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Ayad Gharbawi Dec 2009
THE STORY OF SARA

Ayad Gharbawi


CHAPTER 2: UNIVERSITY

  
  Well, I did study and, I did pass my exams, and I did succeed in ending up in a decent, upper class school!
  How did I pay for it? I hear you ask me?
  I didn't: I got a scholarship!
  And, what a new world I faced!
  What a totally different society I saw!
  I felt that I was in another country, for I never knew that there existed, from my own people, men and women such as those I encountered!
  My studies in psychiatry really excited me: I thought that I would be able to 'solve' anyone's mental problems.
  All I had to do, was to study and study as feverishly as I could.
Studying furiously, and with love and passion, was the key to success.
  Study, and then you pass your examinations, and then you become a doctor in psychiatry - and I would thereby become successful.
  I would then be someone important.
  I would be respected by everyone.
  My life would have a purpose and a meaning because I would be going in the correct path.
It was simple as that!
  And what was the alternative?
  Not to study?
  And what would I do then?
  Go do a menial, low paying job?
  That was anathema to me!
  It made me sick, to even think about that!
  Why?
  Because, I came from a poor background, and I lived in poverty, and I saw the culture and the people who lived in poverty, and by God, I don’t want to ever live in those circumstances ever again in my life.
  What was poverty to me?
  Your house is ugly; your neighbourhood is ugly; your neighbours are the most indecent people you can imagine.
  The area you live in, swarms with people who live their lives in ‘anti-social behaviour’!
  And what’s ‘anti-social behaviour’?
  That means your community is one, where most people are drunks in  public, where fights, with guns and knives, are an everyday occurrence; where the most filthy language is the norm in public; where ******* covers large parts of the town; where vandalism and damage to cars and property is another daily occurrence; where people play ear-deafening music in the streets and there’s nothing you can do – because, if you call the police, they’ll obey, but then they’ll come back and make hell out of your life – in other words, the gangs rule the community.
  Aren’t those enough reasons to get out of poverty?!
  And, then for me, there are other things that are really important to me.
  For example:
  I mean, who is going to respect you, if you have a menial job? Who is going to look up at you?
  Who is going to listen to your words, when you speak?
  And, most importantly, are you yourself going to be happy with your self and with your life, if you had a menial job?
  Of course not!
  To be a fully satisfied human, you need to live in respectable surroundings with a respectable job.
  Otherwise, there cannot be happiness for you.

  Once I joined my university, I encountered mostly upper class students.
  That’s why, I say it was like ‘another world’ for me, because I had never encountered people like that before!
  Their dress was different; their accent and they way they spoke was different; but what interested me the most, was the fact, that their intellectual interests were extremely varied, as opposed to the people that I had grown up with and knew – those people whose only interests, were getting drunk, practicing promiscuity, crime and drugs!
  Now outside classes, I got began to get involved with different groups of academic students – each group held differing ideas about the world, politics, economics, philosophy of life - and any other subject you can imagine.
  I was never interested in what I called the other 'superficial' groups; that is, those who discussed what I considered to be the stupidities of life, such as fashion, make up, cars, sports and so on. No way; not for me, were people like that!
  For I was far too serious for such mind-wasting people, and, frankly life-wasting people.
  No, I wanted to learn; my God how utterly hungry and thirsty and deadly serious about acquiring more and more knowledge on every 'serious' subject I was - so that, one day, I would be a useful and productive human to society!
  If I was not in my classes, and if I was not listening to those intellectuals, I would sit on any desk and search the internet and read endlessly, on any and every 'serious' subject.

With respect to my classes, as the months rolled over, I began to feel, and think, that my professors were not all that smart at all. I began to feel that they were, in fact, quite ordinary, dull people. But then, I grappled with next obvious question: if they were 'ordinary' and 'dull' people, then how come they were professors – and by 'professors', I mean that they must be far from 'ordinary'? Surely, any person, who is able to be a professor, must be intelligent?
  And yet, the more I listened and took down notes from these professors, and the more I analyzed their words and ideas, the more I became convinced at their emptiness and stupidity!
  My God, you must believe me, for they were talking utter *******!
  Well, who exactly, 'made' them professors?
  I began to dislike them.
  Then, the obvious consequences took place in my mind: the more I disliked them, the less I paid attention to their words and that, in turn, increased my boredom in class!
  No, this was a complete and utter waste of time for me. Yes, I would still need to read the text books given to us by the university, and I would need to understand these books in order to pass the examinations.
  But, I was also determined to do my own independent psychiatry studies, in order to find the ways and means of solving people's emotional problems.

I found it really thrilling to see so many students having so many ideas about the world, because, for me it was so utterly unusual to see young people actually caring about so many issues in our lives!
  You had the conservatives; socialists; Dadaists, existentialists, communists of every shade you can imagine; fascists, socialists, liberals, Nazis, monarchists, Hare Krishnas, Hindus, Budhists, yoga-followers, animal rights campaigners, environmentalists, religious fundamentalists, anarchists  - the list was quite endless to the point of absurdity for, within each group, there were sub-groups, that ranged from the so-called 'left' to the so-called 'right'.
  However, in all this confusion and chaos, there were, at least two things, that you knew for certain: and that was, firstly; that no group agreed with any other group, whilst secondly; every 'leader' of any group sincerely and passionately believed that, yes they, and only they, had all the answers to all the questions that faced our dear Humanity!

But with time, it dawned on me that that most of these intellectual students were not quite what I expected of them.
They would passionately discuss any subject and in excruciating detail!
  To me not every subject was worthy of being discussed!
  Everything was criticized in university.
  Everything was questionable.
  Nothing was certain.
  On the opposite these students believed that they had a duty to deeply philosophise and intricately analyse and scrutinize from every angle every subject and issue in our planet!
  Nothing was accepted and nothing was taken for granted.
  And it was exhausting to listen to them!
  I say ‘exhausting’ because after every meeting, I would actually feel emptier!
  I simply did not learn or gain anything from all these endless discussions!
  So they would analyse issues like: what is the soul?
  What is the difference between the soul and the spirit?
  Where is the soul located?
  Where is the mind located?
  What is the difference between bravery and foolishness?
  Are mathematical facts like 1+1=2 discovered or created by mathematicians?
  What does the word ‘the’ mean?
  What does the word ‘a’ mean?
  Who has a right to create rules and laws?
  How much taxes should each adult pay?
  Is the universe finite or infinite?

  And so it went on and on until your brain became numb with the deafening boredom and pointlessness of it all.
  What irritated me the most was that with these groups of students, was that nothing was sacred.
  Nothing was certain.
On the opposite, everything was completely uncertain.


  As for myself, I gradually gravitated to the leftists – that mixture of socialists, communists, anarchists and other such-like groups.
  Why?
  Because to me their philosophy was more or less simple.
  There wasn’t all that endless series of critiques and analysis that so nearly damaged my brains!
  Their idea was simple: we had to removed the oppressors.
And the oppressors was anyone who had power and influence.
  And what kind of society did we want?
  A purely egalitarian one where there would be neither master nor slave.
  Simple!
  Here I found that much needed sense of certainty!
  Here was an ideal, a philosophy that had strict rules that we were meant to follow in order to achieve our sacred aims!
  

  I was immediately attracted to one student leader, Tony, who passionately urged his listeners to use any means necessary – except violence –in order to achieve our goals of total equality within our society.
  He was a tall man of average weight, with short hair – actually, let me immediately stop myself here - because actually there was absolutely and totally nothing remarkable about the way he looked; but what really made him so attractive was in his personal charm, and the way he spoke, with such a theatrical ability, that made you unable to move as long as he talked.
  I can still see him, as he gracefully gesticulated in such an animated manner, giving further power and reason, to every word and idea he uttered:
  "Can't you see and feel what is going all around you? My friends, listen to my words, because we are living in a society that is dominated by greed and ultimately misery and death on an everyday scale. Why is the dustman paid any less than a doctor? Aren't we all human beings, born free and equal? And, so, if you, my friends, agree with me that all men, women and children, are equal, then it should make obvious sense to you that we should all live equally. Do you feel what I am saying to your hearts, or not?!" he would thunder at us, with his face contorting from the passion, and with his ability to be so majestic and, yet, so utterly humble at the same moment!
  Yes, I began to think more and more about what Tony had to say.    Why was there poverty in the first place?
  Where was Humanity?


