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A worn out segment sliced from the cake of life
Raging candles burned down to nothing, wax
Parting company, blazing wick no longer cares
Hot and fiery, flames deny their existence
Forgetting the meaning of life as they fade away
Burning episode....they’d waited all their lives
For, dissolved, quick and painful, heat searing
Cake sliced open to spill its contents, only
To be munched and mulched into oesophablivion
Short and sweet, guaranteed to be swallowed
With no regard for the time and toil of preparation
Of melting moments, whisking wildly, meeting
New partners, shaking hands magnificently to
Encourage the flavours to follow through...as if
They should know who they are, what they’re for
Is life a cake or a gateau coated in whipped double
Cream?  Next to my lips the cream melts splendidly
A cake connoisseur I’m not, neither do I eat the same
Slice, mundanity slipping away with each mouthful, no
Point in rubbing salt into the wounds, cram in the
Fullness that is living, bloated out with your cake
                                                            ­         .......and eat it!
suicidal twitch Oct 2014
I like Homestuck,
Donald Duck,
Ancient Greek Gaea,
APH Hetalia,
Marzia and Pewdiepie,
Random bow ties,
Doctor Who,
That colour of greenish blue,
Sherlock Holmes,
Garden gnomes,
Boy/boy ****,
Sweet tea,
Left 4 dead,
Books I've read,
Minecraft,
When I laughed,
Yu-Gi-Oh,
Gateau,
Ender's Game,
Notre Dame,
World War One,
World War Two,
Mouse and shrew,
Bugsy Malone,
Jam scones,
Birthday cake,
Milk shake,
Drawing art,
Taking part,
MLP,
Shopping spree,
Sleeping in,
West Berlin,
Random songs,
When bells go ****,
Stars shine,
My blood line,
All my friends,
The latest trends,
Yuri much,
And such and such,
Fanfiction,
A prediction,
Doujinshis,
Marshall Lee,
RhymeZone,
My touchscreen phone,
I could go on,
But that's too long,
But my favourite is,
Hello poetry - so don't diss!!
Finally finished darlings!
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Cakes & Ale

I woke up in a bakery they do start early, the aroma of bread
is wonderful, they were also making cakes whipping creams.
Napoleon cakes and Danish pastry, black forest gateau and other
pastries I have as a child looking through the windows of bakery
shops admired. Too much, I walked outside and lit a ***, inhaled
deeply and the tobacco soothed my mind, giving me a feeling of
fullness. It was only then I remembered I have diabetes, a heart
problem and have not smoked for 15 years. Has it been worth it
this forgoing of the good thing in life; I’m not sure, it may extend
my life for a few more years of pain and misery, will I die regretting
the cakes I didn’t eat and the **** I didn’t smoke?
Cakes & Ale

I woke up in a bakery they do start early, the aroma of bread
is wonderful, they were also making cakes, whipping creams.
Napoleon cakes and Danish pastry, black forest gateau and other
pastries I have as a child looking through the windows of a bakery
shops admired. Too much, I walked outside and lit a ***, inhaled
deeply and the tobacco soothed my mind, giving me a feeling of
fullness. It was only then I remembered I have diabetes, a heart
problem and have not smoked for 15 years. Has it been worth it
this forgoing of the good thing in life; I’m not sure, it may extend
my life for a few more years of pain and misery, will I die regretting
the cakes I didn’t eat and the **** I didn’t smoke?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
one might, invariably, drink red wine infused
with garlic to ward off evil spirits -
or as some claim...
50ml of the stuff at daily intervals
is part of a plan for slimming...
  me? i just don't mind the taste...
        like i wouldn't mind a kiss from an onion
or... slobbering into an ash-tray
sort of a girl mouth in one of those sticky floor
nightclubs circa the early 2000s we go into
for underage drinking...
being boys i do wonder what sort of *******
escapades we were supposed to unearth...
it's not like we were Pan-Am stewardesses
readying ourselves for some glitz,
some Ritz... some... thespian shadow-thieving
on the pristine screen...
garlic infused red wine...
it's not so bad... even though it's not mine
since, after all: the best ***** on the planet
is not your own - blah blah, blah...
but lucky for the 500 quid front suspension
trek marlin 5 arrived today and...
tomorrow i go catch the wind...
it feels like being six-teen again...
not that walking marathon distances is
a problem: Pots to herr belly...
from 104, kg, to circa 107, kg...
and that's still more than half...
of what mass-loss ought to "feel" like...
although... it doesn't feel like anything
when the "subjective" numbers come
across the "objective" numbers
but unlike walking...
where time and distance and the dimension
of movement are most pronounced...
a bicycle is unlike a horse
but is like a dog...
somehow...
   a bicycle is most certainly not a car
and a car is most certainly not a horse...
but a bicycle is... not...
it's... unlike a horse...
but like a dog...
that it's not a dog is pretty obvious...
but i'm conjuring up...
concepts like muzzle...
leash... WD40 oil for the chain...
and... enough air in the tires...
since we're not talking a road bicycle and
nothing has to be slender jimmy either...
it's a pristine orange...
the colour does matter, somehow...

