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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?


one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
Is there no peace,
that can cease,
all the war,
caused by man.

Is there no peace,
that can cease,
all the violence,
caused by man.

Premeditate it,
we create it,
and in the end,
we all hate it.
We're the masters of war.

Try to deflate it,
eradicate it,
but in the end,
we still create it.
We beg for more.

We love war!
The killing of innocent civilians,
the killing of millions and millions.

War!
The taste of revenge is so sweet,
but only after you've tasted defeat.

We love war!
The sounds and the scenes,
and everything in between.

War!
Tension between mankind,
will lead to our demise.

Stop!

Look at what they represent,
look at our government.
The masters of war,
they have us begging for more.
All their lies and scams,
we have become the ******.
It's time to overthrow our government,
and show we want to represent....

Peace!

War!
War!
War!
War!
Those mother *******,
they love war!
Those mother *******,
they love war!
Those mother *******,
they love war!
Those mother *******,
they love war!
The scenes, the sounds, every bit of it all!
And every single drop of oil!
Those mother *******,
they love war!
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...

  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ
?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)

mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.
Narendra Jul 2015
If earth is a mother
We are mother *******,
I swear it's not an ugly name
It is a name
we have earned after awesome ashamedly acts.

We are not simply satisfied with unclothing earth
We love to drill deep inside her womb
And love to ***** huge minarets of her own meat and bones
On her emptied-self;

Earth is a symbol of our unending desires:
Our need are not in our little stomach
They reside in our devilish mind
We are ******* pampered children
We have learnt to live on her depleting signs.

Ignorance is our times' global religion
Lured easily by biblical stories
Told by our corporate priests
My stomach is a warehouse of fast-food chains
My mind is advertisements' gutterhole
Every night I wait to be slaughtered like a hog;
May be now days we are not born with brains
We are jungles of moving men
With umbilical cords gone.

We are dead suckers
We are mother *******.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.like any western, but unlike every western... the true grit... one eyed... it's not called: i'm blinking... it's called... the blink. the English language can never have... what is it... gender neutrality? the words are already gender neutral! the words in the English are neither masculine, or feminine... it's ******* to ask for something that's already in place! you know what obstructs the gentrification of words in the English language? how the sun is not feminine and the moon is not masculine? the articles... the English orientated their language around a-the        slightly missing the -ism... the English didn't create their language with a gender orientation of nouns, but other European languages orientated their nouns around gender inclusiveness... but you can't just... change the ******* grammar... call a triangle a ******* rhombus on a whim that belongs in the asylum... blah blah do ****... is this how civilized language is supposed to disintegrate into?! this is not religion... you can't simply replace grammatical dogma with heretical "protestantism" to gain something counter to 1 + 1 = 2, or a + t + t + e + s +t = attest... yes, confirm... what with that the politicians are doing in Canada... post-nationalism? post-nationalism, ensured with a post-grammatical structure of what should be the post-nationalist playground of the use of language? the two... together?! so... no nationalism, and no grammar... seems about the right time to separate the state from the state... and call the following dynamic: juggle act: catch one if you can! how can you expect to change the grammatical sub-structure of English?! nouns are not gentrified in the equivalent ontology of other, European languages! how can you expect gender neutrality... when the nouns of said language... are already gender neutral!? and that's because English is particular in the definite (the) and the indefinite (a) article articulation... this is the crux... the pivot... as to why nouns are not associated with either femininity or masculinity... which is why i didn't learn French in high-school... i was taught French from the rubric of grammar... i was taught the rules, before i was being taught to speak, and break the rules of speaking English... who the **** requires to learn a language, having to learn the arithmetic of lettering in the encompassing genesis of staging a craft of the linguist with, said grammar?! language is not universal... noun is no surd... verb is no integer... je suis is no 1 + 1 = 2... but like i said before... you're talking about pandering to linguistic retards... they might not be mad enough to enjoy the rainbow plethora of pharmacology... but sure as ****... they're linguistic retards... sorry, the saddest truth is... somehow... the most fun to attest in concurrence; oh right... that western, true grit... well... whether you're John Wayne or Jeff Bridges... one eye still intact? it's not a blinking... it's called the blink... no, and it's not even a blink... see how English is fascinating when singularity and pluralism enters the arena of the direct / indirect articulation? and to think the English wanted to debate a non-existent gender association of nouns that the French, the Polaks can have... but you sorry *******... ain't getting it!

so...

    a juggling act...

(insert a snigger)

   lindsay shepherd's
video: exposing grad school
(my m. a. experience)

and...............

         bon jovi's
blaze of glory

       bon jovi! wooooooooooooo!

god, i'm so stereotypical.
i should have signed up
becoming a side-burner
for some ******* Kentucky
redneck.

p.s. is stereotypical
synonymous
with predictable?
that's actually a genuine question
of, rather than answering the question
itself, answering the per se
curiosity; savvy?

so what is it... Bub "the blue" Clí 'n' Son?
***** needin'
to ****?
watcha gonna do Bub?
               hold up the, "spanker"?!

---------------------------------------

and some days, in england, and it's june,
and 10pm feels like 7pm in some other season
and it reminds me of the white nights
of st. petersburg....
   insomnia and ******* a girl for seven hours...
oh the ******* bit was fun,
don't get me wrong,
   i had to wait 2 weeks before she let me
do it to her in the bath...
****** ready... she was on her period,
but misguided:
  last time i heard...
            ******* on a period eases
the period pains...
      eh... gritty flesh bits on the rubber...
problem? what problem?!

    no wonder then: i hate drinking buddies...
people dumb down upon ingesting
alcohol, i'm talking: 2D objects in 3D space
akin to fern bushes in the 1st tomb raider
(black holes - a paradox,
   a 2D object spinning really fast in
an infinite 3D space... copernican east?
copernican west? i hope the rabbi knows)...

days like this, oh all the days like this...
when you wake up,
jump out of bed... and dance naked in your
room listening to KULT's
          brooklyńska rada Żydów -
two music genres i never got into:
punk and rap...
   well... "mediocre" punk...
   californian, the offspring,
  the usual suspects of the ramones,
*** pistols, stiff little fingers, mainstream *******...
ska... now we're talking...
hip hop contra rap: now we're talking...

such a beautiful day...
    a chestnut mushroom cream sauce with
snippets of turkey, of course the fresh parsley...
bay leaf, one clove, two all-spice buds...

    and... i'm really tired of looking up
h'america's ***...
    i sometimes thank god that i'm not
english for the sole reason that i don't have
to mind the "special relationship",
like i'm being owed or owning someone
for the respects of sharing the same lingo...

you want the other "special relationship"?
it began with Casimir III...
east... well: central europe...
eastern europe without borders,
purely geographic: is situated somewhere
in russia...
          borders condense...
last time i visited the home away from home
i found new music...
pablopavo i ludziki...
             the polonaise and the jews...
how many terrorist attacks in poland
while the islamists were having a funfair
elsewhere? gullible schvabs and swedes...
  (swabians, that's a slang for the ol' deutsche
deutsche back east - kacap ('tss wet snare
on the c) for the russians)...
       0...
                  funny (even)...
the map of recent terrorist attacks...
     and... the map of the spread of the bubonic
plague... a certain region remains
immune...
       even i agreed with my uncle:
better the catholic ******* than islamic
propaganda... mind you...
        sh'ite islam: thumbs up!
always pay due dues to the underdogs...
and if islam truly was a religion
to gobble up all other religions...
      a schism over such a petty affair
including Ali - the son in law of Muhammad
and Muhammad breaking his promise...

    oy vey!
     how else was i going to get out of bed
to dance naked to anything
but the ska song: brooklyńska rada Żydów?
what other option?
      black ox orkestar's bukharian?
                                             oy vey!
funny story from amsterdam...
me and this egyptian were sharing a hostel
room with these two germans,
who wasted 'shrooms on sitting indoors
watching h'american dad...

   we took a different route...
   he smoked, i drank, he had a bottle of
***** with him,
architect, i can't remember his name,
a keen eye for grand doodles in a notebook...
but then i decided to take a ****
after a few beers while he put
headphones into my ears and played
me le trio joubran's - masar...
        i even managed to attract the attention
of a dutch girl who seemed...
rather gobsmacked...
   i literally went into the nod-state
associated with ****** junkies...
but with eyes closed and mouth agape...
feeding off the ****** of the void...
i.e. the ****** of the void?
    when you're not chained to thinking...
the self disintegrates,
              thinking disintegrates...
and with the music: the void became
pulverizing me with vibration after
vibration echoing a chanced comparison
to a heart-beat mingling with
the fuzzy rippling and vibrating effect of
   the eye-sight of some insect...

yes yes... blah blah...
    boasting... boasting my ***...
am i here to feel sorry for myself,
to drown in my take on some perfect love
i could offer?
      no really...
               i've always had the two best
companions to begin with...
my shadow and a blank piece of pixel
paper perfectly coupled to my idle /
itchy finger-tips...
   well, a third: ms. amber...
                         i learned over a year ago
that drinking with familiar people
****** me off... drinking with strangers?
oh sure, great time...
the best times when drinking in public
are with strangers...
"friends" (fwends) are just too nostalgic,
they want to remind you of something,
notably some micro-aggression nonsense
of a past grievance...
                   don't drink with "friends"...
every time i did: i would wake up
the next morning *******...
cursing them, putting on a mocking voice...

me me me... oh poow meeeeeeeeeeee...
   *******...
               so? i learned to adapt in
liking my own company...
it's not much, but sure as **** beats
listening to a bunch of drunken, nagging housewives;
i'm pretty sure a man should have been
in that slot of the space between my
3rd and 4th pint of guinness;
alas! not to be!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?
Cecelia Francis Jan 2015
Elephants are my
favorite, but I
hate giraffes

I don't trust
the horns
on their heads

Or how they
coerced evolution
into upgrading
their necks, legs AND
tongues -greedy
little *******-

Just eat from bushes
or averaged sized
trees like a normal
******* herbivore
Redshift Apr 2013
oh yeah
sure
let's ask the traumatized kid
if she knows anyone in that stage of psychological life
the one where you
start questioning
whether or not you're happy
and you often make
rash decisions
oh yeah.
i do know someone
who's right in that spot.
can you describe it
for the class?
what the hell, sure.
...as i explain to everyone
that my mother left
because she was bored
i watch the words "oh ****"
etch themselves
onto my professor's face
yep.
i'm never getting called on
again.
Ivy Leigh Oct 2015
Dear Ashley:
We accept the fact that we had to receive
a whole fake "write-up" for whatever it was we did wrong.
But, we think you're crazy
to make us write a roommate contract
telling you who we think we are.
You see us as you want to see us:
in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions.
But, what we found out is
that each one of us is: a rat . . .
And a stoner . . .
And a dancer. . .
Another stoner . . .
And an actor.
Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Foxy Freeman *******.
Nikki Oct 2012
I have to try and keep my chin up and my head held high, among people that only want to rip me down.
I'm nothing but a side show in their pathetic lives
Please return to your seats the show is about to begin.
And they all lean forward with their eyes on the prize
Their deviance is no longer in disguise.
Looks like friendship, but is only lies to keep themselves entertained for awhile.
Pull at the dangling veins where my heart used to be,
Please stop pulling, I'm begging you, set me free.
For your own entertainment
For your own joy
I am not just some disposable toy.
I've never been more hurt than the pain I feel now
While you eat your own ****, I've taken my head out of the clouds.
You can **** with me all you want, but nothing is going to change.
I've got rage like a lion, and I'm looking for prey.
I won't even eat your body, I want to watch it decay.
My anger isn't centered, it's in different directions
**** all you mother ******* and your misconceptions.
I'm tired of this, you can go eat ****.
Because when I find you, next thing is your dead body in a ditch.
**** your rumors, **** your lies
You're all enemies in disguise.
Giving nothing, Wanting all
I can't wait to watch you fall
Into the darkness, just like me
Oh, wont you keep me company?
Your brown nose tells me yes
So you like when I'm a mess?
Sadistic mother *******, all of you are guilty.
Stop looking at my hands when yours are ******* filthy.
I'm done with these death games you play
You can have each other, I'm not going to stay.
Copyright Nicole L Stowe 2012
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. so yeah, perhaps the aboriginals, the argument for the noble savage is there... point being, they have a narrative, more eloquent than the moneticised outside the frantic fanaticism of Harry Potter, a plagiarism of Merlin... etc. etc., with all the scientific superiority, a narrative in collectivism based upon plagiarism? does it really matter? the people who spurn on the superiority of western culture... let's just say, they love to gamble, but don't understand nature's gambling pattern of weeding out the weak... and... given their opinions? i wouldn't want to share a meal with them... contradictory *******... tell them about the Manchester attacks, and they'll cite Yemen! i find it rather uncomfortable sharing a public toilet with them... to begin with... but eating with them? what a strange anticipation of the most profound profanity!
            
