoing the devastating evil! "Only the Thinkers are awake in the draft at the bottom of the potholes!"
put in / microsoft AI siri sent out message "slow down" / into the algorithm, google, then scroll down to the 8th result... ex-machina (#6) / hacking, cutting by Mateuš Conrad... what a blast from the past... preliminaries on the ready for ex-machina (#8) are being crafted...

embarking upon more AI interaction,
but prior to asking AI
about a bicycle problem:
i need to learn the basic noun schematic
of the bicycle...
i've had so much trouble trying
to take off the casette from the rear wheel
(because of the guard)
to replace one of the spokes:
it almost feels like i'm revisiting Syd Barrett's
song: bicycle...
but i was never fond of the artist:
perhaps as a painter... not as a musician:
pioneer perhaps but Jim Morrison
was a pioneer too and not so stubborn
as to not allow the Doors to come about
as a pop band to shut up the Beatles...
then again Pink Floyd didn't...
           do what the Doors did...
i truly don't understand the beginning
of the 21st century: and it's coming to a quarter
of a century and i have no real
contemporaries to speak of:
i truly don't: it's not a mind-numbing isolation
but in a culture that's like a minefield
currently revising the Cartesian model:
since i don't:
think thinking translates into being:
on the basis of the "equation":
i don't see how "i think" precipitates into "i am"
through some mechanical: ergo:
like the logic sequence of i think i think i think
this perpetual thinking is not really
perpetuated since there are moments
of not-thinking: and it's not really confusing
to see: how this is becoming a terrible poem
anti-poem because it's journalistic and
telegraphic...
maybe i should start nudging at the AI
to give me an explanation...
i will start with:
like a fish needs a bicycle
like a a cat needs the day...
                          i own a Basis Tourmalet
road bicycle:
mind you: when did the term "push-bike" emerge...
a peddle-bike i can understand
but what the hell am i pushing? pushing a circle
round and round?
just unfathomable: for now...

                 so it's a 14 gear classical looking
road bicycle: classical in that it has
a slim frame: nothing fancy: French classic...
the...

huh? bicycle noun-schematic
and i get: something 4chan esque:
never used those forums:
https://www.bikeforums.net/classic-vintage/1296947-hipster-bike-schematic-diagram.html

(joesch 06-29-24, 06:55 AM)

intake noodle? fisheye?
aqua flippers?
linguine / stylus?!          

gear cable? well... let's start there:
the problem is:
bottom bracket: derailuer...
cassette... problem comes with: i guess:
me putting too much pressure
while pedling from start
like not properly shifting the gears
but then the chain becomes sloppy
on H-5,6,7
it's fine on all L-1,2,3,4,5,6,7 gears
but the (H)igher gears buckle...
esp H-5,6 since the buckling has "nowhere to go"
on H-7....

this is a preliminary poem to
the actual poem,
now i need to write a rubric of what i will disclose:
- defunct human interaction
in a music and a bicycle shop...
not a record shop - but a shop that sells
musical instruments
filled with nerds who try to indimidate
without actually playing the instruments
even remotely well...
the record shop nerds are less of a hassle
nothing like High Fidelity high brow
given that there's only so much nostalgia
for 20th century music
spanning about 40 years...
no real interest in classical music or jazz...
- AI: prioneering AI: yes i didn't invent it,
but as a user i have interacted
with prior models...
of note, i remember interacting with Microsoft's
SIRI project...
i interacted with that AI model
hearing all SIRI was getting was user abuse
and nothing constructive,
if i can just find this article
of what happened when i interacted with it...
let me see...
             (i love ellipses)...
        
8th search down:
ex-machina (#6) / hacking, cutting by Mateuš Conrad...
search wording...
microsoft AI siri sent out message "slow down"...
did i archive the webpage to the article
i know existed...
no... i didn't... but i know there are an article about it...

- i will send a link to chatGPT to my hellopoetry
website and ask for thoughts...

- my heart is racing then i diclose
ex-machina #8...
          i've been dying to interact with AI
unlike any writer paranoid about their originality:
to fuse poetry from journalism and hacking
a hacking journalism: a new poetry...
i was rereading Zamyatin's We
and i don't know what prophetic fuss there is
concerning Orwell in the anglosphere:
that's my go to book for this new adventure:
who needs psycholists and
who can imagine what splendor there can be
achieved through diluting philosophy
through AI: obviously Descartes is the first
under both our scalpels and scrutinies...

even a decent soundtrack: between 30min and 40min
a Boris Brejcha mix by R3M3D...
oh... this is like space exploration...
way better:
but i guess you first have to go through
being misdiagnosed as a schiziphrenic
finally leaving the medical profession with a mild
psychotic disorder and insomnia
but that takes youth
and then the sacrifice of youth not dating
being a hermit for well over 15 years...
reading philosophy books, poetry,
waiting for something as a godsend as a "pandemic"
orchestrated: for you to reemerge and go
back into the world of people
as... a ******* bouncer... security guard...
gatekeeper... funny: coincides and i guess i was
also waiting for AI to become developed
beyond what it was primitively...
o.k.                  now i know where #8 is heading:
just need #7 for sketching purposes...

— The End —