when i liked jazz i stopped digressing
into classical...
when i stopped digressing into jazz
i allowed myself for
classical music to become complimentary
to things - complicated...
not that jazz wasn't...
but what it wasn't was that it wasn't
scripted and all that
"spontaneity" revels in exhausting itself
somehow: becomes predictable...

a jazz "us" vs. a classical "we": vs.
nothing so much clearly even remotely aligned
to that...
it was a Friday night and i was this close | |
to gauging my eyes out
after having watched a director's cut of a movie...
it beat the standard bearer...
whichever it was... Ben-Hur or Spartacus...
nearing to 4 hours of...
by the end of it: almost gauging my eyes out...
hardly Pavlov or drooling...
of making me an infantilised *******
sputnik moon-key...

a sense of: culture is dying...
what's predominately being "served"
is cancel is cancel is cancel is...
well... to overcome some variation
of nihilism ascribed to morals...
we found the modern woman in the 1950s
and 60s...
the supposed, modern man...
we'll find in the 2050s and the 2060s...
if we're lucky...
when a somewhat status quo returns...
otherwise: what's on offer is still
a dynamic of "arrogance" / agitation...

my insomniac libido...
my insomnia's insomnia...
why i wouldn't doge a cocktail of
alcohol... 250mg of naproxen...
and something resembling para-cet-a-mole
to switch-off...
i switch off:
i don't fall asleep... always...

complete with a thorough hard-on
i can exactly fathom by diluting it over
a mortal conversation with the opposite ***...
because there's this illusion
and it's stupendous...
etymological relaxation in order?
evidently history is placed within
a self-erasure composite glue...
work around this architecture...

my first... bicycle route...
the tires are pumped up
it took me close to 7 hours to walk
to st. paul's cathedral and back...

then one of those:
write everything via an anagram...
anagram: soul - losu -
                 los - which implies... fate...
losu? implies a possessive article of fate:
i.e. fate itself...
fate's whim...
              i had a dream yesterday...
i'm adamant the person i spoke
with dealt in the term... RESURRECTION...

i think i was talking to a zombie in a dream,
whoever i was talking to...
like the hues of Baltic amber...
an allotment of greens and blues...
tinges of orange mingling with yellows
and ripe reds...
nothing purpose filled like
purple followed: for the clarity of
dignifying mourning...
or an eternal clue for blue...

i was drinking medication!
i was duped!
two variations of grammar to decipher...
what it was i was drinking...

but i'll need to speak something
older than colt hing-leash...
i.e.
  garlic infused red wine
red wine infused with /
                                  by garlic...
it's a slimming elixir... apparently...

here goes! dive!

             knoblauchinfundiert rotwein...
rotwein infundiert mit /
                         durch knoblauch...
if i were drinking my own pīß...
                                         not enough: pish!
                                       pysh...
passer... by...    zilch on a leash...
it's a mix-up between py-š and py-ś...
     no... it's not even remotely related
to                                         π-σζ
ask a greek, though...
whether                           σζ can be coupled
like ae or oe...
                             given... SH... &...
                                            μαμ ση...
even the complexity of the mandarin skeletons
doesn't allow them to conjure up
more sounds behind the letters
that are already: a priori...
left... available...

