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TR3F1LD Jul 2023
one person said: "peace is nothing but illusion
all I want is retribution"
[from "Pure Power" by Zardonic]
that's something I can identify with, which is why
I decided to write this heap of lines
————————————————————————————————
on a shooting range in a boondock la[ɛ]nd
with gloves pU̲t on; sta[ɛ]nd
in front of an autocratic ruler chained
by his hands to two moola safes'
[greed]
handles looking way
like an old-fangled car directing wheel
[steering wheel]
have this die-hard fool restrained
so that he, more or less, is still
I'm not a scho[ɑ]lar who can wave
around a degree in the medics field
but it's obvi this high-hat dO̲U̲chebag's plagued
with megalomania in a neglected condition
but there's a dreadfully effectual treatment
and he'll get it like villains
quite a gruesome fate
is looming upon this power-befuddled ****
like darkened clouds that, beyo[ɑ]nd a doubt, are soon to rain
["dark end"]
like waveriders, he's go[ʌ]nna serve
["surf"]
as a punchbag for I'm in quite a mood to raze
gonna wI̲nd up as nada short
of a ****** loon today
like Battinson, clepe me Vengeance
but I'm more something like the Zorro-looking caped
anti-autocratic vigila[ɛ]nte
from the Norsefire-ruled UK
[V from "V For Vendetta"]
meets someone whose work field's tormenting
like victimizers who pertain
to LE in one tsar-sized off-putting state
[law enforcement]
you know, the one that's go[ɑ]t a putrid trait
of always posing as a side you shouldn't blame (it's all the West!)
(now, let's go back to the foul autocrat)
like a jerky boss that you disdain
I give this no[ɑ]b a cool g'day
by douching him from a bo[ɑ]ttle full of straight-
-fro[ʌ]m-a-cooler H2O; just a fE̲w secs break
for him, & once it's U̲p, I ****** this base
being fro[ʌ]m a stE̲wpot great
with **[ɑ]t-a## noodles aimed
into this hU̲mbug's stupid face
[the "hang noodles on the ears" expression]
pepper it with some ground 7-po[ɑ]t to boost the taste
feel how I, like a husband who betrayed
his devoted, yet testy, wife, get rudely gazed
at, racked, beda[ɛ]mned (by who?)
by food-lacking men from Africla[ɛ]nd
[Africa]
ask him: "is the provided food okay?"
zero gratitU̲de displayed
all that comes from this sno[ɑ]t's bazoo's complaint
but nO̲[ɑ]t that I'm surprised
a typical pro[ɑ]sperous gobshite
the tack priorly applied
I do the same with a bucket full of maroonish paint
[autocrats have blood on their hands, hence "maroonish paint"]
like that music producer famed for dull future bass
I put on his viscous head a **** bucket
[Marshmello]
whereafter pick a wedge up & drum it
[golf wedge]
and, like a heap, I barely get started
[worn-out car]
like an unprepped passenger on an insane car ride
with no seat restraints applied
he's about to have a way hard time
I'm a cosmetic surgeon that operates part-time
fix his blamed jawline in just twain sharp swipes
with a steel bat, then yield some keen slaps
that meet his kneecaps until the knees snap
like the Baba Yaga hitman detached
from his peaceful life by someone ge[ɪ]tting him mad
[John Wick]
get his nails removed
which is pretty much the same that you do
when you repaper a room
[wall nails]
having perforated his fingertips
I ge[ɪ]t 'em plastered
a few minutes later, I rip them things
off 'kin/sim. to wax strips
he gets his phA̲[eɪ]lanxes smitten with
a freaking ratchet
[rathet wrench]
pro[ɑ]b'ly, he regrets
that his bo[ɑ]dy's still not dead
pick U̲p a pistol, set
a drum-like clip in, get
it cocked, then shoot lead around his silhouette
till the clip has zero ammunition left
seems like this once co[ɑ]cky piece of dreck
has gotten his khaki chinos wet
but if I've go[ɑ]t him in a sweat
like a summer jo[ɑ]gger being dressed
in venthole-deficient threads
for this brash dude, there's bad news
like me when I write some sick bloodshed
sadly for him, I've not finished yet (uh-uh)
like a runner that's go[ɑ]t some distance left
to complete, & it's not as dark as things can get
'cause, like the heroine o[ʌ]f M. Streep in "Death
Becomes Her" after falling fro[ʌ]m that string of steps
I've got a somewhat twisted head
[Madeline Ashton; the staircase fall scene]
so consider this as an insult-to-inju[—]ry sesh
grab a brace of scissors
for garden mainte[—]nance; Richard
Trager comes into play; begin ta
amputate his fingers; operate at leisure
disarticulate 'em I̲nto twenty eight **** pieces
cauterizing the remains with illuminated cI̲gars
fling into his piggish face some tissues
and some pain relievers
tell this nazissistic patient "hE̲A̲l up"
["****" in the sense of being "severely intolerant or dictatorial"]
let him relax for eighteen minutes
over the spa[ɛ]n of whI̲ch I put on play "La Chica
Rockabilly" & some other ro[ɑ]ckabilly
jams to make the whole vibe a mite less grisly
like an NA brown bear that is gravely injured
["mightless grizzly"; North American]
(as, in fact, this tragic-fated bleeder)
whereafter spray him with a
["wither"]
can of gas & make his dicta—
—torial a## go ablaze akin ta
a straw-fabricated figure
during gala days at the late of winter
[Maslenitsa effigy]
telling this piece of trash "in case you wI̲[ɪ]nd up
in somewhat of Hades, give a
warm shalom to the infamous ******"
consider this autocratic ****
a sugar daddy's skirt
'cause he's gotten what he was asking for
————————————————————————————————
oh, & one thing more to say: the
nullified, like ruler's presiding terms, dictator
was known among some as "toilet sprayer"
like a scuttered urinator
"punishment of an autocrat" by TR3F1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
ever hear
a voice in the garden
that
made you become
startled,
inquiring:
what
the **** was that?!