                                 so yeah...
  nice critique...
"philosopher" *** sophist -
namely a rhetorician...

i love the giggles,
don't you love the giggles?

philosophy is something to engage
with, rather than explain...
more a tartar steak than
a medium-done slash of slaughterhouse
debris...

ahem... where's your western narrative?
where is the sociological focus?
the focus point?
the campfire?

  where, is, the, glue?

    can't see it...
western civilization is superior,
i grant you that,
but, where is the self-inflammatory
implosion?
  the self-reflecting critique?

look at your literature!
my good fellow!
  the pop-***** of vampire-clad-
neo-gothica?
you have to be kidding me...
too many facts, imbedded with
seeking counter-doubts (i.e. facts):
compensated with an antithesis
of a narrative principle...

a right, without a wrong...
a fact, without a narrative,
is pointless educational rubric -
no more finding an point
of answer, than regurgitating a bunch
of facts...
      i would be so certain as to joke
about the aboriginal culture...
when the western narration continuum
is plagued,
   by inconsistent narratives...
narratives that would never
want me to allow myself
a focus for congregating...

   no, sorry...
           you sit that **** alone in youir
little group-therapy sessions...
i'm about to do a Pontius Pilate
revision...
   i'm washing my hands away
from the gloat...
i can't stomach it...

      i don't want to stomach it...
i don't even adhere to an I.Q. discussion
as astounding racial differences...
i have already the point breaker:
and why so few black athletes compete
in the swimming events,
while so many are prescribed the
100m / 200m distance?

            what comes naturally...
800m / 1500m races?
white...
          the quasi-marathon running?
evidently Kenyan or Ethiopian...

i hate this, the vest iz v besht...
                       i regurgitate on this
factoid...
               with diarrhoea...

for all the science involved...
what is it, exactly, that constitutes,
the gluing fabric of community?

    i hate to say this,
but seldom facts are a differential aspect
    of exploratory conundrums...
Moby **** type of narratives?
the integral aspects...
      science has overtaken the expression
of life, sanitized it,
   securing an antithesis of
misery and mortality...
                    with: "facts"...
      
i might share the pH scale with someone...
but if i don't share the commonality of
a narrative?
  **** me, third party sources...
why should i share?
we share the same factoid,
why should we even bother consummating
this fact, over lunch?!

no bother!
there is no reason!
      live your life, let me live mine...
but don't you ******* even bother
dictating what i can, or can't do,
on the allowance of having invested
in a private property,
you, *******, english, ****!

  savvy?!

  the vest iz z best-chore...
   sure sure...
      love your literature, wonder
of the ******* world!
          YA ******* and your journalism?
makes Mecca pilgrims blush!
  wonderful!
                
...and for not particular reason...
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, the whole generic
exhausted stereotype -
   applause! applause!
applause!

              what?! health service?
i was lucky to have met up with my socialistic
accessible doctor,
   how many? 2 years to spare from
the last visit...
   zee vest iz z best!

            because why would i have considered
studying chemistry to an edinburgh university
level...
    and not began a post-scriptum of schooling,
beginning work in a supermarket?!

nice narrative, love the advertisement...
keep up the belittling tactic...
   glorifying your ***** wiped clean...
nay bother...
  as the Picts used t say...
                there is an actual masochistic
attache of internalized hate,
that even i can accommodate...

                     i hate gloating,
i hate boasting...
   and i hate the sort of people who
self-identify themselves as philosophers...
rather than sophists...
the sort of people:
who, simply, can't, keep, their, mouths,
shut!

don't criticise cultures,
when your own culture...
   is gearing up to problematic investments
of its own,
most notably, the teenage mental
health crisis...
          please...
                       this is not a time scant
for diminishing the already
queuing problems,
   by resorting to I.Q and race arguments...
the ******* can claim to be
philosophers, and entertain
the centre stage...
   i have a bench...
  in a park, talking to an old east london
geezer about rayleigh bikes...
and the scalpel attitude to
finding a prefix, negation,
                in the word disease...

western civilization has been gripped
with an Sunni Islam virus of
a superiority complex...
             they sure as **** know how
to point the good stuff...
   but slightly less...
                dream-detached when it comes
to the current,
    problems...
                  but hey!
the barbaric peoples are our closest
allies of worthy comparison...
   compare a ******* donkey
to a galloping horse!
  that'll fix it!

- but i thought that western culture was
all for the inbreds,
the down syndromes?
  the last birth mothers?!
   so?
        some cultures are somehow
more clingy to a peoticization of
the past...
    which... says much more...
for what currently grips the western
inconvenience in the pursuit of
a narrative, whether historical,
or fictional.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.oh sure, just pass the mortgage payments, i might pay, when i pay off whatever life i lived, and the life i didn't... and some third-party-whatever... oh yeah... just fax me the existentialist details... overloaded with pop Darwinism for the simple answer of a complex question / mode of being... yeah... such the mode of being... give me the mean of non-being... the **** life once was, but became reduced to an epitaph... and only if, if! i am rich enough to afford a gravestone.

don't worry...
if we're just clausit instances
of humanity,
the whole closure chapter...
just wait for the Holocaust
survivors to die with the deniers...
and then you can come
after us...
i'm all up and arms for
en masse euthanasia schemes...
****... let's bypass
the ponces and cowboys...
i'm ready...
   so...
..........................................
tick tock tick tock
tick tock..........................
           missing *****?
****... they castrated you before
they gave you authority
to **** me ethically?!
the *******!
          idiots don't even understand
the whole...
   altar, sacrifice of water mammals...
a beached whale is not
a beached whale...
******* can't even allow
a whale to commit suicide...
even whales ingest a Kamikaze
mentality...
whales don't beach...
but what is the poor ******
going to do...
jump off a bridge?!
   i'm not buying it...
who needs to be saved,
if they can't even be considered
redeemable?!
how can you, "save" someone,
when you cannot provide
redemption for them?
the non-redemption clause:
can't redeem them,
subsequently can't save them...
all you're doing is
prolonging their suffering,
elevating the suffering through
the elevation of failure
in the failure of ending
the suffering...
  so... no one spotted that
the beached whales...
as mammals...
were attempting to commit suicide?
beached whales are whales suicides...
no one saw that?
it wasn't an eye-sore
staring back?
the suicide has already a conundrum
before him...
the lack of suspense,
or rather, the element of surprise...
at least homicide involves
a rush of adrenaline...
       adrenaline... surprise...
     suicide avenue...
     brave people...
                    brave because there is
no suspense of surprise...
absolutely no adrenaline...
          the aspect of consciousness,
the contradictory "choice"...
that contradicts the "choice" of
encountering esse per se,
  or qua vivo...
          i'm not about to solve
this noumenon...
i can't solve it,
because the noumenon of suicide
is already a phenomenon of
a million counter arguments
worth justification...
      but a beached whale?
a whale is a marine mammal...
a beached whale...
what is it? usually a young male...
don't you find it odd...
aren't dolphins intelligent?
aren't whales intelligent?
      so something stupid...
  couldn't exactly elborate the concept
of suicide... could it?
perhaps a stampede...
but surely not a suicide...
         god?
sure... intelligent animals came up
with with god...
but the same intelligent animals came
up with the paradoxical
contradiction, of suicide...
whales...
            beached whales?
you think they were stupid enough
to become, "beached"?
they were in the act of committing
to suicide...
and you were stupid enough
to make attempts at "saving" them...
whatever god is, within the focus of ideal...
suicide is, what god isn't,
within the basis of the inevitability of, will...
we're mortal!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i can't help what i am...
but what i am not is a spoken word
poet: with that generic exasperation
technique of speaking -
as if, on the verge of crying...

but what i can tell you...
i am a rigid person,
there are 3/4 of me that should
have enlisted in the army,
and only a 1/4 that went to
university...

so... given that i'm such a rigid ******...
i thought i'd tell you about
linear and vertical rhyming...
linear?
oh, that's neat & easy:

.................................... end
.................................... bend
..................................... send
..................................... wend....

basically suffix rhyming...
but! but... what Sylvia Plath
introduced?
   oh, my, god...
      transcendent of
the conceptualization of
"the" box...

her rhyme? alphabetical...
sort of...

        it's more than that...
she didn't pay due diligence on
suffix rhyming -end,
   -ing
    you name it...

you want to know what her rhyme
concept implies?

   **** me, it's sassy...

she was a rhyming weaver...
an interloper...
    words didn't have to necessarily
end in the same boundary
of an echo... echo rhyming
by the standard bearers is one thing...
she made tartan rhymes...

tartan rhyming...
kilt rhyming...

                  and it looked something
equivalent to, this:

  ceremony or Potent -
Still sky, obtuSe -
   one might Say love -
  Suddenly,
        black featherS,
black reSpit -
Season of fatigue,
SpaSmodic,
  deScend...
   Stolidly...
       no effigy... Seem...
pompouS...
                         coarSe copy...
      Bell tongue BirdS...
    Shrined on her SHelf...
too Tough to Finish...
  Seize my Senses...
ToTal neuTrality...
   deScent...
                Sanguine...
  bRick dusk...
Prose...
              plaCe...
            pompouS...
Ne­at kNits...
    weedS obScured...
SHe blenched,
miMic...
   deSpite...
baniSH...
    ******...
too tough for knife to finiSH...

      Head...
so profoundly muCH...
       piN legs...
               thoughtS...
So departS...
       S(h)eets...
Sanity...
      Tongue...
Printed Page...
  Twelve...
Sick man's Eye...
nEVER nEVER found
anyWHERE...

goodbye goodbye...
      eXclamation...
the First point...
            GHost...
   Signify...
cuckoo-land of color fields,
CRisp CUsp...
    
        the girl's dancing!
she's dancing barefoot...
no, i can't fall in love with her...
she's, dead!

    but can you see
rhyming vertically?
   all the lettering,
in capital letters?
  deviancy...
   it doesn't agree to your
box standard form of
rhyme, linearly...
  it's vertical rhyming,
it's juxtapositions on a scale
that might elongate
the winding tongue of a snake
in, anything but maracas
rattling...
sssssssssssssssssssssss.....
a wet snare...
   she's teasing...
she has escaped
the tradition of
the traditional guise of rhyme...
she has invoked
rhyme, but as an intermediating
attachment...
          forget the rigid
end-
                   -ing
with a "worthy"
   sympathiz-
                                        -ing...

what a gall...
she makes the housewives of America's
1950s twice as vampire-like,
and thrice as Stepford material...
   lucky blond to leave so much
"crap" behind...
   i could pick the maggots
from her head and make it
a day's worth of fishing
on the banks of Vistula...

she's dancing in the rain,
and all i have is my Cameo cinema
moment
with my cousin, Justine,
running barefoot where
i grew up on the cement...
and then cuddling together,
getting warmer
over one worth of an afternoon...

last time i heard...
her son Leo was born on
the 15th of May,
my birthday...
  but we've fallen out...
when her husband
put a **** under my father's
self-employment
enterprise...
   and undertook
a practice of stealing workers
from him...
great move... when you join
a family...

        nice memory though...
wish my cousin Justin all the luck
she can muster...
but when it comes to family
friendliness?
none....
                 went to her brother's
wedding... was interrogated by
her brother's best man...

   Polish drunk talk...
let's just say...
his date?
   was flashing her underwear
at me from under her magic carpet
ride of a skirt while we
smoke cigarettes and finished
off drinks, being accused of...
trying... to seriously...
hide her... exhibitionism...

   so i started punching myself
in the face to find target practice
should i ever come across
any more Polacks, drunk,
at a family wedding...
   you never know...

           hell... if ******* wanna tango...
we'll... ******* tango! ha ha.
now all i need is the raw
material... my knuckles
are either furry...
or they're itchy...
  can't exactly knock-out
my neighbors dog...
   i need a ******* mug of
a mouthwash advert...
with a grin that's, seriously
asking for a few missing teeth
to rekindle a smile!
Viseract Aug 2016
Rollin up at school
Mates and I loving to fool
Graffiti on the walls
Bullies decking the halls
An out-of-place Christmas
Dis this ***** I'll dish licks for spits
Revenge counteracted and counters counteract
Mother ******* follow law of Chemistry: react
And that's that, it's a fact
Evil reigns supreme
I'm evil too yet Devils be
Hating on me
You see?

There's no justice just depression
No real law just suppression
It's hard to imagine
That a devils invention
Is invested in protection
Law
And Order for Chaos
Does it work?
Nope
I walk down the street see six ******* blazing dope
Walk into school toilets and herb is in the air
******* blow smoke in teachers ears
They don't care
There's no prayer to save those so gone
The world is a cruel place and erases those when they are alone

So we band together
Rule of strength and defence
Is for us altogether
Never sharing secrets in our minds we be keeping
We stay awake to 8 past 8 in the morning, no sleeping
No rest for the wicked
I guess I'm just sick of *******
Because every lyric I spit
Falls ******* deaf ears
Still listening?