tangled up in the affair of the "gods": or: not, god...
a mother seeks a supposition of a son...
we tells her...
while at the altar of words...
i began this session with red wine infused
with garlic... i'll end it with some
mulled wine...
the cat's my winged sphinx...
the cat's my winged sphinx...

for the toils beckon me remote...
i harvest a lineage that has to come to an end...
mother dear why you will not be grand...
while i won't be the fathering kind...
like it might not excused
for that thespian reality of....
gearing up to: froth forth at a pronto...
my red wine infused with garlic...

i knew i had to lend an ear to
the deutsche-zunge like
like Wend...
nieme-ludzie.... niemdy-lud...
although their black-forest gateau was
to... die for...
older than english...
this modern leash of...
this isn't the 21st century... is it...
this isn't the century of the culimation
of expectations... is, it?
if it is... where was "ground zero":
this... "Golgotha" of the supposedly
requested hour?
by what hour... are hours worth a count...
that sort of hour-ing, yes?

by the demands of what "suffices":
that i didn't speak with a god...
that i did encounter a chanced audience
with... the ******* choir... yes...
how does that sound...
having smoked marihuana
and having to "somehow" usher in...
something so antithesis of cosmopolitan...
sensible: i came across the god's choir...
but not god himself...
i cowered and started rummaging
occupying a space
before the great altar...
the great altar, so be it...
amen...              i hid under the tablature in
a white cloth...
an F a TH a PH but not a P- (prefix lady
added to the "complexity" of a response...

i met the choir, before i was allowed to
meet the deity...
last time i heard... from kabbalistic sources:
upon meeting the deity the sure
and impeding quest for death:
a clear sky... but a streak of cloud
making a quill be resembled, symbolic...
detailing a quasi-barricade...
between reality, reels, real and the races...

for an audience:
but such details are supposed to be...
confided without a public scrutiny...
then again... given my timing...
timing: not having to father children...
no ambitions of such: deeds... therein imploding...
red wine infused with garlic
for starters... mulled wine to finish it off
with an amnesia of sorts...
Bellie-boo Dec 2015
Yet here I go...
To put on a show,
In these stanzas' rhymes I will stow,
Creating this laminar flow,
Stringing words together to form a sentence like an archipelago,
Needing this poem like bread dough,
Although I know it will never become a gateau,
Nor a chocolate Bordeaux,
It is more akin to a cheapo combo,
Housing poultry clauses building a bordello,
Impertinent this may seem like loving a guanaco,
But what you will learn from this puppet show,
*Is that not all poems have to rhyme,
In order to flow.
It does not take a rhyme master to navigate the scriptures of poetry. Poetry is not one set rubric for one to fill in for if it was all poems would sound the same, which they do not. Therefore do not say you are terribly bad at poetry, instead find your style, or create your own, and fill it with your voice.
Olivia Kent May 2014
A chocolate gateau, covered in cream.
Nothing artifical here.
Full of sweetness, moist and lush.
A fruity taste, a pure delight.
Such great taste.
Pure and true.
Made that way just for you.
I'm tempting and tempted.
What you see is what you get.
Wipe my cream from your masculine face.
Love me  truly, as much as I love you.
(c) Livvi
Mars Aug 2018
i want to meet a very highly acclaimed french chef
but i want him to be ugly.

i want him to recognize the feeling of others walking past him and having not a clue how great he is, but making a remark on how he probably doesn't **** very much.

he'll want to turn to the speaker and yell with the force of 1000 chinese kettles screaming
"you don't know a thing! i make the best truffle oil angel hair pasta around, the girls can't keep their soft silk hands off of my body, plus you can’t even fathom the amount of money I make.”

in reality

he wishes someone were there to taste him instead of the food he makes
he wonders if his tears will make a good replacement for the sodium in the Alsatian Bacon ****
the ticket bell keeps ringing but his phone never does
and
despite all of the praise he gets, all he can ever picture is washing the dishes while She fills her belly up with his Cherry Gateau Basque