huh?!
i was the object
of said "what"?

RAP?
exclusion remarks
in the realm of poetics.
i died....
    and Homer went
blind.

oh...
         oh
oh.....
           oh...
the part
where i don't
care to mind,
and the part where
you...

but i wasn't
the white boy
who subjected
your people
to perform
             jew...
oh... sowwy, whaat?
legal nomad..
thingy...
            peoples doing
**** with jewels,
in hobo,
in...
       roma bracelets...
******* squirt worth a ****:
vodoo!
*******... vodoo!

tripod:
that one thing legged...
standing on 'a' 'un leg...
merry ******* christmas
come northern ireland...
savvy?!
  you bet... beat
the bacon!
    ******* hare krishna...
    
i die, and the warning sign
says:
     scrap through
the "gravy"...
   lucky loser,
no. 2!
  
bricktop:
people doing ****
with diamonds...
utter.. bonkers...

       me... you...
hush-hush...

           bonkers-brigade....
******* east london
vowel crisp
cut and pig-me...
loose ends...
******* shy of a boxing munch...

take your tirade to
a recital of Macbeth
via...
           Tehran...
you...
*******...
                       ******!          
otherwise?
w'ha are 'e'
lovelies?

                 eh?

          you skill or somethin'
more, or w'ha?
           bricklayer 'ert or
sum'fin worth the fix?!

give me 'um some *******
cajole!
meaning! news!
you fork's worth
of a nibble on a use
of a *****...
******* pansie...

            ******* ******...

     start *******...
or *****-yourself into
an ease...
with warring-to-come...

ye'... gobshite i ain't buying...
tough man tought
mouth...
punched bit a little...

   god...
i'm gagging!

            itchy sort...
like... you want to sort
the sort from the sort!
******* **** glug *******!
wanna scrap them
on the guillotine of
scratch of
the tongue lick
of:            a...
                   shaven-lick...

sheryl crow...
grammy award album...
1997...
30 or so years later?
good luck hitchhiking
with a jukebox interlude.
Sketching a tornado
watch the wind blow.