  Indeed, aren't we all equal human beings; so why this discrimination? It seemed so sensible to me; and yet, what was I, Sara the Nobody, doing about this problem?
  Nothing, of course.
  Yes, I was just a student – but I was not actively working against the dark forces, as Tony was always talking about.
  Tony would mesmerize his listeners, which were usually held in the evenings, at around eight o'clock.
  He always managed to talk to you directly – or so it felt, despite the large number of listeners.
  "There are people who make millions in minutes – did you people know that?  While most people in our society struggle and sweat not only tears, but, I tell you, they sweat blood – yes blood" he would scream at this point, "day in and day out, and getting paid next to nothing, you also have a minority who make millions in minutes!   How can you, yes you, tell me that that is fair? Why do you, my listeners, why do you lamely accept, that we live in a society that allows conditions, whereby the majority, and I say the vast majority of human beings, men and women, have to bleed to death just, to pay their never ending bills, while a minority lead an easy life overflowing with money, glamour, power and luxuries that are indescribable? I ask you again and again to answer my questions: is that fair? And if it is not fair, then what should be done about this sick situation? Well, clearly, we must use violence to take our rights, because no democracy will allow our party to succeed in any election and obviously the rich will never voluntarily give up their oceans of wealth; therefore, if you ask me, what is to be done, I firmly tell you as my response, that we must fight for our eternal rights, and by using the verb 'fight', I mean we 'fight' with every weapon at our disposal – be they words or bullets!"
  I was simply exhilarated by his symphony of words!
  And yet, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something ‘missing’ in Tony’s personality.  
  He just didn’t have that supreme self assurance that others had.
  I guess that was what was ‘missing’.
  I couldn’t understand why he did have that degree of insecurity – because, it seemed to be a contradiction when you are living your life for an ideal, and at the same time, you have insecurities within your heart!

  It was also at university, that I first met Sanji.
  He was a tall, dark wavy haired man with a dark complexion.  His beautifully oval eyes had a deeply pensive look, and at the same time, they were always somehow mired within a sorrowful gaze.
  Even when he would talk to you, Sanji's eyes seemed to be far away, deep in thought, about God knows what subject!
  Gracing his eyes, were beautifully arched eyebrows and the longest, thickest eyelashes I have ever seen, that beautifully complimented those seemingly lonely eyebrows in perfect harmony.
  He was a quiet, soft spoken gentleman, who was the most polite and sincere man I had ever met – I would forever ask myself, how can this man, be so gentle and compassionate, and without seeming to get distressed, angry or anxious?!
  He had such a depth of serenity in his personality – and that trait was something that made so utterly envious of him; I was constantly wishing and trying to have a millionth of that serenity of his.
  He was utterly sure of himself – and not in any arrogant way. He was completely happy and secure with the ideas and principles which guided him throughout his life.
  He had a complete knowledge as to what the purpose of his life was. As a result he knew exactly where he was going with his life.
  There was no sense of being lost with Sanji; for he knew the endless, twisted, meandering number of Paths of Life ahead of him - and more importantly he knew which path he wanted to tread on in his life’s journey.
  He would never use foul language; and would always listen to you with interest as you talked – which is rare in our world.
  And he had that most beautiful ability and talent to be so extra careful in choosing his words when he spoke, for he always wanted to get his thoughts and ideas properly across to you, so that people would understand him well, and so that there would be no confusion as to what he stood for.
  That's why he was so pensive and why he spoke so deliberately; there was never any impulsiveness on his part; he intended exactly every word, and exactly every phrase, and every sentence he used; there never was any carelessness on his part when he would interact with you.


  I never met a man who was so wholly and totally considerate for the feeling
K Balachandran Jan 2014
A dense black rock
in deep meditation for ever
gesticulated to him in the dark
as if they have met at the appointed hour.

He could feel the warmth
of love in its inner core
never ever given a chance to express
for long, long millenniums.
"Open your heart" he commanded
in a voice, that  triggers miracles,
thunder roared, lightning flashed
goosebumps did quickly spread
in the center of the dense granite block
speaking a cryptic code,
cleaving it in to two, what a brilliance!
this moment was kept hidden by circumstances;
a diamond filled the darkness
with such radiance, that has no measure.
Paddy Halligan Oct 2012
Third Date

She talked and talked and talked,
an East Coast, cultured accent;
        
"So what are you anyway,
half-German? ***, really?
But you look so......British, I guess..."

He stroked her knee.

She gesticulated loudly,
and talked.
        
"So you were at Princeton,
WOW, that's impressive."

He squeezed her knee.

"I baked cupcakes on Friday night,
  my Mom's recipe.
  I don't even eat cupcakes,
  what's that all about?!?!

He squeezed her other knee.

She wore a mid-thigh,
black and white dress,  
swirls, that sort of thing,
interesting cleavage.
        
He was back on the first knee.

She looked Italian
(it was 'Ristorante Acqua al Duo' after all),
Amy Winehouse eye flares,
head swaying,
resting on her palms,
swaying again.

He had his back to me.

She fingered the wine glass,
tall and generous,
devoured
the last inch,
came up for air and talked again.

He wore a blazer
and cavalry twill pants,  
loafers and no socks.

She was hot,
really hot,
fanned her brow with the dessert menu
"Tiramisu was so deeeelicious".
75 degrees on the Prudential window.

He  perspired,
fidgeted,
loosened his collar,
looked for the waitress.
Evynne May 2013
He immediately recognized her as a kindred spirit by the way she talked and gesticulated
She was putting careful consideration into what she said and how she said it in an effort to break through her troublesome existential isolation and to bridge those gaps in perception
He found her so intriguing
And compelling
She was someone who seemed to have a great deal of distress when it came to trying to differentiate her imagination from reality
She looked sad
She looked angry
She looked cool and collected
She looked different from everyone else he knew
She could not put on that happy face others wear when they know they are being watched
She never put on a face for him
Which made him trust her somehow
There was something about her that tugged at his heart from the first moment his eyes met hers

She immediately recognized him as a kindred spirit by the way he talked and gesticulated
He was putting careful consideration into what he said and how he said it
And he was doing it quite well
Her eyes locked to his so easily, she almost felt frightened upon meeting him
But it was exhilarating
He was someone who seemed to hold a great deal of passion within him
Especially when it came to doing what he loved and his life and the people in it
She looked into his eyes and seemed to feel within her own self what he felt within his self
He looked mystical
He looked bright
He looked intense and riveting
He looked different from everyone else she knew
He did not look at her with the same face as everyone else
He looked at her like she was actually there
Which made her trust him somehow
The moment their eyes first met was the moment their souls first touched
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
The year following
Jimmy's death
(my first encounter,
and my little brother),
I smothered myself
In every read on
Parapsychology,
Astral beings,
OBE's, NDE's,
And plasma projections,
Reincarnation and all
Aberations.
I awarded myself
An Honorary Doctorate
In ******* (Ph. D.B.S.).
Then I met ****** Mary,
As the police called her.
Her keen abilities
Recovered bodies
And the snatchers.
She had a dead-on reputation.
She spoke German and gesticulated
Wildly while she oracled.
Her husband translated simultaneously.
Her sun-room shone,
There were plants on
Every table. No candles.
Perhaps I was mesmerized.
She had one message for me
From the other side:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

Marlene
(my darling little sister,
And my next encounter),
Had a dream the very same
Day I saw my seer.
She dreamt Jimmy
Was alone,
Crying at home,
And through his tears
She clearly hears:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

****** Mary was free,
That's right... no fee.
She said her gift
Was for sharing,
And she shared
Her gift with me.
True story. I have left him alone all these many years. "There are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio." (Hamlet)
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
why is it that the over-******* of drum & base, or whatever stem of 20th century's alternatives of music (the footnotes) makes listening to classical music equivalent of choosing to be a conductor? as if it were black classical (i.e. jazz) we'd be reciting poetry - instead a quasi St. Vitus dance of the dyrygent's swan wing flapping - what an Auschwitz's tow weight to assert - Cracow snow during the famous English smog, the new, Hindu, horizon - with Adolf's mustard gas junkies on the front in the trenches - karma oh sure - karma - St. as in street or saint? only Calcutta's knees are bent to tell the difference - well, can we at least call the future appreciators of classical music the futurism of lepers, i.e. those prone to gangrene and amputation? apparently their hands gesticulated prior to the ears vibrating for the heart invoking the eyes to tear... and can we call western society the society that gives people all the freedoms it can imagine (Disney and Hollywood), but not the freedoms of ultimate vocabulary? given the democratic signature of X on the polling card? ultimate vocabulary comes after we censor images, byproduct of iconoclasm and the Islamic fetish over words and Niqab, we're using penultimate vocabulary - when Christianity translates images into words, and Islam translates words into images, from the latter it will mean a woman and 72 male virgins... prostitution in heaven... d'uh!*