I reminisce blue skies
That I see through crystal clear tears
No solution or absolution to resolve this malicious premonition
The worlds in despair
No repair
Disrepair
Fire flashing embers swirl and smoke is in the air

We destroy and conquer and thrive off death
Fighting others killing hope until we pass our final breath
If this is a test
God we failed
Eons ago
I'd like to rest peacefully now
If you don't mind
I just want you to know
Action brings reaction, reaction brings pain
Don't question the truth
It's ruthless but we ****** in the brain
Insane
Now if you don't mind
I got business to attend to
And a brand new life to find
Or a new rap to recite

We're doomed, we failed,
Good didn't prevail
Evil conquered long ago
And sanity set sail

To somewhere better,
Perhaps another land
Maybe there peace and hope
Is something people understand

And prosper from it
A spitfire rap ahaha. But seriously. We ****** up good
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.perhaps it's a good thing,
that i don't succumb to witty
rhyming poetry...
i hate rhyming poetry as much
as Bukowski hated disney...
Homer didn't rhyme...
  and all the better for it...
this rhyming fetish,
whereby, when you start
rhyming, succumbing to
some quasi orthodoxy?
   getting caged?
       better than rhyme...
   noticeable signs of impromptu,
and absolutely no, so
signs of editing...


      if god is dead in philosophical
discussions...
then rhyme is dead
in poetic composition...
    we, really don't need curriculum
poetics for GCSE students...
cages, entrapment,
   not bothering Stendhal from
the brink of a post-existentialist
despair sitting in
that other graveyard,
  the library shelf...
    and seriously?
    why Jane Austen on the 5 quid
banknote, and not Mary Shelley?

and there's a reason why i will
not make a single youtube video...
why?
       on a certain level of the popularity
stratum,
   it's become this,
  american nostalgia for high school,
the gossiping, the undermining,
the atypical Brutus confidant circle
of "content" creators...
   net-novellas -
   a bunch of people my age...
******* up to the tele-novella
       ergonomics that Polish grandmothers
watch, imported from Turkey...
or the English 1985 Eastenders
soap opera...
   ******* have to be different,
through and through,
drive on the "wrong" side of the road,
then they have to start calling
tele-novellas, soap-operas!

short attention span, sure sure...
no problem...
          do your ******* homework
during the week, watch the omnibus
on the weekend...

what's this one youtuber, who said
something about the advertisement blockers?
by the way...
   Samsung?
     all videos have been demonetized...
perhaps on the odd occasion
a vevo ad... but that's about it...

       advertisement blockers?
  seriously?
   are these people so ******* impatient
that they can't locate the mute button?!
i see an advert: MUTE...
   i think of something,
   to craft an anti-zombie
   pause, moment, anything...
    why block advertisement -
when you can merely mute it...
and listen to the vacuous sound
of celestial orbits?

        within a certain tier of content creators,
it's already the ****-smearing,
soap opera, back in a high school
playground "nostalgia"...
  sorry... not for me...
but thank you, for taking the effort,
to take a reed, dive into a lake,
and breath through it,
while remaining covert, hidden...

         again... numbers numbers numbers...
i'm still exercising a freedom of
"speech", but i rather prefer the
practice of writing, as the appropriate
res extensa of the vector origin
for this cascade, the res cogitans
as it were...

   and there really are only two forms
of nuanced language:
a study of philosophy,
   or the study of: law...
      but this youtube **** show...
   this: back in high school,
no revenge time...

                 i only tuned in for the music,
but then these youtubers started
propping up in the recommendation
list for the music i was listening to...

die krupps postscript suggestions
came up with x,
   wooden shjips came up with y...
lao che came up with z recommendations...

on a side note...
   ha ha!
    mark manson's book...
  the art of not giving a ****...
it mentions Bukowski...
  only read the sample...
        that he was a, loser...
and loser is specifically derogatory
term in American society...
to which i reply?
   and what the **** did
mark manson, actually win?
Bukowski at least won
a childhood where his father beat
him silly in the ******* bathroom...

you haven't exactly won anything,
mr. manson...
   if you didn't lose anything
to begin with;

and if you have?
   let's see the follow-up of
to your bestseller,
         of "not giving a ****";
but we won't, will we?
      - hardly brown-nosing,
the guy's dead,
1997... i have to keep
the integrity of the dead
on my bookshelf...
      
      who reads this
reverse masochism of the self-help
literature genre, anyway?
you can't even use these books
as a counter to a decent roll
of toilet paper!
   unless you want to scratch,
ahem, sorry, wipe your *** with
the pages, and start an **** bleeding!
Poetic T Apr 2015
I don't do it for pleasure or
Frustration more, to those
******* I try to ignore, *****
About me behind my back
**** are you that bored.

**** if you wanted to know the
**** about me, the manure that
Goes though your mouth smells
Worse than your breath like you
**** that comes from orifice you
Call a mouth.

******* get a life, what ever makes
You happy ******* and leave me
Out your messed up life. That you
Choose to **** around with someone
Else's life, makes you a moaning
***** through out your life.

******* that should know better
Than to use that thing called a mouth,
******* get a life or I swear you'll
Hear worse than this come out my mouth.
I wrote this when I was mad at someone
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.oh yeah, huge fetish fan.... gamer youtube commentary videos... like the quartery... no... ****... the quartering... it's like... ****, i don't even know what's it like: a magic mirror i'll never own, having dropped out on PS1... and telling my cohabitation ςentries (obsolete now, ******?!) to by an iMac, for its properties of not succumbing to PC viruses... PC viruses... a thing of the past... late 90s early 00s... with **** sites linked to Trojan horse bundles... a man with ******* can't *******, so what the hell is he supposed to do? just watch the poor ******* looking for their missing ******* in the excesses of female genitals... oh... wait... they found... and took revenge... but it's never M.G.M., always the F.G.M. bit of the equation... like the kippah was never, "really" translated into a tonsure, oh yeah, that **** floats, that's a real keeper that is; wankers. what?! i'm doing **** with the hand twice a day, but i have the supposed, "excess" skin on my ******* emblem... or little Richie, whatever... i have it... my male circumcised counterparts... sorry chief... you're the one that has to look for extra skin.. oops?! do you say oops on such matters? i never know... but the new age gaming experience is so much better... this antithesis of NPC styled games... and the fact that they're. "free"... but you later learn that you have to pay extra? the longevity increases exponentially... what's your payment method, if you're poor? patience... you really learn to wait, which expand the lifespan of a game... it's like: **** it, a free game, where i also get to polish cliche virtue? compared to paying £50 for a game, i might finish in one sitting? i'm about to to take a ****, play a game, or read a book? hmm... clueless among the Seattle folk... play a ******* game! well, you know... if you don't have a fetish fulfilled with someone readied to expand upon me wearing a ******... might as well watch commentary videos of gamers... same high... albeit no hard-on.

censoring female *******
with bright lights?!

**** me,
good that i managed
to go to an Athenian
strip-club,
a Polish,
  & and an East London
brothel...

psst... Amsterdam...
oh right...
who the **** travels
to Amsterdam for
the **** these days?

last time i went i went
into the red light district
to feel unabashed,
certain that...
a plump Puerto Rican
was waiting for me...
and she was...

****? Amsterdam?
what's this...
the year 00s?
i don't know...
you tell me...

so they're censoring *******,
cleavage from
video games?

   i have a censorship
experiment for you...
you know what the current
would be like
if everyone finally discovered
that
Theresa May is not Margaret Thatcher?
pandemonium!
not all women can be
a Maggie Thatchie...
who would have known...
you need to be a daughter
of a of a grocery store owner,
or whatever working class
background she came from...

with ol' Thatchie the whole
Brexit ******* would
run the course of,
two words:           *******!

where was i?
oh, right, censoring *******
and cleavage in gaming avatars...
you know how i censor that,
"delicate" matter?
i just think of a cow's fore udder...
or... is
that a cleavage... or
a *** on your chest?

there you go... limp **** through
and through...
and then i start thinking
of the dewlap...
to be honest, i don't know how
you'd serve that...
is it fatty? then i'd deep-fry it...

good thing i visited an Athenian
strip-club,
an East London brothel,
and Amsterdam's red light
district...

          and all done...
without a S.T.D. to mind...
mind you, ******* these days
is quiet ethical,
i would have more chance
catching an S.T.D. on the dating
app circuit than in a brothel...

beside wearing a ******...
i always wanted to experiment
with a latex body-suit...
excess rubber...
or whatever the hell it is...

so much for freedom of speech...
but wait a minute,
do i have to reiterate
that i didn't say this,
and that you didn't say this
either?
          this is phonetic
encoding, this is not speaking...
well...
then we know what
the Cartesian res extensa
(extended thing) actually is...
writing,
writing as an extension
of thinking...

          in this scenario...
a thought, that has been washed
in heretical fires...
having transcended
thought's association
with the moral-θ (theta...
looks like English has
a new pronoun,
trans even the already in
place transgender pronoun
category)...
      θ 'ink beyond any
association to a moral 'ought.

*now if you excuse me,
i have a bottle of Russian Standard
i have to finish,
and two bottles of just fine, fine
English cider to interlude with.
Sara Kellie Dec 2017
Time to leave these ******* behind
and delete them all from my mind.
All had gone except for one.
He was the worst for hanging on.
He should have been just like the rest,
who didn't like how I was dressed.
Not to mention my high heeled shoes,
well I don't care, It's them who lose.
I'll need to find a brand new friend,
not like these who all pretend.
One who'd say "I don't care, do what you do.
I'll put the kettle on, you fancy a brew?"
Once again I've written a poem when angry. I don't know why I do that. Still, It's one that says what's on my mind.
Written around 2011 ish
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
.before i come to the food topics, here's a pet peeve... language... how the pakistanis might / might not be offended by the laziness of the english, shortening their denotation to a prefix: ****-... and i'm like... is that really offensive? with the -stani suffix missing? o.k. o.k., iraq: iraqi... iran: iranian... pakistani: ****- / pakistani... so what about afghanistan? afghan, or afghanistani?! i'm pretty sure it's afghan... a person is afghani and not afghanistani... so what's wrong with ****-? it must be an english-****'stani thing from the 1960s or something... ******* as sensitive as french footballers... this has to be hard-pressed... this instance... because i hardly think it's a racial slur to stick to the prefix and not include the suffix, given the example from afghanistan - just like the "problem" of calling a jew a ***-, borrowed prefix from... yiddish! now for the food:

a. would you trust a skinny chef? i know i wouldn't trust a chef who's also a healthy-eating gym bro maniac, i bet he would never cook with lard or pork trimmings, with that calorie calculator lodged up his head that represents an ******* is not much to go with when taste is prime... 6ft1 253.5pounds, that's where i stand... i would never trust a health-freak to cook for me, let alone all the proofs rattling anorexic examples...

    b. "***** take your shoes off and get into the kitchen!" what a ****** joke, chauvanism rampant... mind you... who the hell said that women belong in the kitchen? they don't... i don't want a woman in the kitchen... i've had two dinners cooked by my fwends' mothers when still in my early teens... 1. over-cooked pasta... my fwends father would pretend to eat the dinner, before driving me home while stopping off at a sikh diner and took to the take-away (cooked by men), another example beside the over-cooked pasta? under-cooked spring potatoes - after all... the men on ships and submarines that kept the other men firing did all the cooking... men can cook... or at least: that's the least they should do... think: organic chemistry experiments...

eating a raw herring
in piquant mayonnaise
of reminiscence of a
granny-smith and pickled
cucumber tickle...
slurping it up into
a workout of the oesophagus
might remind many
of oral ***: but after all...
it's only a raw herring being eaten.

p.s. well perhaps gulping down
a raw oyster does feel familiar
to performing oral *** on a woman...
but since you're not really
chewing the oyster,
or licking it... but gulping it whole...
i can only compared performing
oral *** on a ***** to
                eating a raw herring.

            and why all of this talk of food?
well... what's on the menu for tomorrow?
a bangers & mash stew,
    old recipe from the days of the british
empire... mind you: why did they
call sausages bangers back then?
well, during the war, they put a lot of
water into the sausages...
and when water mixes with warm oil?
bang! bang!