I crayon in a part of me
with waterproof non-toxic
eco-trendy colouring sticks.

not much fun to be had when the weather's quite bad and the green party's not a party for kids

Global warming

'Oh island in the sun'
looks like the day has finally come
and
'It ain't half hot mum'

I blame the microwaves
we became slaves to the 3 minute wonder of curry and the magic of fish in a tray
and the prayer factory
known as the TV

We all get to be Jeremy Kyle with the look at me smile and what a gobshite he became

Famous?
I'd sooner stick hot pins in my eyeballs.

I'm passing milestones, painful like piles or missing two ninepins at the alley

someone's keeping tally but I have no idea of the day never mind the year
it all stopped for me in '72 but it could have been '63
I don't have a clue
no worries though

The tornado will blow
and the spirals are red
couldn't find that colour crayon
so
used mums lipstick instead

she won't mind unless she finds out and then the ****'ll hit the fan

and I'm not a fan of things like that.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
chem. soup brain... or Brian...
no song of no more new to come,
no new song of all that's to come,
no bride of either westminster
or wandsworth or walthamstow...
not within the confines
of the ****- burnings of the dolphin
skins of the yorkie-pies
of the ol' shire... coal-mined veins
from no, to no lesser Silesia...
among the Picts... dear widow
of London that's the current spirit
of lemon-suckling brine?!
oh my dear, what no aloof...
shying from the haggis, from the neeps!
the tatties!
and the myth of the deep frier
marzipan...
the fidget of the fudge explorers
of the Rhine of Yer **** Messieurs!
come to think of it...
i came to england as a fleabag of
eastern europe with a nietzschean moustashe
i borrowed and burrowed from and into
my father dear...
but when in SCOTland...
i arrived as a Dane...
this beyond past comparison arrival
willing to... **** a lass beside her senses
and her geography...
and in that... all was made sane...
because i see no reason to believe
these metropolitan daughters and sons
of fairies...
should they still exalt the ghost
of shakespeare...
and his art a mode of transcendence...
when all his works require!
actors!
the gob and goblet with my tongue
pickled in it like
the body of frederick barbarossa
arriving at Jerusalem...
London: the Salem of my Trials...
will ever and forver old Burns make
a speech: to later sigh...
because the English girls from Leicester
and Norwich arriving in Loon'don
will make it plain and far...
we from the foreign lands:
from the countrtyside will but and but
and but some more!
dear starlings pure... please! recite me some
of your love of Shakespeare:
as long as it rhymes... it's poetics;
ticks... those lesser tapeworms off...
here's a better terminology concerning
a cow-bell... roy orbison will never be allowed
to reign over the status of a black sabbath riff...
but...
he has the rest... nazareth and...
flea of the dog...
royal scots dragoons: this unison of
a non-continental aspect of land...
these isles...
and the english swans these english girls
will have to return,
cite their sonnets and never lend themselves
to "anecdotes" from the plays...
what did i say?
it is worth as much a misnomer
as it is worth a metaphor...
because for all of Shakespeare's worth...
he too would gladly rest,
his final sentiment via Bach's rolling technique...
should it be, when it is already well known...
no one recites a sonnet by a Shakespeare
when old Hogmanay is over...
when St. Sylvester's is celebrated...
and never this, very english... cold-ce
firecracker fore-warning the:
part and parcle of Guy Fawkes' night
of toy-terror...

what words and what words aren't...
and then those words better sung?
of never have,
of never heave...
of never baron over: of never "steve"
(stephen's claim and rite)...

so much for Shakespeare's sonnets...
when come new year's eve
and all that resounds...
is auld lang syne...
and all sing to embrace...
and none sign to what's...
nonetheless later sung...

was man ever to fathom being
so disillusioned to early...
to early as to catch a prosper from
the scent of thyme?
i can't stomach the recitations
of Shakespeare...
they sound to me like a clogged toilet...
i do not require a new recitation...
i require the proper reincarnation
plumber for this gobshite blockage
of what doesn't require to be ******* out:
re- again re- again re- again
and once more until another ted hughes
calls it: an "event at Wimbledon"...