“the table in the mahogany section particularly liked their Steak Diane! great work today.”
he knows it doesn’t matter how good he can cook. he will always be ugly and ugly pairs with lonesome as much as tender lamb with root vegetables.

at night when the kitchen closes and everyone has gone home, he pretends he has his own tender lamb.

a Woman with soft skin and a heart that has been cooked at 280 degrees before

a Woman who doesn’t complain when he gets angry at himself for slicing his finger

a Woman who tells him to stay in bed while she makes him scrambled eggs and hot black coffee

And maybe she’ll feel a bit inferior with what she prepared but he’d eat it all up and act like it was the best **** meal to ever pass his lips
even better than the Foie Gras he had in France

but all of these thoughts remain dreams and he is ****** back to reality as the garbage disposal sputters and his soft tender lamb is washed down the drain with the rest of the food particles
and then it’s just him and his kitchen and the fluorescent lights and
the scent of grease.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: hubris Mina -
body: towers to topple
Babel.

well, i could be massively wrong...
but even today was hard to be wrong...
about interactions with member of the public
at the London Stadium...
turns out: for all my hard-trying to be this...
recluse... this hermit... i'm pretty good with people...
the day you stop surprising yourself
is the day you die...
       i like this surprising little me...
i still don't know how my Turkish barber figured
out a look for me without me knowing...
since my mustache is blonde: even though
my grandmother contests: it's ginger...
o.k. o.k. strawberry blonde...
but my soul patch is ultra blonde...
and it's long... how did the Turks figure out...
a fu manchu mustache will look good...
with an elongated soul patch...
and a brown beard to boot... huh?!
  oh my god, loving yourself is so easy...
the ******* glove fits...
   i'm tired of wanting to be loved...
by someone else... i'm pretty good on my own...
when i sit down to write this...
the room: my bedroom i'm occupying sort
of shrinks... the room becomes claustrophobic
and i become... that cenobite from
the Hellraiser franchise... butterball...
     i gloat in my own self...
              a sort of Walt Whitman... i'm going to sing
a song to myself...
i'll twist the soul patch... i'll twist the fu manchu extensions
of the mustache... make them more pronounced...
but this room feels... rather small...
but there's that time framework to this space...
a private library... i look at the books
on the shelves... wow... well... wasn't that a glorious
August a few years ago...
reading that book...
   books are the most pristine artifacts...
i can sort of remember when i read a certain book
and how long it took me... to read it...
it's becoming increasingly impossible
to not love myself... for myself...
  esp. today... there were supposed to be
two break guys minding the stewards...
one ****** was sent home on grounds of
wrong attire... i had to give out breaks for... 12 stewards...
i was hoping to watch some of the match:
West Ham vs. Everton in the second half...
like **** i was... too busy...
doing? **** all!
       if this is work and this "work" is nothing but
loitering... get me to call the gaffer
and up: right up on the roof! to do some
proper work, some waterproofing!
**** me...
       i just stand around and look pretty...
lucky for me... three German lads approached me...
i don't know why i have such a high affinity
with the Germans...
maybe because... historically speaking...
the ****** only experienced an acute sense
of the German revenge machinery after Versailles...
6 years? but... when it comes to the Russians...
oh... those ******* are always suspect...
from 1945 through to 1990... circa...
i'd take those 6 years of **** rule than...
those 45 years of the globalist communist agenda...
national socialism makes more sense
than globalist socialism... let's be frank...
people are always going to favour their kin...
or... when dating Promis in high-school...
this "mongrel"... well... sure... i could race-mix...
with a Turkish girl... or an Iranian girl...
that's my extent of interracial mingling...
this half-Indian half-Scouser 6ft beauty...
we used to go to Edgware Road for some shisha...
****-hurt firebrands of model Muslim:
male citizens would try to convert me...
to... Islam... and they always asked me...
are you German? i just giggled... then...
i stopped giggling... maybe i ought to be...
     you know... it's one thing for a ****** to pretend
to be a German... because?
a ****** can't fake being a Russian...
it's such a vanity tickle... to be thought of as a German...
don't ask me as to a why, or a... how?
no... there's only the why...
i'd hate to be mischaracterised as a Russian...
a German i can take... why?
who dressed the Wehrmacht? Hugo Boss...
i have a fetish for that uniform... like most South Koreans...
just my luck...
only yesterday i was scribbling
Helmut and Hans jokes...
today... three German lads approached me...
oh... we chatted... like... our grandparents weren't
on the opposite side of a conflict...
strange... i've been on several trips
to Ypres... Belgium, visiting World War I graves...
it always felt... anaesthetic-like when visiting
the Anglophone graves of individuals...
but... when visiting the mass-graves of the Germans...
where... birds... notably robins and sparrows
always used to frequent...
no... not in the individual Anglophone graveyards...
the darkening sensation of standing over
the mass graves of Germans...
that was something... eerie... pure...
        i must look like a German...
clearly... i'd sooner be friendly with a bunch of Germans
than... a bunch of Russians...
the Russians already know i'm a ******...
but... but the Germans... they can mistake me
for one of their own... which is... a *******
cherry on a black forest gateau...
it's sort of complimentary -
Nietzsche at the height of his madness thought he was a ******...
me... i can pull off a German look almost every other
Sunday... if young Muslim boys think i am...
and i have a terrible fetish for the German tongue...
north h'americans and their *******:
zurückgeblieben rasse-politik (race-politics)...
what about the: ethnisch-stoff? (ethnic-fabric)
weren't the Germans fighting Prussians in that
100 year old Crusade up north,
when Barbarossa was pickled after drowning in
his armour?
who gives a **** about race? north h'americans do...
race isn't associated with history...
ethnicity... on the other hand: does, care... much more...
i care about ethnicity... because that's what allow
a ****** to distinguish himself from a Russian:
i'm not going to learn Russian...
i'd sooner scribble some Greek letters than that
cheap-*** Cyrillic... version...
i'll sooner learn German than learn Russian...
ethnicity is polarised...
beyond a pale-comparison in stressing race...
you simply can't have ethnicism...
like you might have racism...
            