that i equate Siberia with Prokofiev's - Lieutenant Kijé,
does that mean Red October?
i don't know anymore, the democratic choice
of vocabulary became more important
than the choice of parliamentary representatives -
which is a shame; there was more concern in how
people spoke than what people spoke about.
Putin was like: let the dog run, bark bark bark...
he'll come back grovelling - mother Russian
was the one time we could have kept
beauties in Poland - now they're Arabian
hum-z-ghee lovers on Friday -
little **** big argument? may-be... who knows
what excesses are being thrown!
but that's beside the point: how do i summarise
my pain? via arithmetic and some algebra:
i summarised it... the way experience pain is
like a metaphor, via arithmetic akin to:
1 + √90 - 10 x 5 ÷ 0.1 - 1 + 25 x 3/4 ÷ 3(299 - 81)...
this is my expression of pain, an expression
via arithmetic - i'm not saying you can't
calculate the answer, i'm talking about the soft-sponge
sensation you get from attempting it, that sponge-blank
absorption of the problem but not the solution -
i rationalised the pain i experience -
using mathematics - which made me relax when
utilising language.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
that daft, the overworded: implictiness of
                                                                         fakery,
                         what is implictness by relativism,
                     has no explicit
"conversation" / dialectics,
  expressed indirectly via
a dependency of variables...
      as some might say:
we have rules, we have social norms...
the form, ex-,
  either odd or even,
         with regards to reiterating
numbers into words...
              explicit:
             expressed direcrtly via
an independent set of invariations...
        considering that in psychiatric terms
a depression, cannot be gesticulated
as such, "fathomable",
      easily understood / categorised
when an existential focus takes hold
of the "problem"...
             almost all psychiatric diagnostic
terms are shut off from
performing a medical practice,
when stated by: existentialist constraints...
              past the french schools,
and into the feral land of the germans...
the english?
   with their heritage?
              easily at loss with regards to
giving explanations, adequate to
satiate the "sufferer" with a excuse,
or rather, a...
                             a justification.
                my fault at reading more kant
than hegel and not fathoming
any economic model-answer...
                                    just give me a blank
workable canvas,
   and i will give you a vocab that will
probably muddle a few grey-beards
of the sufi community of kabul...
             because i ******* have to mind
this virus, like i might mind
ensuring the bulgarian prostitutes
check themselves to a methodological
clarification of donning the rubber...
well, if there's an explicit ergo libra,
and if there's an implicit ergo libra,
to balance cogito never actually meeting
the sum balance of either argumentation...
       what a funny scenario!
               ergo appears in two forms:
   parallel, similis, consimilis (=),
                       or via-parallel, anti-similis,
                        contra-similis (≠)...
           because thinking rarely
manifests itself in being, but rather:
in beings...
                       the common thread?
deficiency!
                     most of the time
the factum: cogito = sum,
          is actually a fact of:
                          cogito ≠ sum...
which is why the cartesian libra of ergo
is so, confusing with regard to how
the two aspect of consciousness
as governed to "allow" a balance...
  in that they don't...
                    the fact of thought
as thought being the ideal,
never, or rarely, translates into an
ideal existence...
         of simply not-thinking
    but rather over-simplifying life
by a per se,
              of a lack of sensual distrust...
the (1,0), (0,1), (0,0), (1,1) binary
over-simplification
of the cartesian ergo that mediates
cogito and sum...
                  you can't allow yourself
three immediacies of the same fact
in the tri-medium of
variant substance expressions!
              the fact of existence
cannot be grapsed by a fact of thought,
in the same way that a "fact" of either
an explicit, or an implicit application
of the interchangeable of stated fact
can somehow find a balancing libra
                 artefact of a mythological
stature to simplify the argument!
                       i simply find the cartesian ergo
too simplifying,
                   the problem of cogito never attaining
the potential of a sum,
as well at the problem of the sum never
attaining the potential of a cogito!
                given that
in the simplest mathematical grammar
the ergo is either expressed as:
cogito = sum,
             or cogito ≠ sum...
                  is that ego + cogito = ego - sum?
        or is that ego x cogito ≠ ego ÷ sum?
             what's that's 4 to the power of 8
in terms of variations?
              put me against the mathematical
punctuation marks, past the colons,
semis and commas and write it out
in math...
                       to have added to thinking
is to have taken away from being...
  to have multiplied thinking, is to have
divided your being...
                ergo = (= / is), but also (≠ / isn't) -
to have divided your thinking,
  isn't to have multiplied your being...
              to have added to your being,
is to have subtracted from your thought...
         show me the rubric of
the existent variations!
         show me!
                             philosophy per se,
is something that the koran can never teach me,
and never will,
even if in the slightest it only attempted
to teach me how to sing...
                   i have my own labyrinth
to mind,      
   let alone the common citizen of Istambul.
Michael Hoffman Feb 2014
After the argument
all he could do
was slump down
in the old chair
near the window
that looks out
onto the wide garden
beside the lake.

He yelled louder
as usual
dominated and gesticulated
but has paid
the same dear price
as she trembles
hidden behind
the soft pillows
she hoped
would cradle
words of love.

Every time she asks
please love me
a little slower
this time
he hears criticism
flying into a rage
panicking to realize
he does not know how
to do anything
but clutch at her
with the harsh hands
of a frightened man
who cannot hear
cannot see
and cannot believe
she loves him
at all.
S E L Oct 2013
are some dreams real?
dogs in the alleyways
stopped at the robot by a slavic cop lady
but she lets others pass

dragged to a restaurant
interrogated by a mafia owner demanding money I don't owe
they say I've eaten there with a pregnant lady last week
dunno what they mean
Alan smiles but conspiratorially with them
how can he be a friend?
I sob that I don't get their drift
too late..

I need to a safe room to tell a story
whisper your name in the night
dream you lodge nearby
I jump up to do midnight chores
i pack out glassware from closets and you're there
ostensibly to help
the helpful lodger gesticulated that he's leaving
while I make the right noises of working

so, after upturning the table to work on its insides
you leave it on the floor
upside down
it will stand that way till you return
you get so irked at my queries
I'm half afraid to talk
I get a quick kiss pressed onto me face
I didn't brush my teeth
my tongue feels thick and gritty
you rush off into the night

I'm in an alley with a tape-recorder
hearing a deal go down
I call to the fat son of the owner
they're all slobs
with underwear down their knees
and *** on their shoes
I drive down the highway with half attention
and think how we could have met
yet that thought drifts far away now
as my story waits in line
on a conveyer belt the public never sees

stepping out this time line
to lance ahead single entity
for when the other catches up
there just ain't enough temporal cloth
to be clad in unity cloaks

some dreams are maybe then just dreams
I attended a poetry session today,
Enacted by poets through their
Onomatopoeic, gesticulated gestures,
Clenched fist-ed, strained or wide-eyed,
Shifting their weight from one foot to another,
Like dodging their public speaking fears,
To the other leg,
As they tried to build
A rapport with the audience,
Through their words as they (the words) sifted
Through the folds of the air
To make a silent thud against
An attentive soul's solid, soiled exterior.

While reciting, looking into lit screens,
Scrolling up and down,
And trying to look for that line,
That trail of thought which was (most) perfect
Only in its untimely, chaotic, vague birth in that mind.
As the poets tried to familiarise
Themselves with their feelings
Presented on a fresh paper in
A font different from how
It had felt in that first gush of thoughts,
When they had probably first thought of
Penning down their thoughts,
Wise as they were to realise how
Precious they were.
Maybe they wanted to
Articulate their thoughts in written,
But ended up pinning them down.
P.S. Having attended a poetry session today, where the emphasis was played on gestures, sounds, or let's say an enactment of poetry, I had a question stirring from within. The strain of thoughts, must be penned in words for retrospection and introspection. But once a poet, in all his earnest yearning to convey his/her feelings through his words to his audience, takes up the task of 'presenting' his composition in a certain way, does not that precious, original thought, lose its charm somewhere?

Maybe, poetry isn't about being accurate. Maybe that is why, we converse in the intricacies of language, and not in equations and formulae. :)
Eryri Oct 2018
"Let us rock" said the man in a frock.

"Let us pray" said another man in a frock.

The congregation replied "**** YEAH!" and gesticulated like they did not care.

The other congregation bowed their heads to show their reverence and care.

"MOTHER *******!" was the first man in a frock's opening line.

"Our Father" was the other man in a frock's first whispered words.

The congregation went wild and they pogoed out of sheer joy.

The other congregation remained fixed in their seats, staring at feet.

Four hours passed until the man in the frock finished his slot.

The other man in the frock was done within the hour.

The man in the frock went backstage and partied with his flock.

The other man in the frock went home to **** his socks.

The man in the frock woke up the next afternoon no longer wearing his frock.

The other man in the frock had been up since six o'clock but had nowhere to go.

The man no longer wearing the frock picked up his phone and made a call.

The other man in the frock rushed to his phone for it rarely rang.

"Hello dad" said the man who had worn the frock.

"Hello son" said the man still wearing the frock.
Anthony Steele Jun 2015
You're long gone.
I doubt you'll even hear this.
I never got to tell you how I feel.
And that's pretty lame.
I guess I'll start from the top

I really miss your hands
Specifically the way you
Gesticulated
When you were ******* lying
I miss the sound of your voice
Specifically the way it sounded
When you were screaming in my face
I guess I don't miss you at all
You really ****** me up.