**** it... yes... it was Primrose Hill...
unlucky for me... the Prussians never made it
into the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
nor was there a deluge to recount
on the canvas of a Bayeux Tapestry....
but sure as Sherlock ******* Holmes knows
his Watson...
cite and recite all the Shakespeare pedagogy
all you want...
the man would prefer rotten cabbages
to be thrown at the stage than having to endure
the immortality of a Bach...
esp. when... the words of a scotman are
sung come the eve of a new year's day...

by abide the Roud Folk Song Index...
this poo'em will too, not disappear as frequently
as the next to "new" viral video...

if only i wandered as far among
the Welsh... perhaps...
among the Richards of Little Ireland
and all the clever deargfriochta!

what's there to compensate with?
Southend... Colchester... Clapham Junction...
Prince Irvine of Clemence & Chelmsford...
epilogue of Epping -
as glutton Loon'don and...
fair well... bride Bethlem...

a song to not having parted...
a song to not heaved a last farewell...
a song for yesterday...
a song for: everyday!
a song for the domesticated dog...
and never the abides of a lost
leash that also calls itself a dog in horse-ridden
stirrups!
a song to bypass Leicester,
Doncaster, Newcastle, Carisle and...
the lesser domains of Hadrian's scare...
those BIG in domine dominos of history...

my putrid lot to have to remind...
it's not Shakespeare that's sung...
come the advent of anewed...
bubonic Edinburgh...
or how the first skyscrapers were born...
how the first bridges were raised
over no river or any manner
of a body of water...
how i came across my first
scottish "witch" and even if she was
the 2nd or 3rd Fiona...
i didn't fall in love with her...

old clinginess of a mythological Kiev...
somewhere between
Warsaw and Moscow...
yet again... it would have been
better that i return to the squalor of...
forget me to remember:
London 20th century 90s and 80s.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
hiberna tandem!

perhaps 5 hidden drafts later -
   a little spectacle for public scrutiny is best...
or: what one does when
one hasn't read of the imagist movement
much...
             since the cantos do not count
as such i am no longer a young man who
will easily adore, easily love,
   not that lying i ever could, diligently,
in order to at least persuade myself as
                     doing - not so easily -
                        
              still... it's winter and in winter
i can demand anything of this tongue...
       once, in winter...
                    in winter, once...
                             that it is winter...
   a season of scents, a scented season -
                all that's cooked deserves to be
eaten...
   inedible first drafts too...
                       whatever it is, that's implied
with "food for thought"...
                     forbid - some god too -
                      that there should be thought
of food - the pauper's only thoughts
are of fattied brain: fatted on p'oh p-p-p'oh
and more oh-do-try...
      
the hungrier the more terrifying this
comfort of coffee and cigarette becomes -
it could last a day until the yapping
       of this gobshite stops!
                        my: 3rd person, i-not-i,
self-deprecating 'umour amour...

                  well... one does try... such sober verse
from time to time:
one can thus, accomplish so (quite enough) -
and perhaps... munching on much, so...

all that winter is... endless scents...
   no flowers in sight, no dizzying plethora of
fuckety-pollen-bulges...
                to the sevens winds the hermaphrodites...
children of hermes and aphrodite:
ol' muse ol' ****** of the goats and gods...

iterum: hiberna tandem!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                          it's noon, july,
              and i find myself
         in possession of the shortest shadow -

so eager,
to anticipate die nacht:
and become...

schatten im selbst -

  or perhaps that's what
a whiskey and indian tonic
water does to you,

   having allowed
almost half
a year to read heidegger's
ponderings VII...

now having arrived at
aphorism III of ponderings
VIII:
              actually
suckling on some sort of
philosophical-poetics!

                i'm the drunk,
  there's no actual poet
to mind,
  and he's a necromantic
reading into the living...
he was the sober peasant,
i'm still the drunk
peasant...

          airy-fairy
and the *****-nilly americanism...
it's still a whiskey
mixer with indian tonic water...

throw the american out
with the coffee from the window...
  