what did we talk about?
me and the three Deutsche lads?
the Bundesliga vs. Bayern Munich...
what cities should they visit?
come next year... for the rugby... go to Edinburgh...
why? why?! it's a beautiful city!
when was West Ham founded...
look there: as i pointed...
1895... Thames Ironworks FC...
                 should we visit Cambridge or Oxford?
i told them... even though i haven't visited Cambridge...
but have visited Oxford...
i'm a Cambridge man...
        what city to visit when in Germany?
Cologne?
for the cathedral? sure...
  i wish i said more in the mutter-zunge...
fair enough... auf wiedersehen...
my heart raced to the right conclusions...
i'm a pretend German among pretend Germans...
diluted blood... Saxons among the Welsh...
the Picts... the Normans...
lebewohl!
             100 years ago...
it would be so impossible for "my" people to simply
not resist the Germanisation of the ****** people...
these days? i'm... more than willing...
i must be a... fool... i must be a... traitor...
then again: my homegrown compatriots have
been,.. a waste of time... a scandal...
i'm no more a traitor than they have been
a... waste of time... at best: an excuse...
time wasters... i am yet to pledge any sense of
allegiance to a people that...
sure... white... but as proven...
i can take different sides...
               i'm not ******* in the north american
sense of race-politics...
   i'm more interested in the ethnicity-fabric...
there's history invoked / involved in
the latter...
  i like pretending to be German...
    it's all the more easier...
given that my second name is Conrad;
maybe that's why the Muslim attacks against Poland
and Lithuania have been so low on number...
that 100 year crusade of the Teutonic Knights against
the pagans... shared ills... the Mongols in Baghdad...
hey... here's to reasoning some...
correlations... shared plight...
                     personally? i think people love history
more than they might love the friction of fictional
writings... i personally do...
oh dearest Mina'h....
seclude my apparition of existence...
thus kept... with no other formality
other than, your kiss.
this is not a shared experience,
this is why i don't write: or if i write i do out
of spare details in some variation
of leaving opening the gates of ditto
                        like so:    

                                           (thus).