Don't get me wrong
We had some good times too
Remember the time you told me you loved me and then you got pregnant with a crack head's kid and married him?
Oh yeah and he's fifty something and owns snakes too.
That was just the bees knees.

I really miss your brain
Remember the time you conditioned me
And got an A+ in psychology?
I really miss some of my old friends
But you ****** them too so
You can ******* keep em
I don't miss you at all
You really ****** me up

I really hate your mood swings
There's no sugar coating it.
They really ******* ******.
I really hate your sense of entitlement
But you're on a website called homewrecker.com
And I'm living in California so ******* I win
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
unique: in that the great cancan o'
h'americana spandex english...
          is littered with acronyms...
             a minor observational point...

also... that there's a europe
as confined to scandinavia...
there's most certainly western europe...

a southern europe...
             although... clogging up the "detail"
with spain... reconquista
   and not the shame...
               a barricade of goths...
                            leftover in the bizarre
gesticulation of a history...
and at: a history...

                 that the italians
                                    cannot be the heritage
of ancient rome: given
the cappuccino is a "nuance"...
  otherwise the greeks are bankrupt...
their history worth of envy is
being exhausted...

                  there's a western europe...
there's a... southern europe...
               but of an eastern europe...
such a piquant vogue of vocab that has
to cherry-pick into existence
an estonia and the latvians...

               central, europe?
                      all that is germany...
beside the fact that prussian-germany...
and the prussians could be bundled
up with the other baltic states...

little o' czech republic...
      a minor ally poland...
                    some alleviated circumstance
of an oriental allure within
the confines of russia...

             it breaks my heart
to see england unfathomable...
               currently without a near
perfect engagement strategy...
      coming to the fore with a headache
of diamond-studded gills...
        that there are
bipartisan "rats" and the ship is
sinking...
    otherwise the provincial aspect
of weeding out...
detestable aspects of cosmopolitanism...

that London could be treated as:
London-London... rather than London-England...
because of the great yawn
of the heliocentric adventure of sci-fi fun...
i.e. what is the copernican west?
what is the copernican east?

       perhaps a return to some sort of
language formality...
to escape with a poetry is hardly
a reconstitution of the soul
to a modern letter: dear sir... yours faithfully...
or a very modern hello! kind regards!

europe as a claustrophobia...
             it's such a limiting delight of...
that there somehow was...
a premeditation...
    to **** with premeditation allows the status:
******...
but to **** by accident is a "mere":
homicide...

              such grave consequences...
the culprit and the tool: but also the thought
involved...

but is there something self-deprecating
about english humour?
a pride of borrowed history...
unlike the interlude of non-existence
bound to Poland...
        this... castrated figment of my old
imagination...
                rule britannia referring
to a period prior to the empire and a ref.
to an english-spanish exchange...

then again...
   how did the spanish: then not the spanish...
create... a post-racial south america...
the tinged copper and auburn
lure of the delight...
there must be "something" sobering
bout an anglo-saxon realism...

that there's a tinge of taming the viking
horde... there's no share
in "grief" should the west arrive
at being licked by a mongolian
extract of prose...

           but always the very
formidable tow of the culprit cog
and:  **** in machina...
              easier to posit a god-phantom
ex-, as that gravity in extension orbit
linear of Pluto...

              postcards from Saturn... anyone?
otherwise, this... simply...
the english have exhausted the concept
of world... of geocentrism...
            
but then the forever soap-opera demand
of the local affairs...
how heliocentrism abides by a breath...
side by side with geocentrism
of the soap opera...
              to have to heave
a concern for the stars and the moon cycles...
this finite basis of a rooting...

        that the forerunner of / for the h'american
presidential candidacy
looks simply bored.... or rather...
unexpecting... while the first lady
is so glued to reciting the autocue
like a evil...
wild-eyed and pure ergonomic...
  a jeffrey dahmer seems to
have a more sedated glee of the eyes...

the first lady is... poison of the soul...
her eyes are cobweb knitting fatamorgana...
bringing to the table of
the arrogance of multiculturalism...
it's hardly a heritage incorporated...
there's the breaking of bones
in how to move forward...
at least the food served by the indians
or the turks has made it
as a pop staple on the high street...
it's very common to want to learn
a disguise of... the incoming horde...
the reception party will be glad
at being fed...
                               chimichurri:
give me curry... a loose translation...
                  
what am i to offer these isles when...
what all these others...
arrivals make such...
  pronounced additions to a life worth living...
turkish barbers... indian takeaways...
such prominence...

a work ethos in the shadows...
a shadow for a body...
a reconciliation with the body-work
of father...
i am forever to test the hobby market...
these formidable words like:
pineapple... like mango...
       some variation of "foreign" inventions...
never the placid anglo- prefix
titillating the paranoia: non-bilingual schizoid...

a dozen europes and a historical agony
surrounding the base narrative "primordial":
of...  i dare say... byzantine-&-darwinistic...
that the byzantines reworked a more
fashionable period before... settling for the laurel
before the shock & awe of the ottoman conquest...
or that darwinism is as much
a lesson in history as it is a lesson in biology...
that... the latter... is...
such a stereotypical predominance
of expected behaviour...

that the former is a... overt over-simplification
of a desire for work, wheat and time...
or a designation of space...
it's not that darwin is not a dickens...
but at least... the world is still inaccurate
with a dickensian take on:
with this here england...
arriving at the 20th century...
cricket players being dubbed...
fancifully: the tourists...
shouldn't all english people have
that affix?

                      there's that...
as there's also...
                  the copernican revolution
has been made impossible by someone as far removed
as william burroughs...
who insist... the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric demands...
that the geocentric model was backward
thinking... that the ancient greeks
were the only people to ever think:
and we have only moral plagiarism to mind...
and a plagiarism of eureka!
or that thinking can escape
the narrative and riddle the heights
with spontaneity...

    this prolonged... western european...
admiration for a people that are currently...
made into an economic scrutiny *******-riddling...
imagine my disconcerting: hier und jetzt!

the wooden stairs are creaking...
there's a strain most unfathomable...
like that associated with a cavern...
and a man's eye having to invest in making
a bridge a reality...
that history is a reflective tool...
nothing sinister or military in nature...
a beer could be considered warm ****...
a bucket-load of camel spit...
should i guise it as such?

           to heave a beginning...
somehow i can't find... a work-around
of a western europe...
spain is still catholic...
             ireland... well... whatever...
the same self-depreciating humour
is to be expected...
          anything serious...
forward moveable and come along
has to be littered with that...
fable of the protestant work ethic...

it's impossible to have a father
who's an underpaid technician in the field...
whereas... mongrel romanians
are elevated to the status of
manager...
           pitch-perfect: ethno-central...
on the continent where
there are: "some differences"...
   zu liben unter deutsche wie deutsch'...
well... to live among the english
is to have to forever retain an otherness...
a foreign attitude of...
down the line... the capacity to...
integrate with a cousin or two being
towed...
if you knew a thing or two about
immigrant poles...
they're not very... forthcoming...
they are so hard riddled on the integration
project...
there is no in-group preference
other people a priori stress...

so... fallacy and fake number 1...
       so much for reading a milan kundera
essay...
in the context: that newspapers are
to be read!
   it's impossible to concern oneself
with the concept of a newspaper as
aligned with: not being read...
force-fed turkey glut and baron fat...

         help the pope to sing!
                        it's not like...
there wasn't a shortening reaction
phase to re-orientate the dynamism of: future "lore"...
europe is such a little place...
made even oh so much more tiny...
provincial... solipsistic...
by these island-dwelling folk that
the english tourists care to concern themselves
as being...

that the english language
is thoroughly recognised as the lingua franca
of old...
to tease learning some arabic or mandarin
is a question of aesthetic...
old fool and bigger than the lost "little"
of a worship...
such gravity... concerning the names...
Angevin...
                Merovingian... Capulet...
           Stuart... Windsor...
    my own sorrow: this common name...
           well...
                        all crippling demands...
big or small...
                   hell... there are bigger onces...
there's no known house of David or or Solomon...
such a borrowed gesticulated at...
the shadow drawn...
                   i forfeit!
from the ant people that abide...
to the swollen eye sore of blindness i tow:
a recreational soviet pact of: me's stealing Siberia!
borys!
Sarah Jystad Feb 2010
“Thou art forbidden,”
He said, pointing to
The ominous, looming giant of a Tree
So frightening, yet we feel hints of intrigue.
But no, no we are prohibited,
Fenced in by paradise,
Fenced out by fear.