   a whirlwind!
  of conjunction mingling with
interjections -
   always the abrupt...
                        hyphen or a colon?

rules?
                borrowed...
   we'd like to call colon the boss
of both lists (hyper inflating
comma usage) /
                       not using italics,
and...
             what the hell happened
to the origin and upkeep
            of the apostrophe?!

russians?!
   russians are a limited diacritical
application types of a people -
russians are like the english:
   they have no origins in language
encoding,
  in thinking:
                sure, they "think",
but in fact they:                        thing.

this does that this does who,
who does what, what does this.

they "think"... but instead they...
   thing...
                     like any technocracy -
if it works, it works:
   so we don't need the dumb peasant
having been given the instruction
manual...

    top rubric genesis:
bottom rubric exodus...
   hope it works out...

           and since i'm drunk:
and you're probably sober...
                      where's the boxing match
taking place...
  because i was having this
conversation with an english lady
showing off her tattoos to me,
and this guy with a dog
started spewing words like
  filfth, filfth! over
our conversation...

    he can bring the dog...
   i'll bring my belt...

       'cos' at this point i'm:
  ******* frothing at the mouth!
and if i wasn't drinking my usual
suspects of sedatives of
count jameson, and baron daniels,
and king absolute of shveeden...
                      you know what
biting down on your teeth
does to you?
                          ***** parade...
seriously!
     pusshy parade!

                    it's like they're there,
those sort of people, but you're like:
so where's the goliath?

         i want the goliath...
                      i don't want someone who's
dog i'd rather wrestle...
          
katie:
    i'd rather fight his dog, throw myself
into a bush of nettles like
an ancient roman
         than smack that gobshite!

call me, and the night:
   i'll still be frothing at the mouth
like a mad infestation of cattle...
which probably originated from
castrating the bulls.
A seatbelt helps
but it's useless if
you don't use it,
it's a bit like life
don't live it
you
lose it

the gobshite shouts,
we're all going to lose it
anyway,

the point he's making
misses the mark
but it is dark and
oncoming headlights
are blinding him
These are the politics of the privileged,
the ultra rich and the Dandy
which is handy if you're one of them, but
no good at all to the likes of me,

when they talk of better times
they don't
mean for me nor for you,

this is just golf club gobshite
by the white elite
and yet
we fight one another
instead of fighting them.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
the day i learned
that the band ****** jesus
with their song
i'm the mountain
wasn't some u.s.a.
trucker fetish,
or anything related
to the u.s.a.,
and was a bunch
of ukranians...
  well... the day...
          just like any other
in the marginal fabric
of realism...
something worth
forgetting,
or engaging with
   on the basis of: it works...
like a button
and a button-hole
on a shirt...
   or a belt,
fastened around
the waist..
or: **** yeah -
i have never heard of
people ingesting
hallucinogenic fungus
huddling under an
open umbrella
indoors...
                like:
the grand tales of
the kingdom of non-irish
gnomes...
but i still live
in a society
whereby: ****
is offensive, blurred out
when the A-crux of a breath
and the mind that knows
its spelling, interacts
with the tongue, lips and teeth
and: gobshite...
but **** is a sorry sorry no,
while ***** is:
the best traffic we'll ever
going to get...
  shush the ****-aroo,
dim-wit!
    savvy ser, savvy
blossom kills... yes sure you R...
which never required
a vowel to be bothered with...
given we're all so
minimalistic, these days...
i am the who-mountain:
   and that-valley...
        which is pin-point
for...
       and all that became
life as what was scuttled for
the baron of: the lottery...
  how homeless people
are never obese,
and the obese are never
homeless...
        and how the homeless
nomad cult:
with no jew willing...
cool-quiff of worded
obnoxiousness makes
pyramids of:
   the stuff you mould
with that sand?
yeah... i ****** on it.
- and life is all the all that
it can ever be...
               i almost fake
having an identity
whenever a stretch
my limps,
and encounter a public
scrapheap of:
what never becomes
history, the news,
or a library...
         a lot of times:
i even forget that i have
a face...
      i hyper-inflate
my literacy,
and then loße it to the emoji
franchiße...
                the world continues:
i accept a gruelling fact...
i pardon myself before it,
and letter my insignia
to unfathom a...
     pervading scarcity
of cogito on a canvas of
dasein...