                 'i was five and he was six,
   we rode on horses made of sticks,
he wore black and i wore white,
   he would always win the fight...
   bang! bang!
  he shot me down!
  bang! bang!
                 i hit the ground...
bang! bang!
   that awful sound...
bang! bang!
   my baby... shot me down!'
              (audio bullys ft. nancy s.) -

so obviously i had to take a walk
and buy the key ingredient...
   i.p.a.:
        and when they were stationed
in the raj, and the troops were receiving
provisions...
  the standard beer wouldn't last the trip,
going off...
     and dark port was too sweet...
so indian pale ale was invented:
   more potent alcohol content and brewed
based more on hops than barley or wheat...
bitter: but my god, what a strand of beer,
like your typical irish stout...
   which is why i never figured out
  the bud to be the king of beers...
   fermentation of rice? sure... it's crisp...
but also the sort of toddler **** you'd expect
from rice fermentation:
no body, no *****, no blood,
no palette...
      easy stew:
   sausages,
      onions, garlic, celery, carrots,
                  leeks...
     a bottle of i.p.a.,
   some to degrease the pan the sausages
and veg were fried on, the rest for the jacuzzi...
some water, bay leaf, salt to taste,
   tomato purée and 2tbsp
  of muscovado sugar to bite through
   the extra hops... mash on the side...
                  and an array of veg on the side too...

i still don't know where the idea
that women belong in the kitchen came from:
perhaps when the men were coal-miners,
and when the kitchen wasn't filled
with all the current day appliances
of convenience...
   when women worked as hard in the kitchen
as the men who worked in the coal-mine...
perhaps then, in the early part of the 20th
century... when spaghetti dough was hand-made
at home...
then a woman could take pride in her
house-keeping...
   now? now i guess: the same sort of melancholic
voice bound to nancy sinatra singing...
because once upon a time it was hard
work, running the house...
                       and then "suddenly"
everything became simple...
a man could walk into a coal-mine,
come back home and...
              make himself a decent meal...
  looking at what the english woman buy
in the supermarket?
      couch potato maidens...
       ready meal after yet another ready meal...
things have become so easy
that easy isn't enough...

      let me tell you a culinary ***** of a story...
the scurge of making homemade
ravioli! believe me... once a year is enough...
sure, it tastes great...
                  but once a year is enough.
Willow Branche Jul 2014
Remember me?
I'm the girl you sent away,
Cause you were afraid for your REAL children's safety!?
What happened to "You're our daughter now."?
Did I mean anything? I mean ****?!
And you!
Remember me?
I'm the girl you molested!
After you said I could call you Daddy!
*******
You knew EVERYTHING that happened to me as a kid,
You shoulda known it would **** me up more than I already am!
And you!
Remember me?
I'm the little girl you *****!
While you were beating my mom and me!
You were getting so high, you probably don't even remember me.
But ****! You remembered when your friends came over! So why not?
And you!
I'm the girl you gave birth to!
But you never gave a **** about!
You only cared whether you were sober or not,
Or if your supply was doing ok...
Do you know you have a son too?
Oh yea, you do... But like everything else in your life,
You scared him the **** away too!
So now I have to pay?
I've already given blood!
What more do you ******* want!?
Haven't I given enough???
I mean really,
I'm a big girl now,
And I'm still paying for your mistakes somehow...
But you couldn't care less,
Cause you got what you wanted...
Maybe child support,
Or just some ******* you started.
I Just gotta know,
Did it pay off for you?
You lost so much,
You almost lost me too.
I almost KILLED MYSELF.
BECAUSE OF YOU!
And now I'm going crazy,
I've lost **** too,
For starters, my virginity...
But that wasn't my choice.
But it's all gone now...
And I still don't have a voice.
Second, Blood
**** and lots of it.
I've bled and shed for you,
And you ******* love it.
Third, my mind.
******* thanks a lot.
It disappeared one day
while you were smoking ***.
Do you know what you did to me?
Can't you see?
What the **** is wrong with you?
CAN YOU ******* REMEMBER ME!?
Nadrah Nov 2013
Thank you for turning me into one of those cold hearted person. Thank you for bullying me,kicking me,punching me,giving me hates,making me believe that my life and my existence were a ******* joke. I really thank you for bruising my body,making me bleed,giving me black eyes,and just basically hurting me physically and mentally. If it weren't for you guys,I'd probably still cry about the littlest thing.

I've changed now. My heart is ****** cold. I don't cry anymore and I won't.

Maybe it's a good thing and maybe it's not but like I said,this is a thank you message.
You guys almost made me **** myself but I kept my head up and I stayed strong. So don't ******* blame me if I'm insensitive now because guess what? I'm not gonna let anyone step on me again. I've lost some of my feelings and I literally mean it. So thank you,for turning me into a cold person. Thank you for saving me.
am i ee Sep 2015
meanwhile,

the Big Fat Yellow Bootay
was getting right tired of
waiting for the election to end.

so,

she set off down the highway
going ninety five...

"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!" she cried
as she gunned the engine and
threw herself in gear.

"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!  MOTHER *******!"
twice she cried,
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!  MOTHER *******!"
this second time
for extra good luck
with the unfolding election.

cool Fall breeze caressed
her yellow metal,
her big fat yellow bootay,
a glorious day to
be out on a drive!

well, except where she had
come from.

beep beep
beep beep
always driving her
beep beep beeping insane!

it shore nuf was quiet
out this way!

she turned the shiny
silver dial to turn on the
radio.
'gonna have to get me
some better speakers
one day soon.' she thought
to her big fat bus self.

and what came out blasting?

"That's Alright Mama,"
by who else?
but the King!
Elvis!

Elvis has left the building
and now,
Elvis is ON THE BUS!

she didn't quite know all
of the words,
but what the ****,
she sure could sing!

As the big fat bus
with the big fat bootay
was driving along,
singing joyfully,
she glanced in the rear
view mirrow and what
did she see?

why the ghost of Elvis himself
was sitting right there
right in the back of the bus.

He starts strumming on his
own guitar and singing,
'that's alright mama.."

so she turned off the
radio to listen
to the ghost of
the King,
Elvis,
himself,
singing in the back
of her big fat yellow bootay!

she also watched him eating
a lot of food
in the back of the bus,
her bus.

his ghostly figure
seemed to
fluctuate between fat Elvis,
and skinny Elvis,
like a seesaw.

by and by
says he,

(not the really fat one
but not the really skinny one
neither.)

'I need a pit stop.'
says the King

so the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
asks,
asks she,
'you wanna stop at the next
stop & go,
or
the next
fizz & wizz,
or
my fav if you really
need a constitutional,
the stop & plop?'

at this particular junction in time
this ghostly King,
was in the shape
of Fat Elvis
but very cooly outfitted,
bellbottoms and rhine stones
or were those all diamonds?

note to self,
the big fat bus
squirreled away,
check on that.
are those real or not?
more mulha is always
good
and this just might
be mana from heaven
in the form of Elvis the KING
himself
and maybe just one
of those diamonds
will fall out and
get lost in me.'

mighty strange happenings
going on around here in this
big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay.

' the stop and plop little mama,' elvis replied
with that
ohhhh,
soooooo,
divine Elvis drawl
and that darling little
thing he did with his mouth,
but was doing now
as he was sitting there in the
back of HER big fat bus
with HER big fat yellow bootay!

OH MY,
it really is a
HOKEY POKEY day!  she sighed.....
dear reader, i must admit, this is sounding even strange to me... it must be the stress of the election, so please pardon me.  and a very good night to you.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.   classical music is so outdated, when it comes to exposing children to it, for them, to then, later in life, reap the benefits of "increased" intelligence... oh look... they took down xenomorph's satan's presence video... the one with all the great artwork, including exponents of Goya and Dürer, and... Adolphe-William Bouguereau's masterpiece: Dante and Virgil (the onlookers)... shame, really...  because who said that children can't keep count, when listening to psy-trance electronic music, attempting to keep count, rather than understand violin, brass, or woodwind melodies? not me... there's an upper echelon, of music, sure, it's a hyper-inflation of African drum culture... but it's there... and, like me... some ******* just need to be pulverized by the beat.

problem with the alternative to rolling tobacco -
akin to chesterfield brand...
    when compared to golden virginia?
the tobacco is drier -
                  you need to squeeze it between
your fingers, to get some juices flowing...
and i've heard a lot of ******* in my days...
but that rolling papers,
are somehow different to the cigarette wrap,
as the reason why...
   a rollie will die off if not smoked,
but a cigarette will not?
     it's not the papers...
   it's the to(e)-ba(h)-khh-khh-co(e)...
high quality rolling tobacco is fresher...
slightly moist...
    akin to golden virginia...
   but a brand like chesterfield?
   dry like **** about to give you
          an imitation circumcision...
you actually have to squeeze the ****
brown **** to get an adequate
rolling technique going...

never mind that though...
  **** me! i've been looking for this scenario
since time immemorial...

(current year, England...
   when was it permitted,
for a neighbour, to tell another neighbour,
where, and when, he can smoke
a cigarette on his property?
when?!
         i have the neighbourly decency
to not walk ****-naked into my garden,
subsequently scratching my ***,
and then jerking off anything
but chicken in full view...
  but where, i can smoke a cigarette?
this is England...
             i compromised -
   but she can't have, the *******, night!)

ah... the su doku observation!
i've been looking for it for years...
   no. 10,044

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

     the common problem with
people solving this puzzle,
is that they start thinking of...
   fractions: namely?
   only two alternatives, rather than three...

i've seen my father's notation
sometimes, 1 / 5              i.e. or
    9 / 3
                      etc.
in the English, catholic, teaching methods
concerning basic mathematics of
Pythagoras - you were required
to find, 3 points...
  to draw a straight line (just to make sure) -
well...
        unless that third point
a liquor store, going AB      BA...
      sure...
              but drawing a straight line?
never mind

0  0  0         0  0  1    |  0  0  8      via      (  x  )
0  0  0   i.e. 0  5  9    |  0  2  4                 (  y  )
0  0  0         0  0  0    |  0  0  7                 (  z  )

i needed a matrix answer... and i fiddled
one out!

( 5  9  9  5 )
( 1  1  1  1 )
( 9  5  5  9 )

              there simply can't be an alternative
to where 1, is supposed to be placed
on the grid...

0  0  0         0  0  1    |  0  0  8
0  0  0   i.e. 0  5  9    |  1  2  4
0  0  0         0  0  0    |  0  0  7

i've surprised myself -
       which is even more gratifying...
than i'm slightly tipsy -

0  0  0
0  0  0
0  0  0           (what's that?
                     spatial coordination,
for said, example).

have to coin a phrase for this discover...
ah... the su doku third coordinate,
of a straight line... #howlin'wolf'sblues:
could been a spoonful' of sugar...
ah... **** never gets old.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
i actually did own a doberman pinscher called axl... yes: no e in the same. ****** was mad, what do you expect? his ears were sliced so he could look like some urukai orc of isengard... try trimming the ears of a human being: to then pretend "think" they'll be wiser... that part where they chop of the tail of a doberman? i wasn't around when that happened, i can clearly picture the plastic surgery on my axl... so what am i going to say about circumcision? makes the ******* mad! they're sending ****-picks to people... how about i just watch you smile? is circumcision the ideal motivation for preserving life? like you need the complete vuvla to be attracted by it? ******* surely isn't fun with that revision... just as much as saying: a billion ching changs... or we could do away with the lips and call these people the todkompflächeln; personally? i'd begin the aesthetic surgery on the ears, maybe making a few "elves" would help the situation... otherwise m.g.m. gets no mention, because those ******* don't even know what ******* with one feels like: i can peel mine back for *******... but you can't cloak with one during the grand practice of: taking a ****.

billions... it's starting to look very much like a *****,
given the character names... i mean: wags?
next season is bound to invoke the nick
*****... it has become an existential prison,
since the moon landing: bye bye
the brothers grimm and the fairytale...
i know this because someone has already
made the same conclusion...
billions? who'd i like to doppelgänger?
   mike wagner... scalp him, skin him, whatever,
i am trying to believe that i don't have
that wry smile of his when writing this,
the cheaky chappy type of smile,
what i can tell you is what happened yesterday
after my drinking session ended...
spring's impeding, *******, i'm going to
watch more television since i'll be sad having
moved from, what could be best described
as alaskan funfair... night by the 5pm mark...
i sometimes get the shakes...
but only out of anger, that boils down to
my neighbour complaining that i sometimes
lose the plot and say things aloud...
the boundaries i'm crossing is equivalent to a bird
singing in the night...
    but last night, was, spectacular...
   i forgot what chess even was...
   i had heidegger's *ponderings ii - vi