australian visa assessment registration,
fee: i only learned of there being a fee
after i scrolled past each month
from the year 2024 back to 1986
to find may 15th in may

                    some "miraculous" date obscurity
like there is a need to celebrate
with song akin to Aud Lang Syne:
but there isn't cause for celebration

a very quiet formal affair of champagne
black forest gateau
                         roasted chicken and tatties
with some coleslaw to my astonished
improvement
not just mayonnaise but apple cider vinegar
to give the cabbage and onion
and carrot the added semi-pickled crunch
and some mustard and some mary-rose
sauce and some parsley
then before coffee was served
a shot of Polish bimber (moonshine)...
a sobering slob of a tongue slithering into
the shot glass before the guillotine
of knocking it back...

girlfriend future wife on Kauai (Ka Wa E)
woke me in the morning
finishing a shift in a restaurant cleaning
pots and pans: clamor of stainless clutter
a happy birthday song
i haven't heard since i was still a child...

sto lat sto lat niech yje nam niech

וה     (almost forgot that i still had the vah
stashed on my dashboard...)
to remedy the 'yje - from the clutches of RZ..

i.e. learning new words from Cambridge:
is used as an allographic variant of the letter Ż:
Ƶ is a handwritten form of the letter Xi (ξ

zeugma
allophone
allographic
polysemy

ʒ or subscript 3
partial beta-clause...

                         of Iraq and the ziggurats...
disappoints...
whatever your choices
there will always be pockets of
unabashed chaotic memory revelations
not caused by the calamity of
spontaneity
but life pushes on and through
to no greater measure of the worth
of living beyond the one already
testified with: as
the lived - to my amusement how living
is coupled to experiencing:

that there is talk of a lived-experience
like experience is a word less
harsh than existence:
out of every instance
the incapacity to hold a thought-narrative
that could be summoned intact
an intact-self the self-intact-ness

    -less is also a quality that can be
best summarized via
scrambled eggs without the yolk...
pale scrutiny of fats missing...

of Yemen and their zhoug...
like a variation on the Argentinian
chimichurri...
   because i believe that's where
said origins of the paste-blob that could
be used to spice up dull paintings
2nd best utilized prospectus...

or stay in one place like Gloucester Harbor
and count seagulls like
Charles Olson
                or perhaps like Kant
count footsteps toward the further away
point of mind the anchor
and thoughts the seas
sacrifices of adventure no further
than the vicinity of Königsberg at a 10 mile
stretch...

to now think from humble origins
to the deafening boom-echo vibration
of London under the arch of Wembley
to suppose i need to step a foot outside
the reality of sea and bring
the sky to the sunrise
and venture toward Polynesia

this Palagi...
Haole...                    at least in the category
of: us "vs" them or rather
                            us v                non-

leben sie wohl!
                   leben sie wohl!

ah: a day's interlude...
a working pattern...
start writing in the morning and afternoon
micro dosage of Putin Marijuana
i don't think i drank...
?
no... i didn't drink...
i micro dosed

on marijuana juan's mary...

            then got on with life
put on white shirts on in the PRALKA
like PRAVDA
PRALKA a word which i will allude to in a triangle...
i.e.

1st person
2nd person
3rd person

grammatically:

                                Matthew (2nd person,
                                      NOUN)





        ­      I                                                    He
(1st person,                                        (3rd person,
PRENOUN)                                             PRONOUN)

why do children from syllables
in Asia and continue
our ontological genesis is syllable bound
we only later much
later discover atoms and letters
#MAMA

MA MA
not Om and twice on the rhythm struck
boom boom boom
heartbeats of the cities of Glob Hades
we only come to letters after making
sounds in imitation and gratifying
other life...

GA GA of the tooth of mama
                        what are pre-nouns?
before man learns names of things:
rivers, objects...

there is no defining subjectivity of the hypothalmus
hippo experience:
existence out of every instance
of those reciprocating life
with due pardon: death is wait
death is wasted space
not time per se...
death is less time invoked as a waste of space
invigorated....