   telling myself:
all the cogito i will ever
encounter, is limited
in the verb dynamic of
classical physics & interaction...

intraction?

           the world & its worth
of being concerned with it...
is not stand: upon the basic
of any search for being...

a thought:
the basilisk of Crimea...
  congested, private vocabularies...
made public...
    
   i almost forgot to have
to succumb to the want
of being understood...
in that:
          i made myself remember:

you can't see or hear:
****...
but you can see in transit
a case for ******...
choice: choosey reader...

so ******* polite,
so pertinent...
but it seems...
i forgot to don a top-hat!

scripted read (creed, reed, A(h))...
and i to have
confused the locus of
the 'ed and rhomb'us
of the rarity in: red...

             past...

          the travelling
circus... who's who's curiosity?
who is who's curiosity?

      favorite movie
character?

     one liner & opening:
no thanks turkish... i'm sweet enough
  bricktop...

    but all these observations
are not worth the business
of employing the hounds
of the  pediatric nature / stipend /
allure...

as i found it strange:
that the world:
"simply"... happens...
         and...
                         it will continue to
do so...
while i... will not even
have to make a remote place:
such as the position
i am in...
     to be held accountable
for...
it not even "being" so:
to begin with!

       oh... we're long past
a genesis...
                   i am anonymous,
but thrice over:
unaccountable for...
   for whatever reason
people make themselves
accounted for:
notably in epitaphs...

             unless...
by the "luck" of a grotesque
freak accident...
or a scam...

                 the world is
so pristine...
in its drama escapades...
it's not even that
i'm afraid of stepping
into the water
for fear of drowning
in it...
   i call it a case of...
lethargy to counter
the intricacies of triviality
of the world-riddled
people:
who are sometimes found
counting their steps,
and apprehensive
of their shadows.

me? i sometimes find my
ego make a statement...
i have an arm?
       it i it has a having
of an arm? there's an arm?!
if only and only but the few
read some of samuel beckett's
watt...
and... no ******* chance
mate!
                 no one is going
to become a public
intellectual...
in the anglican spreschen
woowld...
having read that sort
of *******! ha ha!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
russia never fails at being: unsurprising -
stagnant mother of
the little caucasian dittos -
        otherwise a pristine day...
a breakfast of a coffee... an apple...
and a cigarette...
minutes later... digging up glass
and mirrors from the earth -
       the earthworms and the scuttling
spiders - the woodlice
   and
those sluggish irritations
of glob-like loafs of galileo's bread -
it's almost impossible not
to laugh when picking up
a snail by the shell... timid little
lubricant slob... teasing it to
prop out its eyes...
   fungus-esque vacuum of cul de sac
black prodding (the eyes! the eyes!):
god... that salival gobshite of
a slush munch oozing
like a ******... but slugs?!
ugh... a discomfort like no other...
yes: those spiders dancing a cossack...
'opak...
with each handling of a shovel
the displacement of these little
pandemonium rugrats...
gloriously wriggling centipedes;
      but the fence is not yet complete...
i have to dig circa 6 inches
into the harrow and plough to...
set up a underlay border...
so the weeds: these consistently demanding
   overlords of will -
can be clogged up against:
a makeshift ha-kotel...
    as i also watched the ants:
how many i buried alive in the cement...
satellite eyes in my skull -
          sushi from earthworms...
like pruned shoots of greenery -
i am sure the clone replica
body tomb will... well:
sometimes one might draw blood from
an earthworm cut in half...
breakfast for champions:
a coffee an apple and a cigarette...
oh yes... the cement - fine fine
grey powder...
and building sand...
      a 3:1 ratio of sand to cement powder...
it just desires air like pollen...
you end up snorting a burst
balloon's worth...
   that was me... a concrete flinging
monkey... i seem to have...
forgotten the ****...
   in response
                 a mini replica of the ha-kotel
or hadrian's wall...
come the evening;
a ******* moth sanctuary that's also
my bedroom...
     which is nice...
i.e. moths...
            unlike indoor plants...
concrete flinging monkey...
       architect chomp chizzy...
             a story akin to: come evening...
a local dairy farm is being
closed in vermont...
         there's talk of... the usual...
it's not that capitalism this...
capitalism that... socialism blah blah...
kafka and bureaucracy...
a forest... a paper stampede:
but tourism...
   i, concrete flinging monkey...
come across a view with a nuisance...
no... not wind-farms...
cows... lots and lots of cows...
i also own a maine **** that...
   meows at the moon...
   well... imitate barking... howling...
fair enough... ah'woooooo!
perfect... but... it's just impossible...
to... say:                woof...
saying <woof> these days is like
some czech saying the word <i> -
                     pronouns are not stand-alone
necessary conjunction shrapnel: and...
i'll bark: without... i'll hark...
i'll imitate... god forbid the idyll of
a "woof"...
       back to the cows...
well... what better cure...
crying: moooooooooooooo'n
at them...
                if not a canvas for
a zebra... then most fuckety-**** assured
a dalmatian running chaos
and concrete evidence for a ziggy
and a zag...
                         because: as you do...
it would be plain idiot
to have to print black paper
to later write in corrector ink on them...