(in hardback) on the windowsill...
                       i had a crescent version and a complete
version of amitriptyline (25mg)...
       nurse! scalpel i'm getting a headache!
    ami-tri-pty-line (ptee line? or pti lean?
yes, lean, no fat on it;
   so as i was about to get the sucker punch
i was playing imaginary dominos
even if just that, or throwing invisible dice,
exchanging positions of these two pills
            and four swan (brand) filter tips...
i do remember saying something into the night,
what it was? i don't know.
            so it was either dominos or "throwing"
dice on a book on the windowsill,
moving the one complete pill and the other
bitten off crescent (what's that? about 13mg?)...
and the filter tips...
                and it was on a hardcover surface
of a book on a windowsill...
             i knew i would take the plunge at
some point, the question was when that would happen;
i don't know what i had to even cherish
the grace of thought at that moment...
the next oddity came with an empty glass
and trying to balance it on the parapet ledge...
it turned out to be a case of fractions...
     the tipping point stood at: two thirds...
it would never be done in halves, and certainly not
quarters...
              see... mm... money is fascinating
as a concept, how it was arrived at;
  i can know the man who invented the lightbulb
(jefferson, right? ol' tommy)... money?
   no clue... who could have "blinded" the greeks
to the extent where we stand now?
      the more i drink the more i think that this
cann't lead to any sort of accomplishment other than
the stated words...
    i do really retract into speaking verse that
i never write down... it's there one minute, gone the next;
but that domino / dice thing with 1.5 sleeping pills
and 4 cigarette tips (yes, i can roll a cigarette
like a machine, so the tips were not ***** by tokes
to remind people of marmite / vegemite of australia
colouring): i smoke cigarettes thinking about a sun-tan.
why was i doing this?
don't know, what's the point of playing domino
or throwing dice to gamble?
                     there is a chiral point to be made,
or at least a parallel point...
         a chiral-parallelism, as is the case with concept
of parallel per se...
such that title suggests i stole "something" that actually
steals...          hollywood and cuckoos...
      there are always two ways of saying the same
thing: moving forward, however dichotomous those
sayings are...
                  since that approach later turns into
a dualism that then eats at psychologism and morphs
into monism and: we're back at square one.
Hooflip Aug 2014
Picture of girls face: 10 likes
Picture of girls face featuring slightly/**** near totally visible ***** bumps: 5000 likes.
What the **** people, its the SAME GIRL.
Her **** are there in BOTH PICTURES yo.
But due to the difference in likes, there's no doubt as to what the true focal point of the photographs are.
Honestly, I'd much rather see a picture of a ladies face instead of one featuring the awesome breasticles.
Because, while those **** do, without a doubt, totally rock, they should also be respected and like, viewed as something special for only that certain special person to see.
CONTAIN YOUR **** YOUNG FEMALES FOR THE LOVE OF ******* GOD.
You aren't attracting very respectable fellows by being so flaunty.
People that are into you only for your ****/various other dank body parts you may or may not have, will most definitely end up hurting the beautiful blood pumping anomaly that lies behind said ****.
I mean it's your body, do what you want to do with it, but there are more then enough **** bouncing around the world right now to clog our minds with sexuality and distract us from accomplishing things as it is.
WE DON'T NEED YOUR **** IN OUR FACE.
not to mention, some day you're going to find a man or a woman that's going to love you for the super radical person that you are, and to them, your **** will just be like, the most awesome bonus, and by covering up just a bit more for all the numb skulled hard dicked mother ******* this world seems to have an endless supply of, you'll make that special person feel so so so so so so sooooo much more special when THEY get to see them.
You know what i'm saying?
We're in a society where your **** can take you further then your personality can and it's ******* *******.
This is not a poem.
This is a rant about women being way to flashy.
Vivian Sep 2013
"Murica" "Murica" "Murica"
chants of patriotism ethnocentrism
nationalist sentiments lacquered in blue red white
spangled with stars and candy striped
"enemies both foreign and domestic"
the roar of jet engines accompanied by
crackling sparklers
summer sunlight
glamorous fireworks
red meat burning over charcoal because
the chef is being kissed
"life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness"
the roar of jet engines accompanied by
dying children
systematized ****
internment camps
the division along the 38th parallel because
the evil's communism not McCarthyism no never
"my government has a firm policy not to capitulate"
not to terrorists
not to the UN
not to common sense
not to popular opinion
not to love in all it's forms
but
to corruption
to the oil lobby
to racism
to ***
to the Almighty
dollar
"we have reason to believe Iraq has weapons of mass destruction."
No.
No, you don't.
Lying *******.
You *******.
You ruined everything.
*****.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
here's an opinion that
   requires a dialectical
attache...
no, really, it does...
the following statement
requires
an echo chamber,
a boiler room...
i walked the night streets
mesmerized
by the full moon
and the moonlit kitchen
later at home,
covered in quicksilver
as if watching silver
armor that became my
flesh...
    sometimes it happens
towing a beer...

does English existentialism
even exist?
the 20th century
dogma akin to the French,
genesis with
the Danes and the Germans...

oh, i'm pretty sure it does,
English existentialism
does exist...
   but... i hope it isn't there
in the first place...

it's so placid,
so... materialistic in its
scientific uni-dimensionality...
English existentialism is
primarily, and only,
a version of Darwinism...

it's not that "philosophy"
is undermined...
          come along history,
and physics...
  
i can't be no stretch-Armstrong
working my way around
a posit-approximate of a date,
and date zero of the big bang...

frankly?
i'm bored of English existentialism,
and we're only 18 years
into the 21st century...

**** me, watching eggs get fried
is more interesting...
the fixed rules,
   the whole Darwinism overhaul
of continental existentialism -
that... bugging...
overt-simplification
  of human psychology...
the analogue argument,
the replica, the mimic...
there are various names for
the starting block...

      i'm literally done reading
English philosophy,
never started to read it in the first place,
to begin with...
and i'm sure i never will...

i reread my own attempts and
the best i can ascribe is an embarrassing
limp **** of prudence
prescribed with a dosage of power...

poetry and music...
philosophy isn't exactly an English "thing"...
it's not a national trait to
make conversation over dinner...
unless it's a family dinner shared
before the altar of a t.v.
or the children before a screen
of a smartphone...

   ******* can rhyme, sure as ****...
but can they entertain
a cogitans per se:
i.e. a thinking thing in itself -
a complex variant of solipsism?
don't think so...

as ever... too much biological
materialism...
  which bores the **** out of me,
considering it: overstates
the ****** obvious...

   i hate hearing the obvious...
it's like: well... d'uh! no **** Sherlock!
why don't you shove your
whittle observations into a little
suitcase, throw it onto the train
heading into the unconscious
and stop gloating about the self-evident?!

*******.

i don't get how we can even achieve
pub- / cafe-existentialism's worth
of conversation when Darwin is
omnipresent...
         everywhere i look: Darwin...
everywhere i chose
to **** in an abandoned alley:
Darwin...

                         these rigid structures
of scientific certainty are
bugging me, when those who adhere
to them, have no basic
"knowledge" of the sometimes
pseudo-scientific nature of philosophy...

after all: philosophy is both
a "science", and a "humanism"...
     it's... "gender"-fluid...
       but the English do not think so...
philosophers are not
polymaths, having contradictory
interests...
             and a (as according to the 20th
century French existentialists)
   "self" interest of given artifacts...

English existentialism can exist,
in the 21st century...
but, said affairs be made given light:
it can't backtrack
and fall back on a unison source
of a genesis to craft an exodus from
the 20th century...
    
after all...
   what happened when the Germans
applied a branch of Darwinism?
   eugenics...
   so... what am i look at now?
   if not the purity of ethnicity...
then a "purity" of thought...

            but enlighten me...
what narrative exists outside the basic
cognitive Theta-Q?
        you know: (th)ought?
        consolidated moral questioning
abolished...
the end of ethical inquiring...
            there's the moral (th)ought -
and then there's the freedom of thought...

and who said what, precisely?
****, man...
i'm hearing is the clicking
of a supposed centipede on
a keyboard and e nomine's song
angst...

    i expect this to be a freedom of speech,
as i expect finding a penny on
the street...
              should you care to look
at your feet...

i said ****...
      but i wrote this, instead...
which implies?
a higher category of a freedom of speech:
like Kierkegaard originally said:

people much fuss about their freedom
of speech,
   rarely their freedom of thought...

but i guess posting this in a public
space is a direction transliteration
of thought = speech...

       i don't think so...
i said ****...
                      this... this?
  this is res extensa -
     the extension of res cogitans -
the thinking...
     sure... i could write the same thing,
20x over, and shove it into my puny desk...
but then...
   i could also write this
on a piece of paper, and, by accident...
drop it in the Romford Market Sq.
on a busy Friday, fine fine afternoon.
Another night of television hell I was in the middle of a hell of a block.
And withoout the funds my usal cure of hookers and *******  wasnt a open
road so to speak.

I was lost I wondred the streets like  ****** in need of a john.
When through the darkness it appearded a well lit haven in the middle of
a thoughtless storm.

The cinema cafe drinks and films  hmm from looking at the marquee seems
there wasnt much to choose from .
It read like a preschooler had puked apon the board.

There were sequels, and prequels,  gay vampires that walked around in the day,
Weirdos who flew around on broom sticks and loads of treenage **** minus the ****.
Dear lord! I had to get to the bottom of this problem.

The pimple faced kid at the booth asked me in a squeeky yet firm semi manly
voice can I help you sir?
Yes my dear crater face whats with this **** you call films here ?
Umm I dont make em sir there just whats popular.

The greezy faced hampster had a good point in what he said that is.
cause other than that I had no clue what he was working with really what do you think
I am some kinda pervert?

Let me ask you something do you like this **** you sell tickets to?
**** no dude its garbage for halfwits and retards  and some people from Canada.
Who the hell wants to see that **** from twilight  play snow white?
Let me ask is that a adult film?
Duh no ******* we dont show thoose here.

Would you know were I could see thoose films?
Im doing some umm research on human sexulality  it involves alotta big words
which i cant spell so i'll spare you the details  just point me in the right direction
and nobody gets hurt.

Dude they havent shown thoose kinda movies in theaters for years.
Oh yeah and theres this thing called the internet once is way better than writting on your
cave walls.
Kids there really great *******.

After some back in fourth who gives a **** or really reads this ***** banter.
The man with the pizza face finally hit his limit.
Look *******!
I dont make the **** ,I dont watch the ****!
If you gotta problem take it up with the studio exects in Hollywood.

You gotta point there sparky give me your keys!
What! No.
Give me your keys or else.
Or else what grandpa  your gonna hit me with your walker.

No you silly *******.
Or else I'll shoot you.
Ya see young man that should wear a iron mask.
You may have a I Phone
But I have a handgun  and  that always wins the debate no hand em over.

After a brief moment of the little ******* ***** crying and begging for me not to **** him.
Really he watched to many TV shows I wasnt gonna **** him besides.
Im allergic to prison and it wasnt even a real gun what a *******.

I was off in my borrowed car  to the land of bad ideas and great **** jobs.
A place more fake than barbies dream home minus that dickless tool she always
hung out with  not that I played with Barbie's but she does have some really kickarse *******
and im a big fan of ******* hell what great writer isnt?

It was a drive that seemed to take forever  but finally i pulled up to the front gate
of Warner Brothers studios.
The little weird looking gate keeper looked at me and said .
can I help you sir.

Yes please direct me to your leader strange gaurd troll.
Uhh sir this is a closed lot only people with passes can enter.
Well what if i know the secret word?

Who told you about the secret word?
I had him with that one.
These Hollyweird vampires couldnt have enough brain power to
keep some pass on them.
Okay whats the secret word sir?

I had to think deep and from such a shallow mind that was asking alot.
What could it be it had to be something that rang true like snorting a line of
coke of Katy Perry's  ***'s.

Dear lord I had it.

Brad Pitt ***** donkey *****.

The man looked at me in utter shock  I wasnt sure if he was gonna let me pass
or try to pull me out my slightly worn odd smelling borrowed car.
Alright sir it's lot 69 hahaha  yeah I know im demented.

Right next to the lot there filming Winds Of Change **** The Musical!
Staring Johnny Depp and Bogo the ***** chimp.
****** i wish i wasnt busy  that chimp seemed like he had a good head on his shoulders.
Well when he wasnt jerking off and eating bannans while throwing his poo.
What a talent indeed.

I found myself in the studio people running every which a way.
It was total confussion   seemd like no one had a clue what the hell they were doing.
Hey ******* shouted some weird little man in a chair who the **** are you!?.

The little red haired man must truely be dellusional.
How could someone not know Gonzo?
Well sir just who the **** are you? I replied.

Well im Ron ******* Howard *****!
Hmm never herd of you are you a director or something?
What!!!
Ever hear of Andy Griffith  or Happy Days?
Oh yeah your that little dork that hung out with that cop yeah what a snitch.
I was playing his son *******.

Dam well seems this ginger finally explained to me why that man always had him around
it all makes sense now i just thought he was some kinda pervert.
Course seems like he had picked up some bad habbits from that Fonzie guy
never trust a man who calls the restroom his office but what a man does with
another man in a ***** restroom for plesure or profit is his own bussiness.