Martin aside: HE was a waste of space
even intellectually...
perhaps i don 't have a day job
but i have a dream world job
of writing for free to the attention of:

sobering note: ever watch 66 thousand people
walk past you so slow
like they did
at DC3 cordon on Olympic way
only one bazooka of cordon ON
with the megaphone ALARM
i can say alert with an accent to give
elert the -sch- it so ******* fatherly
desires... to originate myself in old germanic
working father germany
liberal daughter england
old saxony...

pre-noun is closest I
I who from giggles and laughter
and computer: say NO
NO
reading ****** expressions
knowing boa constricted ******
tension from good ***
and *** implosive
rather than *** explosive
i'd like to see a ***-implosive society
without annex:
nunnery in the bay area
of how internet is used:
a shop, an encyclopedia...

     dating app? shopping app?
pornographic adverts?
******* is like advertisement
in the real world...
people hyper focus off of one
like 0.5 of a person... anchor or bridge?
forgot whether this ship got stuck
in the middle of the river
and turned N/S
from its usual course of E/W
i.e. from east to west
but aeroplanes travel across the tropics
of Cancer: Edie
Capricorn: Promis...

the latter's words ring so true now:
don't try to save these women...
Linda is mother's reflexologist
Lydia is Edie's mum...
and Reyla is the "5th wheel apiece"...

i can finish this right now or waste my efforts
to "refill":
no... until the elbows hurt and the idea
of poetry becoming only cascade
prosaic:
rather if rambling poetry is like a newspaper
is like an escape from books
from prose tight sell-by-date-spacing...
poems don't sell
but books sell
and they sell not by a xthought
of +++digressions...

                            poems like easily discarded
paintings but better... trapped in time in memory
of individuals of individuals
off of individuals
off individuals
collective events like me returning
from Hawaii on the 7th October 2023
and a hell that came with me:

not as a direct result
but then again walk into a protest
march
and scribble any semitic letter on a flag
and chant your chants
and what do you expect...

but poetry can be more than an outlet of
confections and conditions
like some safe-space what with
Dante and Byron?!
is poetry something easily made to print
and not made to indent
on the tectonic plates of mind
this Earth Baron Vishily
and his Salt Mines of Power Bland...
some idea for a former book of science fact
look how the immediate explosion
of man's compa...

/kɒmpɑːtmɛnt(ə)lʌɪˈzeɪʃ(ə)n/

    (i had to look that spelling up...
does one word make me dtslexic? qwerty dyslexi
typo?                           ?)

the explosion of science came with the humanistic
explosion of science fiction...

second, soft scientific revolution
there was an industrial revolution

ergo the obvious for the common man...
but there was a scientific revolution
therefore there has been a
hard scientific revolution
with the chemistry and the physics...

now the soft scientific revolution
with the AI the engineering
and the psy-ops
soft machines and make-ups
and downers big big downers
of the ***** brigade
disillusioned somehow what?
somewhat, yes...

conversation with a DJ at a street party...
soft science that's all
counter productive ontological
first becomes a beginning
and outcomes a hierarchy of endings...
films like ghosts on inflamed vinyl
fireplace marshmallows
and burnt stars of Anise...
           that sweet hash of Morocco i am somewhat
new to you...
Europe is a museum
let us forget
all robots and stubborn farmers left:
new hygiene of ego like spider in a web
of truths and untruths
openly saying: what do you want?
unfair, what is: i thought life was rather generous:
the argument from nothing or off of nothing
god said and why not give humanity
all that i am
in all that's good and horrid and a torrent
of unabashed but never i usher my word
from the: but i needed man for my bureucracy:
byoo-row-ah-cra-c
                                sea­: see Baltic Sea...

/bjʊˈrɒkrəsi/

                       second dyslexic example...
life's complicated and sleep is heavy
with a cat nearby and
i am abusing whiskey and ****
and putting it to good use
imagining myself the street DJ
on the cordon at DC3 that Netflix doc
about bastion Wembley being town apart...

and this is life
my Neckari... a word from the dimension of
the prenoun...
MA                       AM GA
         AT TA          

                      much later much later the noun:

Matthew... could you?
who is Matthew?
this is Matthew?
oh and much much later there comes the narrator
I and then he should he wish realise
the 1st and 2nd and 3rd and his nth
terminology seek guidance when
trying to seek the world...