So, in our young life,
We averted our eyes.
We hurried past the Tree,
Anxious to please,
Walking briskly to the Trees of Faith, Belief, and Fate,
Brittle and weak of trunk, but of pleasant leaves
That produces such a pleasant shade
From the glaring heat of the high sun

You and I gestured and gesticulated,
Attempting to justify which tree of the three
We should use as a home.
We grunted and groaned, shrieked and moaned our dispute
And, I, in a primal huff, stomped away
Eyes blinded by frustration.

I was wholly incapable
Of reason, of sight, of sound.
In a whirling state, I stumbled.
On a root of the magnificent
Forbidden Tree.
I gasped.
There.
The source of rebellion against
Everything He taught me.

Jaw set firm, fists clenched,
I marched up to the nearest offering
Defying condition, against instinct,
I lifted my hands.
I reached for the Forewarned Curse.

I bit into sin.
Its juice burst onto my tongue
I desperately and eagerly
****** the newly revealed flesh and
Realized bliss,
Passion, tragedy, and fury,
Oasis out of chaos.

How could I have thought that this was paradise?
What vice ignorance holds!
What horror forbiddance harbors!

Oh, oh, I can Feel
My hands,
I can Feel,
Think, and
See.
I can finally Be!
What exuberant joy!
I must share, share these astounding epiphanies!

The branch that saved me still bounces and shakes,
Deceivingly resembling a sort of snake.

Oh, my love, my universe,
I will save you, I will uproot you from stagnation.
For I am now
The Venue of Truth.
5/06/09
little moon Apr 2014
today while waiting for the train a woman with a voice so immaculate it sounded like a recording sang "at last" and i felt the final slivers of disillusionment scatter,
i felt love the way carrie bradshaw would type fervently about it late at night in bed,
i felt renewed faith in love surge through me.
though the tunnel i then walked through reeked of incense, i marveled at my own rebirth of innocence. wide-eyed once more.

today while on the train a girl in maroon pants tippy-toed and kissed her boyfriend and he sat next to me and she sat across from him. a couple of people stood in front of me, bustling along, but i shifted positions to meet the girl's gaze and gesticulated, "do you wanna switch seats with me?"
the look on her face said it all.
do unto others, right?

when we met it felt like he was speaking to a corner bookshelf of my heart that needed a little bit of dusting. he swiftly picked up one of those books and read from it and it made me feel good.
or at least that's what it says, according to my new journal.
i hope a fellow starry-eyed soul switches seats with you on the train so you can laugh at inside jokes with him,
i hope you can hold hands and marvel at the street performer
i hope you call your best friend and tell her about it while you're walking home,
i hope this happens to you, over and over and over,
repetitive but you're so happy you shed the cocoon of routine and burst out: untethered, fearless, maybe even into song.

cheer up, don't give up.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
it was nothing more than
drinking a
   ⰔⰕⰀⰓⰑⰐⰓⰀⰏⰀⰐ
      beer and walking
the night without
             a suitable suit
or care for flesh...
  bone to cold:
            cold to bone...

god (casual inference
of making a sound
equivalent to stating
something: aghast)
these people are "gone"
yet they're still here...

no, i'm not thinking
about deus...

             two things on my
mind:
    making dumplings
tomorrow:
       fungus, pickled cabbage,
chicken meat and
chicken stomachs...

(well, three):
how constelations
look: almost pristine
during a cold night...

                    •
                 •
              • .
                             .
                            •
                            •

  ­                                             •
                •

while lost paparazzi
flashes of frost
cuddle the tips of
the grass' elongated
strips:

head tilt one way,
head tilt, another:
    at night in this cold:
i might as well
be walking the red carpet.
  
(well, four):  
                        imagine all
the amount of paper,
should books be wrriten
like this:

¶...........................................
.............­.................................
...............................­...............
..............................................
..­............................................
....................­..........................
......................................­........
¶...........................................
...........­...................................
.............................­.................
..............................................
­..............................................
..................­............................
....................................­..........

rather than, like this:

          ....................................
...........­...................................
.............................­.................
..............................................
­..............................................
..................­............................
....................................­..........
.......
          ....................................­
..............................................
.................­.............................
...................................­...........
..............................................
......­........................................
........................­......................
.......

countless pages!
  
(well, five):
  imagine the students of
architecture having
to rely on roman numerals
to think of
    wriggling out
something to appeal
to the pleb...
        
      countless men have
tried: but...

          a coliseum via
  IV + VII = XII

   and sure as ****
    a quantum physics
definition of reality
via 4 + 7 = 12:

"god" of the "gaps":
    4, 6, 8, 9, 0,
    A, B, Q, O, P, R,
    D...

ⰔⰕⰀⰓⰑⰐⰓⰀⰏⰀⰐ:
this writing?
about as much vitality
surrounding it as...
not since high school
have i heard someone
say: you should read
james joyce's ulysses..

(well, six):
god has nothing to do with
"it"...
   it being a precursor
of: what?

   i.e.
          religion as in what?
i can hardly kneel,
i can hardly play
the lunatic variant
of: before me i see a void
that eats, rather than
clarifies itself for the sake
of vanity...

      a cold beer, a cold night...
the existentialist fwench
philosophers:
   existence precursors
essence...
             as mind precursors
body...
  or rather:

  there's no god other than
in the gesticulated: aghast
expression of: a little
bit more than mere awe...

    i'm just...
bothered...
about no less a point
of god...
              other than:
faith has never recovered...
in that:
   man is less and less
someone who believes...
man, to satiate
the curiosity of time's
inexhausive narrative...

        what was once
faith: has become nothing
more than paranoia...

       for no god
there's only the suspicious
inclination of
a reality that's...
   in situ...

          man becoming
so self-conscious
that indeed:
   doing away with god,
he ought to do away
with: and lodge in
the zoological mingling
with the psychological
study of man as:
   "self" -
   this... etymological
curiosity:
           Babylon...
            selb...

because the modern Italian
is somehow,
unrelated to the ancient
Roman...

              the in situ
conundrum of man being,
able, to scuttle away with
the myriad of facts:
shared among the myriad
of people...
  
and to think...
people used to reason
with     ⰏⰀ as
the same as         MA...

i can't read the modern
variety of hieroglyphs
of the EMOJI...

         :) - sure,
i can read that... :(
       but anything beyond
that?
           well... it's not like
i was even given the opportunity
of finishing school
at 16 and entering
a ******* coal-mine either!

although no trinity
of Giza before me:
   all i seem to be clarified by
is the current
        endeavor of:
whatever is the collectivist
ambition of man...

           a pyramid of sighs...
anthony Brady Apr 2018
All night it beat upon the pane
the cold staccato clamour of the rain;
trickling footsteps pattered on the slates
chimneys shuddered soot into the grates.

Banshee winds about the gutters howled
that grinning orb the moon was cowled
by clashing clouds that fused and broke
with every clashing thunder stroke.

Flickering fingers flashing doom
outlined and probed each object in my room;
frail curtains writhed and frantic flapped
tossing over objects - tempest trapped.

Morning came, rain rinsed smelling sweet,
pavements glinted, drains laughed in the street;
trees gesticulated flinging off their jewels
pigeons sipped the sun from sky-paved pools.

TOBIAS
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
I don't wite poetry drunk and think
it's great, or rather: to later
                                       think, it's great

rather, as a genuine outlet,
   worth the dub: ***** poetry
(analyse that,
     Ronnie K., the sentimental
     psychopath),
    since i could be up to no...

(and already the sealed cascade
   of the original intention:
whirlwind spaghetti remnants
worth of: collage);

for Sienkiewicz really
is tedius, in the camp of writers
some dubbed:

a first class, second class writer,
i even managed to dream
that i was reading a contemporary
novel:

         yet somehow the remaining
200 pages of this (circa) 800 page
novel are hanging over me
ungidested, like some farce
of the sword of Democles...

me and my necrophilic taste in
books, or rather:
        catching up to: the dogma
of what youth is pushed in schools
and tested on...

    and I am of the authentic opinion
that Bolesław Pruß is readable,
a 19th century story,
     written in the 19th century...

Siekiewicz's romanticism is
too, inauthentic...
   i could blame the weather,
cold spring mornings,
a seemingly eternal sun throughout
the day...
       but the women
as unrelateable as hot sushi...
a 19th century romanticism
of a late 14th / eartly 15th century
"history":

           and they said Kraszewski
was supposed to be as entertaining
as soaking stale bread in water...

beyond a doubt...
     and without much to think about,
I can't imagine anyone who
writes these snippets (akin) to be
proud, and not ashamed
in some way that could better
translated / attired with the word:

barely satiated...
            I almost wish it sounded
better in my head,
even though it was worth
about a worth of time
   equal to that of a splinter
barely compensating a century
worth of oak, standing dumb
before its majesty.

at least a compensation though,
if I seemingly cannot fathom
"serious" literature
of the living, i also cannot fathom
poetry of the dead...
         the dead can't be excused
the fickleness of the living,
    as the living can't exactly
recreate the rigidness of the dead:
plus the obvious,
painstaking process of:
      the missing typewriter...

not to mention:
      sooner comes cinematic
version of a modern tale...
              and already the undomesticated
reader making books into
bricks...
            
    otherwise the constipated tradition
and literary hoarding of the past,
it almost dwarfs any ambition
when compared to the biblio-monolith
of, say, the Qu'ran...
                      no qualms for
having only read an instruction
manual, and wholeheartedly
   gesticulated at the moon
    and Mecca (or what's left of it)...