Look *******  what the hell do ya want?
Lets start with a gallon's of nothern light maybe some top shelf hookers some good music.
Maybe a couple hits of some lets say nose candy maybe turn off the lights and see what happens.
Im just saying sometimes ya gotta let nature take it's drug filled course.

Im not talking bout from life dip **** i mean what the hell are you doing here?
Oh **** sorry there  carrot top.
I wanna see the person in charge that green lights all this remake **** you souless
morons put out and call entertainment.

The little red haired devil was silent as he explained to me no one ever saw the
studio head it was like meeting Santa Claus or ****** or being in the pressence of a unicorn
really whats the diffrence.

He warned me of the dangers of meeting such a great mind yet like I do with
most people I simply shook me head and agreed much like i do with
women im trying to sleep with duh like I care about her tweenty seven cats.

Finally after learning I wasnt taking no for a answer he lead me to a room
And in this room was a screen and apon the screen appread a face.
Who dare question the mighty head of the film studio!!

The voice was loud  still it had that comfoting quallity that you just have to love in
a windbag *******.
Umm me.

You well who the hell are you?
Duh ******* im the long winded ******* writting the story.
Oh well what the **** do you want?

Sir I wanna know what the hell's wrong with you people.
Look im a drunk but i could never be drunk enough to pay a fortune to watch half the **** you call entertainment between remakes and films based on gay *** stories about vampires
and dudes who run around the woods calling themselves werewolves.

You mean you actully saw twilight?
The voice asked me on the verge of laughter.
Duh i see a bunch of hot chicks  going anywhere im following without asking
much like the mindless drones that watch that ****.

Sir your a sad sad man.
The strange face on the screen vanished out from the curtan appeared
what looked like *** it was Bugs Bunny !!

Bug's!  
What's up gonz?
****** i always knew you were real much like Fergie and spanish fly.

Gonzo i know half this **** ***** but its because mindless idiots love studip ****.
Look you were once a popular writer and you cant even spell.
Ouch now go ahead mighty furry samuri.

Ya see whatever makes money we put out and really stupid young girls much like your teenage
wife love that **** and being perverts like yourself wanna get laid you'll take them to that ****.
Bugs are you saying it's all about money?

No **** *******.

We talked drank watched backroom casting couch tapes of early starlets like
Harrison Ford no wonder he was so good with that whip.

It was magic minus the  money loving **** mouse that'll sue your ***.
Bugs I gotta ask you a deep question?
Shoot there Gonz .
Is Mickey really just a cross dresser calling himself Minnie?

You are messed up in so many ways Gonz.
We laughed swapped ***** stories  like the time Bugs slipped
Daisy some ****** and got a ******* in the magic castle  while goofy watched.

What the **** is Goofy?

Gonz .
My furry amigo said to **** if I know.

Untill next time kids stay crazy

And remember if you wish apon a star  ya better make sure to whom thoose copy rights
belong to truley are.
Cause thoose rich ******* will sue your *** .

Cheers

                               FIN?
Auroleus Sep 2012
Lethargic mornings are healthy for no one,
Except maybe a sloth.
My alarm clock sounds off a generic melody
I could have composed in my sleep,
But I'm sure some corporate tiger got paid
At least five hookers and an eight ball
To lay down that track.
*******....  That's what I need right now.
Coffee is nice, and it's even nicer
With *******.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media
expression...

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking
about?

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other
nations...

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
Judases...
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!
*******...

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   o.k,
    хорошо...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
   strawberries?
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
yoghurt...
                          milk,
milk milk milk milk...

but...

what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
  
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
frankly?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
heard!
         it's the 21st century...
whoop-tee-doo-daa
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
argument...
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
monarchy?
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
  
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
connectivity,
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!
Erik Ervin Mar 2012
When you approached me,
I was smoking a cigarette
listening to Macklemore
outside my favorite coffeeshop
in the rainy city

You said something,
but I didn't hear you,
so I removed my headphones
as you asked
"Could you help a veteran out
by giving him a cigarette?"

I said yes,
asked you where you had fought
you told me Saigon

"Oh yeah? Vietnam."

you looked at me
dressed in a coat
that was a color of blue
not found in nature
face of canyons
and told me
"We got those ******* good.
We did.
We got those ******* good.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
and you walked away.

I was stuck in a trance of
What the **** was that
and yeah,
we did get them
but I don't know if I'd lay down
Agent Orange
and call it "good"
Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare
and try to tie it next to butterflies
and welfare checks

I don't know
what you think is good
But me?
I can't find any other words
for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties
in a war that should never have been fought
Than sad
and wrong

I wonder how many Vietnamese women
gave birth to half American babies
That they never wanted
that didn't even desire to participate
in the act
of child making

I wonder how many
Loved their children anyway
how many were honest with them
how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue
that should never exist in nature
But then again
neither should the bombs children are still unearthing
in the North
and South of Vietnam

I want to know how many of their parents
learned that American
is another word for a *******
How many of these parents
grew up telling their children
never trust an American
until you know where his gun is pointed
because he's always got it pointing somewhere

I want to know
If you would understand
where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city
is on a map
if you had never fought there
Would you be on the streets of Portland
alone
asking a college kid
who was not alive
when you fought in Southeast Asia
for a cigarette

I wonder where are you going?
How many people did you ****?
how many are you sorry
for killing?

and then I realize I really don't want to know.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.hell... what perfect antithesis of how woman perceive *** as an ancestral "past-time" of chasing & hunting... what... with female genitals? how about i farm oysters?! one song comes to mind, to give this piece overtones... chris rea... stainsby girls...

****... and there i was thinking that
i coined the phrase...
voluntary celibacy...
    well... there was that one time
i picked up a Thai bisexual
in the park, took her home,
played her some Miles Davis,
and later ****** her in the garden...
or my diet of... two *****
with prostitutes per year...
and i'm fine with that...
but i was worried with the Thai
bisexual... i actually did think
i was going to get a Thai surprise...
what with her sports-bra...
i can't remember ever being on a date...
i never used a dating-app...
*** as much animal as random...
hard time getting an STD
with prostitutes these days...
you'd be surprised...
one told she gets her STD checks
every month...
funny, eh? that a *******
can wield so much moral
authority...
you can't spank them like
in the pornographic flicks...
i'm old school...
pictures are just fine by me...
why?
the imagination runs wild...
the urban dictionary beat me
to it, but... they would have...
i was working on the concept
since 2007...
their entry reads 2014...
how did it began?
oh... you know...
i once watched a few monks
come to your Catholic
school
and play basketball with
the kids in the playground...
and... Taizé...
that was a big game changer...
i mean:
when a **** comes knocking
on your door...
and you don't require
to peacock...
you're not exactly going
to turn it down, are you?
******* beat me to it...
in word alone...
like i said,
i've been practicing this
7 years prior
urban dictionary picked
it up...
but with prostitutes it's like:
it's an hour...
it's not a "relationship"
with all its quirks...
i'm past 30...
   you wanna marry,
marry young...
and thank **** i didn't marry
a teenage girl...
she either was pregnant,
or she faked pregnancy...
she's also ~30 now...
one engagement (moi),
a second marriage...
and i could have had a happy
marriage...
that one Farsi girl...
and that one Aussie half Indian
half Irish...
it would have been just fine...
but...
           i wouldn't have these
thoughts,
or this writing... gamble?
well... it's always a gamble...
the sort of gambling that encompasses
the stratum of mortality...
not the sort of gambling
with coinage,
the cheapest thrill...
the minor rewards...
   i gambled with life,
for the point of wondering...
will i die a death worthy,
or a death of assault by
self-inflicted kamikaze wounds?
now... if you want to gamble...
that the best gamble there is...
i wrote this...
because...
i'm still...
     not drunk enough to complete
what came prior to this...
the "poem" entitled
the cultural exchange program...
*******...
i can't believe they beat me
for the coin of phrase...
and what if i only feel like
having only two erections
a year?
   i can bypass the madonna-*****
complex...
   i'm less nostalgic about
the ***,
  and less inclined to "experiment"...
less into latex suits,
less into lost ambitions,
    less into position conundrums...
pretty much less of everything
associated with routine...
but... ******* isn't my favorite part...
homework...
steal a kiss from a *******...
go on...
no... wait...
1, 2... 3... try stealing kisses from
4...
            one with giggles,
   one with closed eyes
having kissed her eyelids prior...
one with tears...
   and one... god... that last one...
not having trimmed my ***** hair...
just enjoying a classic Hollywood
kiss of prolonging the touching
of lips, no tongue, no slobbering...
with her leg rapping around
my torso...
                     apparently i was being
"nice"? i was momentarily
suffering from a gender dysphoria...
remembering i was once cleaned
shaved, and donning long hair...
believe me... short hair, and a Moses beard?
- and i was thinking i was a woman,
well... i wasn't thinking,
i was "thinking"...
**** shame i didn't trim my burning
bush of *****.
Tessellate Nov 2012
i write poems for fun.
help me.

i write poems for fun during lunch,
while all the other kids live their adolescent lives.

i write poems for fun on weekends,
while others are experimenting with drugs and alcohol at awesome house parties.

i write poems for fun alone,
while everyone else explores each other's bodies.

i write poems for fun. i cut myself for fun,
while all you other ******* actually have fun.