          I comes from nowhere rather than nothing...
not a rigid concept to be honest
enough scalpels in the air as it is...
"i am" Matthew to then abstract Matthew
as the countless number of them
and discriminate with there being only
one River Thames
but at least twice as many Londons...
regardless...
"i am" Matthew - m other said father said MATEO...

later much later when all the other nouns
started to sink in and become
vocabulary antics of:
            then once Matthew knew the air
the sky the moon the sun
the chair...
the cat...
          only when Matthew became Matthias bar Adam
did Matthew finally understand
a way to say: Matthews...

   i am "matthew"...
                                  only then and only thus...
then and only from then and there:
the idea of pronouns...
and trans-genderism and this "philosophy" of Silicon
coming from the guards at the Iron Curtain...
i've been woken up by tremors in
the Silicon Curtain and all that soft
talk technology like bio-tech is not the most
maneable...  ▽ ◼◼◼

                        maniable...

             what if one create a genre of AI
communication pretend Sauron?

a sample:

konrad eschlert
can you fathom a geo-political transition from the Iron Curtain to the Silicon Curtain give the Silicon Valley social media tech billionaires wanting to be part of the conversation, soft trans-humanism etc... i am drunk and writing a poem and this will be a sample in my creative endeavor

chatgpt
certainly, i can help explore that concept for your poem. here's a draft idea for your creative writing.

from the iron curtain to the Silicon
Veil,m a shift from cold steel to the soft
glow of screens, where once the shadows
loomed in brick and rail,
now algorithms whisper in digital
dreams.

Silicon Valley's titans rise, enshroud,
their networks weave a tapestry unseen,
in data's grip, the silent masses crowd,
new borders drawn in binary sheen.

trans-human whispers hum through
the wire, augmented selves in clouds,
begin to form, the billionaires,
like gods, our new desires, their coded
realms the eye of every storm.

yet, echoes of the iron curtain's past,
remind us of the cost of hidden walls,
in this brave new world, where shadows cast,
beware the veil where freedom slowly falls..


but there are AI limitations
on say: invoke smart phone Morse
or E. E. *******'s punctuation for
ol' 'am of D'A'S...
      lazily not hyphenated...

hats, rabbits and who was sitting in the rights
place...
   no subjective experience of...

TRANSRIPT

THE FRONTAL LOBE is for personality and emotions, higher thinking skills, like problem solving; and controlling movement. It continues to develop until you are in your mid 20s.
THE TEMPORAL LOBE helps process your hearing and other senses, and helps with language and reading.
THE PARIETAL LOBE is involved with your senses, attention, and language.
THE OCCIPITAL LOBE helps your eyes see, including recognition of shapes and colors.

which part of Martin is ****** up?

so much of what's the subjectivity of the brain
is simply a QUARTER of
what the reality of the brain is
name the eyes
and tongue
and skin and movement and so much of the brain
is something
quiet an experience unlike
a heart-attack
like a shaman drug trip sort of exhausting others
in how he can perceive himself
having an early retirmenet
in a care home freed from life's constraints
that might have been a kamikaze mission
if i were to conjure up a bonanza of quests of Q?

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away
but sure as **** invites a god
a word that's a god personality / medium
a devil
a cat several angels
and dead people and hmm hmm hmms
and botanical king the curious green
itch from brown below
to sieve through roots
and find enough sand to create a bridge
toward the kingdom of the snorkeling
apes from white Odysseus pale pale pale
by comparison
this kingdom from the sea not associated
with a north i'd sooner find upon waking
north to my left
and east ahead of me and
west behind me every time i travel into London...
much easier at the Firth of Forth
in Edinburgh
but so too there there was youth...
not the clamor of age and sensibility...

how to date this... hmm: perhaps with age:
38 on the 16th May 2024.
Poetry is the cake of life
The words are the nourishment
Rich and delicious
As we gently devour
Them, Keeping us fed
Hour by hour,
It’s all in our head
The taste is so good,
A satiety it’s said
Like a nice chocolate pud
Or a sponge cake velvety red
A delicious torte
Or Black Forest gateau
And a glass of port
Words and cake I can devour
Hour by hour!
🍰 CAKE!

— The End —