"satanic" credo murmurs in
a catholic church:
                         no way forward -
no way back...
      and certainly not down
the exhausted route of becoming
a ***** for secularism...
        somehow and most certainly
"somewhere"
                in an existential limbo...
without a crisis:
           or rather:
     watching about a hundred breakdowns
per day, and not exactly
gesticulating at an exited libido
as compensation for the disorientation
of others...

but there certainly could be worse
outlets than writing drunk...
thankfully sometimes the quiet sober
opinion at 7am,
     where I am, genuinely jealous
of the salat...
          yet unconvertable,
             bound to that infernal
religion that is: on the tip of
the tongue of an English teacher -
humanism.

               no serious literature
of the living, as certainly that of
the "canonised" dead,
   countered with:
      no serious poetry of
     of (ditto): only that of the living
and of the immediately: in transit
id est: with third party remnants...

evidently i was going to
break these "rules" / whims
   by having inherited the remnants
of the Beat movement,
      and invested in gathering
a necessary compedium...
          
    a time when it almost feels like:
your average Joe and John
were not overtly politicised...
        as compensation for
voting apathy,
                  and the unredeemable
post scriptum of nuance...

no, I don't think much of the poetry
I write drunk...
     but I can certainly attest
    that, with it as an outlet -
     I'm far from requiring a punching
bag, bound to some chemical
rainbow of explanations,
    that, for the most part:
                act like placebos;

came the people happy in their
misery...
    came the people gluttonous
in their happiness...
        only that the former
            had the better humour,
since the latter,
   very much akin to their politics:

perhaps sarcasm is the lowest
form of wit,
   but given sarcasm in a subtle
way... without ridicule...
it's still better than snarly
conservative humour...
                         for some reason...
without pointing out the obvious:
having to laugh
at jokes of an angry man...
     turns out a crying clown
is thrice as funny.
show me the secrets of the ******
a weaver in the fields and streams
jump into pools of laughter’s savor
i am waiting for your heart
string the lute
I pray you please play me a tune
simple like the mustard on your nose
stones are strategies or perhaps tragedies
born of misery
in silent overtones they grow
into gesticulated Germans
demanding herbivores overthrow their coats
street muskets
atop of winter clothes
burn holes in your eye sockets
like tones through the window
i grow tired of this violence
(in an attempt to cover up
(overlay) fruit fly waste byproduct)

At four feet eleven (fifty nine inches),
the spouse longitudinally challenged
hence she browbeats her husband,
(who only stands five feet ten inches)
but boosted in height
courtesy lightweight bench.

He gingerly maneuvers selected picture,
(i.e. wife artfully cut from magazine),
where ceiling meets wall
(right inside apartment door)
as beloved (oompa loompa) sweetheart
otherwise known as me said counterpart
carefully scrutinizes positioned snapshot.

"...More toward the right
and smidgen lower down"
impossible mission quite
challenging, I feel her smile or frown,
yours truly consigned to present plight
since he pledged his troth - downtown
Norristown, Pa (xxv plus years ago) knight

in shining armor agreed
to secure marriage license deed
since unicellular seminal seed
planted - while sowing oats we'd

both threw caution to the wind
(and nine months later
after surrendering to call of the wild
proud parents of beautiful child),
she long since flew the coup exiled
her father (me) and mother
to empty nest syndrome initially riled
with painstaking sadness.

In retrospect methinks how role as dad,
I blundered with countless faux pas - my bad
to mismanage challenges - and exclaim Egad,
albeit silently reflecting back many years
of course now glad -
both daughters overcame being mad

toward him who helped beget
while gamely gamboling, scampering, romping...
with barenaked lady
of course willing poet
(thrusting shaky spear) at large also unclad
(mine eventual permanent counterpart)
bedded upon mattress pad.

Even while solitary bachelorhood (aye
attest said status earthlinked me by and by
completing approximately three+ decades -
whoa how time did/doth fly)
one garden variety generic guy
(who e're since being little boy

felt extremely shy),
a characteristic, he now doth decry
cuz being socially withdrawn,
(yea... think figurative fly
on the wall, or wallflower
mein kampf devoid of healthy development
thus fashionably late socialization went awry

particularly when learning
contra dancing, although
juvenile behavior exhibited plying gal inapropos
became brazen and quickly learned not act slow,
when asking pretty thing, this bozo
genuflected and gesticulated...

ofttimes quickly made to eat crow
communicated with immediate revulsion,
(no matter I imagined myself
modest nonpareil beau)
actually eventually met young lady,
who took me as husband material "hugo
*** yarself a mate" -
track played within mind (mine)
lest celibate state worse than death - ya know?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
it's either the magpie or the crow,
a complete dissociation
from the sparrow,
or the swallow...
                       eh... not even close to
the eagle...

          as ever, there's always
the proximate totem...

              lucky for me... it's a fox...

i once had a chance...
        drinking in a public park,
at night,
as you do, admiring the emerging
London horizon...
climbing over the fence,
chancing upon a teenage girl...

you want fear? you mute it,
frantic, and then you take
the responsible adult agenda...

   the clingy nature of this
feast was undeniable,
running to and fro,
for no particular reason,
a black cat emerged,
which i cuddled,
   became unnerving for
the poor creature,
gave her my mobile
(when i still had one)...

we were trying to find her friend,
they were at a party,
they had an argument...
we found her friend...
lying face down at a bus stop,

i sprinted over to her,
helped her get up,
took off my hoodie and put it
on her,
    ticked the cap,
hey, it's alright,
    she felt small in my size
of clothing,
   phoned one of her dads
(a black cabbie)
   told him the coordinates,
sat for a while
at a bus-stop,
   they obviously had to
take evidence in the form
of a photograph...
   the dad came,
in his black cab,
     and the two disorientated
teenagers went swiftly home...

but the potential was there...
                    exposed cleavage...
genuine fear
is a far cry from any mantra
of the implored...
it's muted...
   it's: at best, gesticulated
in a frantic variation
of body language...

          having seen it...
i'd guess i'd know
     what a hapless teenage
girl looks like,
   having just asked a stranger
coming out
from a park at night
over the fence for: help...

   curiosity...
           what if i was not circumcised?
that's a genuine question...
    choice, will...
i wasn't asked to be baptised,
but i was, hence my middle
name: conrad...
            but sure as ****
after a vindaloo
   i rejected confirmation;

and i didn't do the liberal
   "-esque" quasi revival
of sniffing up a hindu ***
or a buddhist's *******...
i went past the tonsure...
and started sniffing under
the kippah.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
i couldn't learn Russ even if i wanted to...
not because i can't speak favourably of
the people: a most hospitable folk...
although: as a ****** in Moscow...
dating a Russian girl... things had to be on
a: hush-hush... i had to "pretend"
to be English...
which wasn't hard since... i have a generic
accent: if an accent at that...
only in Essex could it be know:
by an inquisitive 14 year old girl...
in the middle of the night having left a ******
party looking for a friend... instead
finding me first... walking out of the darkness
of a park to inquire: where, was, i.... from?
we sat near a roundabout...
i rolled her a cigarette...
a black cat came towards me...
picked it up, stroked it... blah blah...
all of a sudden i was a warlock while
the girl did runners... to and fro...
50 metres ahead... 50 metres back...
like she was trying to shake me off but couldn't:
since i promised her that we would
find her friend... which we did...
lying face-down at a bus stop...
i took off my hoodie attired the poor shivering
thing and... we walked to a designated
pick-up spot so one of the girl's father
could pick them up... which he did...
of course... we had to take a group selfie
before all of that...
- a strange hallucination:
i sometimes feel i have a spider crawling around
behind my right ear...
petty architect of... beside the cobweb...
for a 14 year old: i'm stabbing in the dark
she might have been older...
it's not like i didn't think about her
*******, which were: of course... pronounced
while i rolled the tobacco and asked:
my spit... or yours?
so i gave her the roll-up so she could
lick it herself...
          the things that happen in the night:
it's no wonder i find the formalities of
day so... pedestrian...
oh but you can get away with being English
in Russian... they love these people
over there...
not so much the Polacks...
       - again... to reiterate... i would never learn
that language: perhaps i'm just fonder
of the Greek writing script than i am of
the Cyrillic...
(no... that sensation of a spider behind my
right ear was not a hallucination...
a happy home is a home filled with spiders...
some... ancient proverb or... something...
caught the little ****** crawling on my arm...
dangled him on his string and placed
him on the windowsill)...
- i really have bigger things to worry about
than a discrepancy in Cyrillic that
i simply can't ignore: it has been burning
in my mind since yesterday...
- ******... oh sure i'll complain...
the cat thinks he can own the night and prowl
and prance all he likes:
that's the problem with cats...
they teach you the unattainable bewilderment of:
they have free will:
while you too, have, free will...
but it's only illusionary...
or worse... it's more than an illusion...
it's a bad... b'ah b'ahah joke...
a little h.m.v. (his master's voice) moment
in the calmness of the night:
quorus! quorus!
quo... where is russian?
i can't take credit for the name...
the breeders conjured it up...
i would be more inclined to: qua-rus...
i.e. as being: russian...
maine ****... ginger... it could have
worked... so i'm writing this to calm myself...
could this 10kg little Colossus take
on a fox? well... he is a house-pet...
not a wild animal...
its legs are more flexible... it too can bite...
but... little pockets of anxiety and
the debacle of... KBAC...
i.e. KVAS... a popular drink in Russia...
sort of: a better version of root-beer...
malty... & sweet... carbonated...
perfect for eating fast-food pancakes... with...
orange caviar...
- i sometimes walk through the garden
and a single cobweb thread covers my eyes...
i must be dreaming when awake:
sometimes... eh... most of the time
since i'm so dream-starved...
Freud couldn't make a shilling out of me:
what is there to interpret when
all you dream about it a great big...
black yawn of a void?!
i guess this brings me to the schematic:

                                   north
                                  północ
                  ­                    Ц

    east                                  ­                        west
  wschód                            ­                       zachód
      Ш                                                   ­          Щ

                                    south
                    ­             południe
                                       Ч

a "lesson" in etymology: shrapnel...
pół: half... noc: night... i.e. half is night...
i'm guessing: of the year...
but why isn't south: half is day?
po: after... -łu- is sharpnel...
dnie: days...  dzień: day...
   it's still one and the same however much
the word morphed... half-day for south
half-night for north...
  wschód (rise... an all-encompassing
reference to: sunrise) - east...
likewise with: west:
sunset: zachód...
                 etymologically?
eh... chłód: a coldness... an eerie coldness...
zombie-esque...

hell... i didn't sit down to write this...
i came for the Cyrillic letters that bother me...
i.e.
    why isn't Ц: Ч
     and vice versa - why ins't Ч: Ц?
when...
     Ц looks like... the better half of: Щ?

i mean: it seem logical, or phonetically authentic
that half of Щ
                                             Ц
would encapsulate half of the sound
most associated with my Slavic terms:
szczeka: (it) barks...
szczerość: honesty...
oh i can hide the "confusing" Z and bring out
the English H... one surd for another...
SHCH:
        sharp is szkic...
cheap as: czerń...
          i could go one step further and employ
Czech orthography: style...
the aesthetic of writing: encoding sounds...
and hide both the Z and the H
in a caron: a crown hovering above the letters C & S...
but then... it would appear congested
with a word like honesty:

       ščerość...                    no? too much baggage:
from on high...
but it's not like the English language
has any concerns for this...
even Charles Dickens dared to summon
the term: orthography to a sound encoding "system"
that didn't employ... summon...
any diacritical distinctions...
one ought to be intuitive about the excesses of:
tatters... one ought to remember THat: THought...

it doesn't matter: i'm asking the Russians...
if half of Щ (šč)
    is Ц... it looks that way!
then why doesn't Ц denote: č-chequers?!

hell... have your: Ш... i'll be... haha... "brave"
and say... it deserves to almost resemble a
crown hovering above a serpent... š...
how a Y (igrek) might behave if
asked to be treated for geometric purposes!
instead of crafting rivers!

i'm not "confused": i'm just *******!
Ц ought to denote entombed in Ч
and... vice versa... at worst!
Ц is one ******* half of Щ!

- and what is Ч: the western slavic C: it's not an aesthetic
substitute for either K or S (there's no... cedilla
attached, last time i checked...)
or for that matter... Q...
CKQ... no?
                           i clearly don't quiet, belong among
these people:
with their mundaneness practiced so well:
they dream! oh god they dream!
i'm the one dream-starved while they
dream-out their little-by-little: belittling fetishes
of power-gambling the toppling
of peaceful hierarchies...

i'm the antithesis of the celebrated Barbarians
of the American counter-revolution...
sure... i'm banging at the gates...
screaming: let me out! let me out!
i don't want to be in this custard mess
when it truly: properly... falls to ****!
i'll leave with my feet stinking from sweat...
even though i wouldn't have ran a mile!
let me out! let me out!
for man's ruin and for anything even remotely
god-as-man... give me air!
give me cognitive air! i can't breathe:
let alone think!

- i'm growing tired... more and more tired...
of plotting: nicety... along the vein
of thought of the English...
i'm just more and more salt grain
from teasing at the wound of:
perhaps i'm here as a pet project:
for "my" people...
to get the feelings associated when
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
was carved upon...
or a lesson in how the Roman Empire
imploded... so too..
how Britain buckled...
how Britain buckled...
fell on its drunken-face wishing it was:
"somehow"... Victorian: sensible...
sober... augur-prone...
well... it's too late for all of "that"...

it's happening: and i don't have a stop button:
quick & easy to solve the problem...
i like to drink gin
as a solo project: on the ice...
the fascist in me: is always
the fascist in everyone, anyone...
i'm digging trenches with my writing:
conjure up a better imagery:
i bet you won't...
but am i... "somehow"... this...
easy... "walkover"... prized asset of cuck?
sure... the women are rampant...
i don't mind... i'd rather ****
a ***** than a nun any other day
than... today...

we're having a debate about how
russians have encoded: poorly...
well... confusingly...
it just doesn't make sense... what i already stated...
i'm no longer looking towards America...
it's a dead... a dead & wasted land...
it's a predictable land...
it's a horrid little: my why we never might:
reach it...
culture-wise...
   some... "oops": didn't jazz die so soon?
i thought so too...
i'm looking for the peacock feathers atop
the armour of the Teutonic Knights...
the failures of the 3rd Crusade...
broken pride... escapade to an "elsewhere",
no?

sorrow, me... how i'm tattooed with
history... i can only imagine the fate of the
modern... western... secular... man...
freed from both history and religion...
i almost admire him...
i admire him: in that i speak his tongue...
i admire him...
but then i see his bewilderment...
and i think to myself...
"my" people: being so reclusive probably
have it right...
we have no colonial heritage to...
we didn't have the expediency of the sea
before us...
why do i... or my brethren get to luggage...
these jumbo-afro queries?!
i once had a key-chain that read:
the only way to tell someone to *******:
is to... tell them to *******:
in such a way... as they might be...
awaiting the: ******* transit...
so they might await the trip...
women sold us... women sold us into
this *******...
i kid you not...
            
i will not sell my heritage upon
a post-colonial bend-over past...
i'll sooner side with the Russians as i insult them!
i'll grind my teeth on stone
and spit out a *******: well-rounded pebble
than side with these... fakeries of freedom!
give me freedom! give me the supposed
bread! the songs! the... what's it called?
diabetes?!
          fat *****...

i'm one with the Kabul patrol...
i'm mad enough to try not being gesticulated at:
as being fake...
like i might cry that this canvas is not made
available to me...
ergo... you're going to turn off my water-supply...
my electricity-supply?
you're going to cancel my...
like i want to care about a dying culture
where only the bogusly: blatant rich
are... left?!

such weakness in a dying kind....
i cannot not... drawn parallels within the confines
of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
i can't!
   jeg kan ikke!

if "their" history breathes through them!
    så gør mínë...
all is "European":
              ******* cotton-muffin... afro
riddled... tarts... ****-boy-ohs...
ha!

who's not... Caesar?!
            bread wins the: paint?!
what's more cooking
than what's more... *******...
drying?!
oh sure... my shoelaces definitely stink
of bacon... but...
n'ah... n'ah... you're on your
own with that pseudo-king-Solomon..
sort of crap...
me... kind Davie...
surah riddled... psalm bashing...
sort of "crap"... i need a woman like...
i a need an anecdote...
oh god...
          so 'ere one comes....
no... it's not funny...
how.. unexpected... the opposite ***
tends to... behave... without having....
white boy... insurance policies...
oh... wow!
           *******... *******.
now the bread winner: brown- boyo...
better be... the... bread--- basher!... ah... ha...
ha... his alias: also: no.
My motto comprises to exalt in this moment rather than delude myself with any grandiose illusions.

PREFACE: PREPARE TO SET ASIDE A PARTIAL ETERNITY
TO PERUSE THE CONTENTS OF THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE.