i write poems for fun.
help me.
probably one of my worst pieces, although very true.
Mitchell Duran May 2014
We took the back road to the house. The shade from the trees made the road feel like tunnel. Not a shred of light came in. We'd have to drive slow. The road wasn't made of concrete: it was made of dirt, rock, and dead leaves. Sometimes we could see the worms come up out of the dirt in the headlights, their pink stretching bodies like weird little fingers. Carrie never looked. She said it was too scary. The rest of us would look and watch them dance around like that. Sometimes we'd have to run them over. Of course, we'd feel bad about it, but we needed to get back to the house. There were things to be done. Nothing planned, but nonetheless, things to be done.
Englend reversed the car up to the front door. The liquor, the food, and the beer was in the back and would make it easier to get it from there. Patty and Carrie (the one scared of the worms) ran straight to the bathroom. They'd been complaining about how we never stopped at a gas station to ***. Englend said we didn't have the time and I just didn't care. Denny was in the same mindset as me. We usually were. Kat was looking out the window, thinking about something she didn't wish to share when we started to unload. She offered to help after she'd finished her thought, but the three of us said we had it. We didn't really, but we let her have her thought while we carried the bags. There weren't that many to complain about anyway.
When everyone was inside unpacking their things, I hung back and smoked a cigarette. I looked down at the river. It was full and rushing. The trees were full with bright, lime green leaves. The branches were tanned auburn from the sun. They looked the forearms of the Mexican girls at my high school: smooth, everlasting, stretching to a place I was never allowed to touch or look at. I ashed my cigarette into a pile of leaves and immediately worried that I was going to start a fire. I kicked it out, thrusting my boot heel into where I thought the ember had went.
"What the hell are you doing?" Englend screamed from the front porch, a handle of whiskey underneath his arm, a glass with ice in the other.
"Ashed into the leaves," I told him, "Trying to take it out." I kicked the leaves a few more times, then walked towards Englend.
"Let me get a hit of that," I said, pointing at the handle.
He spun the top and it rolled off the tread. The cap rolled off the deck and Englend chased after it, handing me the bottle first.
"Take this. Where'd the hell it go?"
"Down there somewhere," I said, pulling the bottle back. The sweetness of the whiskey hit my nostrils first, then the bite of the liquor. I coughed, feeling my eyes begin to water. The first one was always the hardest. After that, they got easier.
June had just ended. July was just arriving. The third was tomorrow and the next day was the fourth.
I took another pull from the handle. I placed on the decks railing and left Englend with it. He was still looking around for the bottle cap.
"I thought I saw it roll under the deck," I told him.
"*******," he moaned. He looked up at me, "Come and help me. It'll be faster with two."
"Can't. Gotta' check on Carrie and get ourselves a room."
"*******," he moaned again, reaching under the deck.
"Don't get your hand bit by a possum or rat or something!" I yelled behind me, going inside. "Carrie!" I screamed, "Where'd you go?"
"Upstairs getting our room ready!" I heard her scream from the 2nd floor, "Come and help me put the sheets on."
I went into the kitchen. Denny was stocking the fridge with the beer and the meat. I reached over his shoulder and grabbed a Budweiser. He had an open one in between his knees. The light stuff was on the bottom to the far left, the heavy stuff in the middle, and the expensive IPA, hoppy stuff to the far right. The top shelf was for food, mixer, and whatever else the girls had decided to get at the store. Fruit and things. I opened up the freezer. There were two handles of Smirnoff resting on three large bags of ice. We would need more ice. I closed the freezer and ran my fingers of the labels of two more handles of Cazadorés tequila and Bulleit bourbon. Overall, I thought we were fairly stocked for the four day weekend, but one could never be to sure. People came out of the wood work for the 4th of July. No telling who would show up at our front door.
I went upstairs to see what Carrie was doing. She was laying on the bed with the sheets resting on the dresser. The light was off. The room was cast in that light grey pigment that happens when the bedroom light isn't there. It was nice. The sun had been straining my eyes the whole time even though I had been driving in the backseat. Carrie was laying face down on the bed. She was wearing a skirt, so I slowly laid down on the bed and inched her dress up. She didn't flinch or move, so I pulled it up until I saw her burgundy lace *******. They looked pressed or ironed or something they looked so clean.
"What're you doing?" Carrie asked me, her face down into the mattress.
"Just looking," I said.
"At what?"
"At your ****."
"Why?"
"Cause' it's nice."
"Close the door."
I got up, closed the door, and laid back down.
"Lets put the sheets on the bed first."
"OK," I said.
We put the sheets on the bed, but couldn't wait for the pillows and the rest of the blankets. We tried to be quiet, but knew we weren't. After, we took a shower together. I rubbed Carrie's shoulders while the hot water rained down on us. She said it was better to get a massage in the shower because the hot water loosened up the muscles. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I did it anyway. I watched her as she unpacked her bag. Her hair was wet and it swung back and forth, wetting her back. She was wrapped in her favorite pink towel. Water dripped from her body down to the floor. I waited to put my things away. I had brought up very little. Mostly *****. Carrie took up most of the dresser. I had one drawer by the time we were finished.
We took a nap. After we were done sleeping, we looked outside and saw the sun had been replaced with the night. The stars and the light coming from inside of the cabin streaked out into the forest like a splash of golden florescent paint. Carrie and I poked our heads outside to listen to the creaking trees and the rustling of animals through the bush. Someone downstairs was lightly clattering dishes as they cleaned them while the smell of red maple firewood burning in the fireplace came up to our room. I took out my phone from my pocket and looked at the time.
"****," I said, "It's already 10 o'clock."
"I'm starving."
"I'm starving and need a drink."
"Let's go downstairs and see what they made."
I slipped on my 501's while Carrie straightened up her hair. We went downstairs and saw two plates with hamburgers and fries on them. Patty was at the sink cleaning the pots and pans. She was staring down into the soapy froth, humming a song to herself I couldn't understand. She hadn't heard us come down. Denny, Englend, and Kat weren't in the living room.
"Where is everybody?" I asked.
"Oh!" Patty burst. She swung around, a soaped up frying pan in her hands. "You scared the **** out of me!"
I put my hands up, "Gotcha!" I said smiling.
"They went for a walk somewhere and left all the dishes for me."
"Leave'em," Carrie said, taking Patty's hands and wiping the soap away with a rag, "Van and I will take care of them."
"I only have a few more..."
"I insist!" Carrie took Patty's arm and lead her to the couch and laid her down. I took a cup from the pantry, filled it with ice, and poured Bulliet half-way up. I handed the glass to Carrie and she brought it to Patty.
"Look at that," Patty smiled, "Full-service."
"What you get when you come up to the Dangerson cabin."
"**** right!" I exclaimed through a bite of hamburger, "Only the best here."
Patty leaned her head back after taking a long sip of the whiskey. She exhaled and closed her eyes. I watched her as her chest heaved up and down. She kicked off her shoes and let her hair fall over the armrest of the couch.
"You said they went into the woods, Patty?"
Carrie took her burger and went and sat next to Patty.
"Lift your legs up," Carrie said, "Let me sit with you."
"Yeah. They went into the woods an hour or so ago. Probably a little less."
I opened the fridge and grabbed another beer.
"What were they going out there for?"
"I have no idea."
"Probably to get firewood or something," Carrie said, "Can you grab me one of those."
"Sure," I said, tossing her one.
"Wait," She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. The beer landed right in one of her flailing hands.
"Nice catch," I laughed, opening the fridge and grabbing another.
"You're such a ****!"
I smiled and walked out onto the deck.
"He really is," I heard Carrie tell Patty.
"I heard that!"
"You were meant to!" she called back to me, laughing.
I shook my head and opened the can of beer. Why did they decide to go get firewood now? We had plenty of wood here already. Patty probably didn't know what she was talking about. That happened often. I strained my eyes to see through the darkness, maybe see if I could spot a flashlight or the round end of a lit cigarette, but the forest was just a wash of thick blackness. Even the stars had grown faint.
"Englend!" I shouted.
Nothing. Not a peep. They were far out there.
"Englend!" I shouted again.
"What the hell are you shouting at?" a voice said from the trees. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone I knew.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Well who the hell do you think it is?" It was Englend. He came out of the trees like a wild boar. He had a handle of whiskey in one hand with a pile of small twigs and firewood in the other. What came to mind first was a mix between a drunken Brawny guy and a pinecone.
"What's all the screaming about?" Kat asked, trailing behind Englend. Denny followed behind. They all had armfuls of wood. From what I saw, little would be useful, but I kept that to myself.
Englend came up the deck and handed me the handle. I took a long pull. As I drank, I looked up into the stars, which were now out and shining brighter than they were before. A cloud had moved, wavered off somewhere, presenting the gifts that were behind it. I lowered the bottle and watched Denny and Kat walk up the stairs. They were smiling.
"What are you two so happy about?" I asked, handing Denny the whiskey.
"Gimme' that!" Kat snagged it out of my hand, laughing. She took a long pull. Denny, Englend, and I watched, amazed that little hippy Kat could take such a heavy shot.
"Good God," I murmured.
"She drinks like a pirate," said Denny.
"A ****** pirate," added Englend.
Kat was especially small. Not a small person small, but petite. She also had a great *** and could out drink, out party, and out do the rest of us in debaucherous shenanigans. She had never heard of the word or feeling of shame either and did, really, whatever the hell she felt like.
"I heard that you *******," she said, exhaling, blinking her eyes wildly.
"That was a biggun'," Denny said, taking the bottle and pulling it.
"Needed it. Englend had us wandering around the ******* forest for firewood the minute we got here."
"Do we even need any?" I asked.
"Course we do!" Englend exclaimed, "Gotta' keep our ladies warm!"
He put his arm around Kat and shook her.
"Gross..." Kat frowned, her face pickling while she squirmed out of his arms.
"You love it Kat...where's Patty? Where's my babe!?" Englend thundered off into the house.
"I'm right here," Patty squealed. She was still on the couch with Carrie. She kicked her feet crazily as Englend jumped on her. Carrie jumped off just before he cannon balled onto the couch.
"You guys are SICK!" Carrie screamed.
"You love it," they both said in unison. The two of them play wrestled until Patty finally got Englend by the ***** and kissed him.
Denny handed Kat the bottle," You want another?" he asked.
"I'm good, Denny," she said.
"Hank?" He asked me.
"I'll take one, yeah," I said. I pulled it back as Kat went inside. I exhaled and looked at Denny, "So, you and Kat are the only two legitimate single people here. How you feel about that?"
"Hopeful," he said.
"That's good to hear. I'll see what Carrie can do."
"Sweet," he said nervously.
"Let's get inside. Patty made some burgers."
"Thank God," Denny sighed, shaking his head, "I'm ******* starving. Englend had us walking for ******' miles.
"No idea why. We have plenty of wood downstairs."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Lots of it. I cut a bunch the last time I was here."
"******," he laughed, "Englend told us were out."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. We walked into the kitchen. I put the bottle down next to Carrie, who had made her way from the couch back into the kitchen. She looked at the bottle, then at me.
"What you drinking there?" she asked me looking at the bottle.
"Whiskey," I told her.
"Can you not drink so much?" she whispered so no one could hear her.
"I'm good," I said, taking her hand, "I just drank a little bit outside while I was waiting for Englend. They went on a wild goose chase for firewood."
"Good."
"Denny was telling me they went all over for the stuff."
"Why?" she smiled, "We have so much from the last time we were up."
"That's what I was telling Englend, but he didn't care. Guy gets antsy."
"Who's antsy?" Englend called from the couch. Patty was wrapped up in his eyes, looking drunk from the single shot Carrie and I had given her. Kat was on the couch with a beer. Denny was hovering by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels still holding an armful of fire wood.
"Why don't you just leave that by the door?" I told Denny, "Take a seat. Stay a while."
He dropped the firewood by the side of the front door and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace by Kat. He looked up at her and smiled, but she didn't notice. She was sipping her beer, rummaging around in her pocket for something.
"What I was saying was that you guys didn't need to get anymore firewood or kindling or whatever the hell you guys got because we have a lot from the last time Carrie and I were up."
"I saw those logs," said Englend, "And they're ******* twigs compared to what we got!"
Everyone laughed.
"Well," I said, opening the fridge for another beer (I wasn't sure where my other one had gone to), "I'm not taking the **** down."
"All good, we'll take it down."
"You'll take it down," said Kat, "We had to walk through half of the ******* forest to get to your secret wood spot, then walk back. I'm finished with wood for now."
"Fine," Englend moaned, "I'll take it down in the morning."
"I'll help you," Denny added.
"Good! We got two big guys to do it. It'll be done in no time."
I turned around and opened up the cabinet that was filled with shot glasses. I took six out, put them on the table, and filled them with whiskey.
"Let's take a group shot before we all start getting snuggly and sleepy."
"Great idea!" Englend shouted, popping up from the couch.
"For America!" Patty giggled, following Englend.
Kat helped Denny from the floor and walked over to the counter. They parted hands when Denny was on his feet, but I could tell he wouldn't mind holding her hand for the duration of the trip.
"I'm glad to have you all here," I said, "Glad we could do this."
Everyone nodded, smiling, holding their golden brown shots in the air.
"For America," I said.
"For America!" the rest of them yelled. We soaked in the glory of fine whiskey and hazy conversation for the rest of the night.
Everyone was moving slow in the morning. Englend seemed to be the most up out of everyone. I walked into the kitchen to him whipping 12 eggs, grating cheese, pan frying potatoes, bubbling coffee, and pouring orange juice into mimosa flutes. The champagne was already out. I thought, a little alcohol will probably do me some good. It did. After my third glass, I kissed Carrie when she groggily walked into the living room. She preceded to slump onto the couch. I brought her a cup coffee and some Advil. She smiled meekly into my glazed over, blood shot eyes. I could tell she was hurting, but she would be right in a couple hours. Once we got into the river, all would be right.
"Jesus," said Carrie, "You guys are already drinking?"
"Of course!" Englend laughed, "It's the fourth and it's already noon. We're behind if anything."
"And Englend made breakfast," I said.
"I can see th
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
.english black humour is peppered with sarcasm,
english humour is sarcasm...
watching the gaelic version
is like watchings the irish try to be subtle by being rude,
doesn’t work... normas proved it defeating the saxons...
and subsequently the celtic brides roared in encore!
it really doesn’t work... the polish fraction of me still intact
to remind me of the biology that still works served
the reminder: polish history is still orientated
on the european continent, eastern europe
is not a segregated "continent" that might contend
with england and france being ante-antarctica...
never engage a celt with british humour for guy fawkes or anyone
else in the missing ditto;
celtish or cultish... i never quiet know...
enter the celtish brides... encouraging the advent of copulation
and the excesses of tax to build linear ceramic imprints
of broken bricks, that made it into ratio of
the chiseled brick worth a heavyweight contention with
heated mortar dough; oh right, pooh bear you're offended...
deal with it! unless your uncle is denoted as
adolf ****** and you want him resurrected!
shakespeare never wrote the play: the merchant of mecca,
did he? poor shylock... i was almost caught in admiration
of what english students at 16 thought of that national pride...
known as the *****-bride to **** for an A at a-level.


they still sound out of breath,
out of anything,
esp. words...
they all sound to totem no animal
rather than an ****
which in ceramic wilderness
sounds like wild ****...
where’s the monochromatic monotone
of the drunken sailor going by the name
of st. peter?
fisherman turned sailor... that’s a first...
why didn’t jesus pick barabbas rather than judas?
was it cain that got in the way?
i bet it was. well nox awaits both thief and murderer...
those engaged with rabbanic arts
tend to treat dreams less seriously...
and those that don’t tend to treat dreams more seriously...
those that treat dreams seriously endear the sole
escapism of reality quite seriously...
and for those that don’t... well... there’s the zodiac algebra
and that’s right for a mummified expression
that was bandaged into a circumcised *******.

p.s.
rhyming poetry has spawned the most pointless
ibhibitions of rhythm poetics,
all the current poets sound
    verärgert... exasperated...
    is everyone seriously a ******* goldfish
catching their breath a second time?!
you want to know the most fun thing
i've ever did, today?
i started to tickle my maine ****'s
inner ear with a chicken's egg...
he raised his paw,
he tried to scratch himself...
"something" there was a schizophrenic
violing playing in his cranium,
rather: the temple of his ear...
i was lucky in having to: kitzteln (titillate)
him with an egg...
a chicken abortion i'd probably
consume come tomorrow's breakfast
hour...