Ohm my...volt a mort...
coalescence of coaxed friendship
analogous to miarculous birth
whoa there lovely reader,
no doubt without resistance,
your smile can generate
amp pull power to light up earth
noah matter this totally tubular stranger
unknown to thee as Adam,
evokes an aura, charisma, enigma,
patina, persona...wis spurs this note
to kindle courtesy tinder warm
fine companionable individual connection
exuding sheepish mirth
per intuiting your wool e worth.

I enjoy making accessible, convincible,
evincible, gullible, intelligible,
kissable invoking comments
perhaps on account oof a cerebral dent
though many respondents rage at this gent
sans his playful wordiness leant
only genuine acquaintanceship meant,
and their valuable time spent
to decipher my gibberish,
which binary logorrhea might rent
asunder unsuspecting cyber surfer
evicted out the human league

since possessing propensity
for presenting ambitious, burdenous,
conspicuous, disadventurous, onerous,
and tremendous cerebral task
necessitating hours decrypting
blurb subsequently forcing
whatever gender appended recipient
to an anonymous he/she,  
forsaking their precious time
maybe even unwittingly affecting individual
impacting his/her employment
ending result they/them live in a tent.

This poet knows a mew lion
ranges of feline artful dodging cat skills,
(especially when cavorting among comedians
associated and linkedin with Borscht Belt - ha)
concocting incomprehensible confusing trills.

Some of these claws pickling skills include maintaining mouse sized dignity muttering cheeses crust (while under fire from Stuart little), kibitzing, nibbling on self crafted bon mots, and rubbing dead giveaway crumbs (from double entendres) using all faux paux into thy maw paw cent less whole foods masticating mouth, where commestibles enter without choppers.

Sanguine at one hundred minus thirty six, or two squared + three squared + four squared + five squared + square root of one hundred = an apt and pithy phrase to matt's matrix labyrinth best characterized as a twisted maze (along a boulevard of broken dreams) lodged deeply inside this dutiful dada shackled to an endless role of scullion, but silently gesticulated for salvation.

This spruced up fun guy (and not unduly coy -- see) pines for friendship to cure nostrum from domestic plight i.e. living like a caged rat in cell bite size state.

Just a spoonful of sugar (hummed to that classic mary poppins melody) will most definitely help this medicine go down.

Mine current existence like a modern Henry David Thoreau.

After perusing this rambling prose (from mine being psyche feeling walled in), you might judge this personal struggle more on a par with Oliver Twist.

I sincerely seek salient gallant wings (with or without dish pan hands) to take this humble human being who can (ha) bring a fairy tale ending to my Cinderfella patterned existence.

Away I want to soar no matter such fantasy a fool's paradise.

An extra ticket to paradise (actually four powerball tickets bought today – September 7th, 2023 for that reason) just needs to be made manifest, and thee could be a boon, balm, salve, and tonic plus receive preferential treatment to travel in tandem with one stranger in a strange land.

Only upon surrendering to a deep and peaceful boss ah nova heavy metal sleep, (which dream state will take place soon) does the fictional world (within the wide wedded web of this wayward thinking wanderer) take hold and serve up a brief hiatus to a life devoid of contentment.

This amateur baker would cook up a souffle or rhubarb ken pie if willingly processed from mine own personal lake woebegone awash with raw bits of flotsam and jetsam and empty boxes of powdered milk biscuits, the one with big blue stains on the outside.

San sol invictus served ancient civilizations as their com-stock load.

Like a modern day icarus this wedded warbler mulls the possibility of finding a real live likeness of what constitutes a hologram of his mythic muse, who exudes able bodied confidence donning every filament.

Keep on dreaming cyber buddy, an anonymous reader might think, telepathically communicate or even communicate via email, which idealism goads me to broadcast the following fanciful (and perhaps not so far fetched) feasible find among the frequent purveyors of this website.

The vague nebulous barely perceptible kernel of a fictional account per my own conjured up vision (as pertains to what might comprise a companionable buddy to me) could conceivable materialize into an actual arch de triumphant revelation once landing this wistful nugget of an idea into the conscious of unconscious mind of an unknown galivanting fellow writer, who just by a fluke (of the worm holes populating the universe) finds themself piqued with curiosity about me.

Not a whit of information yet exists about this dabbler of prose, who envisions himself in seventh heaven (no matter he in truth really admits to espousing an atheistic outlook on the cosmos), where fickle finger of fate (usually the middle one raised by an obstreperous onlooker) ideally finds me all in the family within human species able to articulate in a civilly (disobedient) and democratic manner emotions, ideas, sentiments and thoughts with an unpretentious air of sophistication.

Said **** sapien (meaning balsamic scented hominid) would also possess a cosmopolitan demeanor, yet clear of all any modest knotty suaveness, but also able, eager, ready and willing to allow, enable and provide quite an ability to get into an amazing tangle of literary profundity.

This older fellow seriously believes he got borne in an in apropos century and revels in another illusory consideration - aside from trying to summon forth a living gal of flesh and bone from this overactive imagination maybe an accompanying bipedal hominid within medium of time travelling.

Frequent farcical notions flit to and fro inside the biggest *** ***** triggering bonafide premature ejaculations of bonhomie. Case in point hair with not an immensely large head.

This wordsmith would feel at home if transported to the renaissance or medieval ages, or more recently that war between the north and south.

If hedging bets with yours truly being a reincarnated union soldier of yore, you no doubt already can infer, where thy political and more pertinently national federation of me as singularity amidst webbed wide world would get cast.

Okay, the original aim of (what many might hashtag as yahoo) really wishes to explore make believe world, and just maybe ***** inquisitive online browser, who although she might not be seeking male relationship just by happenstance or circumstance experiences some inexplicable necessity to reply.

In the event should lady luck liberate yours truly would be like a divine guiding star, I know best to tamp down any precipitous illusions of grandeur, but would let the natural course of familiarity usher the chap a roan of sacredness to be cherished for however short or long such a friendship might endure.

Oh yes, an ongoing (specifically offline) interaction motivates this doubting thomas fool hardy spurious posting to be ransacked with absolutely total consent in an effort to be plucked from this (utterly difficult to describe) morass of contemptuous husbandry discontent with self, yet consideration to stay faithfully married with wife (since July 25th, 1996) would be a moderately strong consideration.

So, now with a zing
or an unexpected
gold plated invitation after yodeling
hoop ye kin be a yang 2 me yin
Asia step into the digital xing
via summit da fall low wing
written *** jest byte ting
tongue in cheek unsure if phone will ring
in an effort to hear pleasant,
yet discordant musical ka -- ching
for cherished pennies, nickels, dimes,
et cetera from heaven to bring.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.mimic: the clucking sound - that distinguished onomatopoeia - the "spoons' race"... clucking or clicking... the horse's tongue... the readily bound to gallop... then the stalled effect of minor coincidences... verbiage custard pie of "late".

elle palmer: what a beautiful butterfly
in the nag hammadi library archives:
as would be cited by an r. d. laing:
humanism of psychiatry - deviating from
the cowboys of lobotomy: squadron...

depression: it's hardly the allure of the romance
of melancholy - michel de montaigne...
depression: the diatribe draw
of having a nagging aunt - lethargy -
stalking you... without a relief that
otherwise a shadow provides:
as an escapism of looking into
a mirror - and facing the robitic
self- automated prefix of... in totalis...
in total...
unconscious heart: hear me whimper...
robot grace of living to the ripe
old age of kurt douglas' vampiric 103...
see me peeling leeches
of dry-skinned eczemas...
turtles marooned on hopes of...
squaters' shell representation...

the romance of depression... melancholy...
the reality od depression - lethargy...
once upon a time best argued / excused
by the virus that spread from
top to bottom...
among the antiques and among
the...gesticulated: perversions of
grandeour...

before... the cowboys of lobotomy...
what a horrid affair...
the grey area of the fears associated
with a common cold...
unless darwin always comes up
with the categorical imperative...
mollusks for running protein...
biologically: weak...

deserving to die...
because isn't that hyper-existentialism...
coupled with darwinism?
in this linear of letters becoming words
words becoming becomign sentences...
pillcrow?

sad... well... there's the romantic sad
of the melancholic...
otherwise... the debased version...
the depressed is the lethargic...
the self-orientating self-fulfilling -
"self-employed"...
without the... cotton-candy...
benefits...

i've been there... i've seen
the macbrian chem soup of brain...
it's... just what it says on the tin...
a lethargy once understood...
teased with a snippet of a pinch...
of nearing windowlicker mr. lobo and
mrs. tame...
shortened to: affix         -tammy...

but elle palmer... what a beutiful
butterfly; imagine...
to start thinking in the trans- category...
before... even metaphysics too to ground,
the *****, the seeds...
the later labour...
the transgender movement is...
completely devoid of a study of metaphysics;

might i recommend looking into
orthography?

— The End —