             he felt it, the giggles...
the giggles from annoyance being rubbed
the "wrong way"...
so much to say about a woman
whom i attempted to pick a nose
in earning affection of seeing:
the "green fairy" take a ****,
take to farting, breaking the magic of
the feminine persona of "unfathomable" /
unfailable...

            genius: an egg inserted
into a cat's ear to tickle... eating an abortion
the next morn...
                                    all the woes
of the world seem so insignificant when
you buy into feline idiosyncracies...
after all... there's no leash...
no kaganiec...
             there is no stipend associated
with the timing of walkies...
cats are perfectly disorientated by
their own selves: or rather,
their senses...

              you learn atheism from people,
but?! you learn solipsism from cats!
you learn atheism to sound
intellectually superior, sound,
"sensible"...
solispsism you learn from cats...
god or no god...
you are first, you are the last,
while god? "someone" in the middle...
can god be associated to pronouns?
or is god a pure noun: excavation
machina pro grata?
well... if god was ever a person,
being, anti-tool...
wouldn't "he" be a persona non grata?!
well then!
  machina pro grata:
                the noun spin "mr."...

man was never in search of god:
the objective reality remained true as
it always remained...
man was forver bound to the search
of god: via the subjective
personification of said "object"...

      how do you think the muslims
deal with this conundrum?!
they think they are gratifying everyone
else with an objective reality
of god, while they themselves,
with the polytheistic splinter of the gods,
are themselves searching for
the subjective reality of their god...
a person, a personality...
to the muslims their god speaks
the same objective truth as the sort
of truth a pagan might adhere to...
they want to know: a person to speak to,
rather than an object they can throw...

modern poetry when performed is ****,
it all sounds the same...
that overtone of exasperation...
me? i'm not speaking...
itchy finger-tips: idle hands:
the devil's due...
      i'm not speaking among these
youths... it's like that h'american beauty
quote...

ricky fitts: but it helps me remember...
i need to remember...
sometimes there's so much beauty in the world,
i feel like i can't take it,
     and my heart is just going to cave in.

lester burnham - whatever he said
about the balloon not being filled with helium...
but with all the bureucratic custody
via custard like some zeno paradox
of a tortoise outrunning achilles...
               the beauty can remain...
to enchant the easily impressionable...
after all: you "only live once"!
the beauty will always remain...
hence the seasons...
               but there's only one
impressionable aspect of this reality...
the thought you leave with...
the thought, implying:
the lost aspect of a moral (th)ought
to be envisioned in it not being
sentenced to a maxim
    or a proverb...
                       or a lesson...
after all... once man grows old:
he's no longer fond of learning,
but overtly eager to teach...
         i'm neither... 33...
who am i to learn from or teach for?
teaching by mistakes?
       no one really teaches by example...
unless on a pure technical canvas
associated with a trade or a tool...
which life is neither!

what is the west selling as their... "capitalism"...
their next ponzi scheme of "made in... chi'nah?!"
this, this is capitalism?!
i remember days when gap shirt
lifted the words: made in canada....
quality... would last you 20 years...
the wool wouldn't thin, the colours
wouldn't fade...
                    capitalism my ***, these days!
i came to the promised land,
i remained: with broken bones
            and ****** make-up tutorials....

for all the belief in man,
and this, non-existent fear of god,
savvy,
      upon the sacred altar of
the debauchery of prometheus,
upon the sacrifices of a.i. atlas...
upon: will electricirty ever replace fire...
who stole the rod of zeus
beside promothian thief who came
back with the eternal fire of Odin?
who?!
my kindred: alas!
                     and to what end?!
to the end without any surprise...
for the cosmopolitan cul de sac:
screaming at a brick wall pretending
to talk to one one but brick!
    
  i too visited: Krzyżtopór, in the village of Ujazd,
   Iwaniska commune, Opatów County...
how... the categories congregated
with implosions to make a ground:
specific...
  what would be the categorical imperative
for the congregative consumate
orientation of said narrative?

     even my grandfather remembers
the famous debackle concerning
Alfried Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach...
i do come from a family
of metallurgy... or coal-mining...
  both as true as these coal-riddle hands
supposing ink in pixel...
  
come on... the Schwerer Gustav?
the gun of all guns?! the one with the sort
of recoil that demanded train lines
to incubate the impact?!

modern, spoken, poetry, bores, me...
it's simply exasperated...
  exasperated by rhyme,
exasperated with rhyme,
exasperated outside of rhyme...
i'm listening to clones...
i don't won't to write modern poetry,
simply because:
i will not recoil with a take
on modern poetry...
  i don't do exasperated...
as much as i adore olivia gatwood's:
manic pixie dream girl...
yes, a ref. to the garden state movie...
the shins: new slang...
yeah... i did that **** in edinburgh...
climbing the scaffold...
erected around new college...
dancing on the roof with myself at night...
watching the *****-bank fluoride
white above the firth of forth one night...

but that's what i find really evil...
you know how in the movies,
the actors and actresses brush their teeth...
but never rinse?!
instead? keep that toothpaste in their mouths?!
******* never rinse!
that's evil... i'll tell you:
brush witha  pea-sized dollop, then rinse...
all the movies you see will never show you
a person rinse their teeth after brushing...
you should look into rinsing...
and? you'll never lose weight by going
to the gym...
you'll get stretch-marks, for sure...
there are only two ways to lose weight:
bicycle or swim...
swim or bicycle... better... both!

going to the gym will not help you...
you'll need plastic surgery!
but hollywood movies are evil this way...
they portray people washing their teeth
without spitting out the excess toothpaste
and not rinsing their mouths...
with water...

            who does that?!
hollywood is the next dentistry monopoly?!
pea sized amount of paste,
at the end of the day will do,
and then please spit,
then rinse with water...
don't just do what hollywood bad teeth
brigade do...
keep that paste in your mouth
like car battery acid / fluoride!

   pea sized brush once a day,
spit, rinse... slide your tongue over
your teeth to feel the sheen of
           ivory mingling with glass.

i hate modern poetry, why is everyone pretending
to be asthamtic, exasperated, out-of-breath?
with the same punctuation "all of a sudden"?
**** if i'm going to speak,
i'm not speaking...
             not in this climate...
edinburgh 2006...
  that's when i wanted to speak...
but then my eyes stole my tongue and told me
to listen.
i've been listening every since...
and...
i haven't even registered one hearing
of an echo since then.
Zachary Nov 2013
you took powerful women and made them powerless,
kissed each tongue as if she was a new flower sniffed
a treasured spelled question where its only found in bliss
a new girl for my hand now that's a cowards tisk tisks
spitting each one of there souls for your own self discovery
my menacing thoughts are hashed out as if each one was for her, you see
like i was a monster with an inner demon that counted our souls
that counted our souls as if i was the one stealing
right out of stock i rather fight then mock
im stronger then i look
most of mother ******* rather leave then look
you know leave comfort right outer your nook
its over booked
like a library over due
curse
each one of my demons that over see
my shoulder they sneeze
achoo
and i only flu they breeze
Jehovah
my god he sees.
id rather respect him
then fall into a snare of sleeze
you mother *******
barely got a grasp of life
and see more then only I can
sac
riff
ice
its a little watery for jam,
maybe you should open it
close most of those books
that never opened
or writ
or did i mean write
lets charge the read
not for the color
but only because
we seek for that lover
its or an
orange
melodies
that searched more then what i have to cover
or more then me just wanting to brother
sibling or not
i will fight and naught
breathy cadence of her warm children
most of you mother are just feel ins
they are some what still-in(steal?)
no use reuse
you dont think God
(God dont you think)
will choose?
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
why do i have to be a dog for my cats?
the male one is teasing my
neighbour's dog...
the dog starts barking,
doesn't stop...
so i start barking...
a dismembered word
rough with a range of
neared onomatopoeias...
i hate barking, it never sounds
like a dog... more like a
dinosaur... Ra! (a name for a roar),
a tongue's trill at the ******'s in-between...
i hate barking...
or like at the chemists, an old man and me,
i had the seat, asked if he wanted it,
he said no,
we were both waiting for a prescription...
'well, if you're not taking it
i'll stand with you in show of solidarity'
my arms folded like a pigeon or a crow
strutting... well, if he ain't going to sit
i'm not going to sit either....
there you go, solidarity, **** Wałensa...
mushy mushy overgrown moustache nozzle...
brr brr... do the motorboat of oral ***
like you're expressing shrivelling watching
the northern lights! yep, got you...
selfie taken... now make a pose for
Lactose Falls of the waterfalls from your
eyeing *******... yep... that's a happy couple...
take two! no, you ******* go off and wait
in the tourists' queue
like the other 100 ******* did politely.
Liz McLaughlin May 2013
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be *******)
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
                                      (across from the McDonald’s and next to
                                             the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.

the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.

it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
                                                                two large
                                                       separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms

then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter

I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom

but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they

then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time

but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia

I bawled

there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
a bit like listening to
enya's take on the lord of the rings
soundtrack...
who, the ****, wouldn't
wish to drown, listening
to these Celtic mermaids?
i know i would...

the lunch?
salad....
  cherry tomatoes, fresh pepper,
fresh chillies...
      guacamole with chillies...
god, infused with lime...
greek goat's cheese...
           crunch iceberg lettuce...
and?
****... must have missed somethng...
well...
there was also prosciutto...
like i once said:
i hate bacon...
    prosciutto?
             give me a bucket-load
and i'll play the chipmunk...

   god i hate bacon...
ugh...
     it's lile eating gorilla turds
with a comparison
to what tuna steaks will never be,
and what smoked
salmon slices share with
prosciutto...

the bits that make a whiskey...
smoked salmon...
           if the Japanese will not
entertain salt in their sushi?
**** it...
we'll smoke the ******* out...

what a glorious statement of
attaching oneself to hubris...
  and the Celtic mermaids?
one question:
can i drown, right here and now?!
i want to drown!
i want to turn into a merman!
i want to cry!
oh god... for all eternity!
i want to cry!
i want to cry when
beauty is expressed so piquantly!

i want to be acknowledged
my by second mother, art,
who would never dare
to engage in the ancient greek
ritual of placing two coins
over my eyes to pay
Charon...

             oh sweet Celtic mermaids
from a missing Odyssey!
I.R.A.: punch the grieving
paw of the Anglican lion
surrendering
with a take on dentistry!

i want to drown...
   you songs turn the salty
seas into sugary fountains!
   i want to drown!
embraced by your voices
in the choir or the echoing
chambers of oyster shells!

   i never liked sushi to begin
with...
either the north sea smoked salmon
slices...
or the Baltic Sea raw herrings...

                 the English?
leave them...
   congregating on the money...
surmounting there sphere of influence,
the Atlantic Ocean that becomes
a pond...
   leave them... bestow a leverage of
stalling them...
         keep them comfortable...
keep them exclusionary...
  keep them: 50+ years too late...
that will buy us time...

           keep them sifting through rat ****...
we need them disorientated,
looking at a cul de sac,
rather than a road with, other, road
genesis injunctions
of what life, twist and burden turn
we have to share...

         now... i don't cry because
i'm sad...
      i cry... when beauty is made
sacrificial...
             and since so few cry at beauty?
i have to cry...
because?
  whatever is being regurgitated
mainstream?
   does not gravitate me
to the necessary emotional stratum...

all i can think of is...
  
               Celtic mermaids of Ireland...
and drinking buddies of Scottish
trans-gender kilt highlanders,
Welsh longbow men spies
   of Swansea...
   and the English?
guess it's just a case of talking:
"right across the... 'pond'"...
     like ******* are...
pond people my ******* god...

          i would have feigned the delusion
of... a shared tongue = a shared
cultural reference!
but in sudoku?!

   linear + sq. ≠ diagonal -

England and the U.S. and Australia?!
a dog barking up the wrong tree...
it always was, it always will be...

          i'll rephrase my concept
of England and America...
   being "specially" connected...
what? like retards?!

                        Pontius Pilate:
i'm washing my hands clean of the affair...

ask a Swiss... what he might have felt
about **** Germany!
no?
                           no what?!

      this country already constituted
a perfected allowance to deem my
ethnicity equivalent to vermin,
rats.... foxes...

     well... better this commentary
stays underground...
i wouldn't want some, ******,
reading this sort of wording;

mind you, he, it, she, they,
might forget it 10 minutes later.      

god, i hate bacon...
   but prosciutto?
                            as long as it's combined
in a salad...
  with fresh veg., and greek
goat's cheese...
    no, *******, problem!

SPRING ONIONS!

— The End —