a day as any other:
my own... and that i was alone
for most of it...
creepy-crawlies being resettled
and... those crows...
like they might turn a branch
into a rattling toy...
     it wasn't a hark with wasn't an
outright croak...
blistering black heavens with
a glistening white cross of their
skeleton having fun...

it's enough to have written so very
little... seemingly freelance
livid on a hot horseshoe with not
impeding stress for gallop...
but this is not a grave...
there is no tombstone...
and... there's no epitaph...

           funny... i have ventured
into many graveyards... out of fun:
out of a mortal assurance...
but beside it: to own a grave is a status
symbol... like a second mortgage...
cremate the rest of us: said plonk
and pluck...
              there's a name...
there's a born on and a died on...
     there's an engraving by those
who dearly miss: a loving father etc.
but there's hardly...
an epitaph...

i am yet to find myself... in awe...
walking in a cemetery....
finding a gravestone with an epitaph
detailing a: progressive thesis
for a blatantly borrowed Golgotha!

- that moscow is a memory of a in concreto
of a slab -
perfectly contorted and
only a midnight at a train station
waiting for a ****-plug
heading back to st. petersburg...
is another time... another life...
the same spatial coordinates...

little venice whittle Constantine-ville...
some other-wordly ham-steer-toward-the-dam...
flooding! mr. orange:
the spanish are craving polenta...
and all that's perfectly...
inaccessible for the serenity of
a plonker and a plumber...

              hidden niches of
english phoneticism arguments:
in that they lack any variation
of orthography -
   what even the germans had to mind.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
( English Gobshite Oralising)
     An Acrostic titled Poem.

" M e " , the only person
   I           ntellegent enough to
   C          ome with Bill and Bob's
   K          oran of wisdom and
   E          xplain its principles to
   Y          ou stupid lot of

   B          astards.
Mickey B is full of ****, a failed dry drunk.
Remember the kitchen chemist in South Hackney?
well
the little gobshite is trying to track me because I told others that
the crack that he cooks is quite flaky,
does that make me a
snitch?

yeah
that little ***** doesn't know his **** from his elbow
I could've shown him how to cook it
but **** it
why would I?

ha
these days I make do with Anadin,
but I used to turn lead into
jewelled nights.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
i guess... subjectivity is what...
makes dialectics fun...
because... it's not like...
via dialectics...
    a grand truth was revealed...
or... revelled in...
that's mostly...
silent... the awe takes
care of... "bothersome" conversation...
if we were...
talking... diacritical markers...
orthography...
accents...
then... yeah...
that's not subjective...
but... to entertain dialectics...
is to... enjoy...
having... disparaging
opinions...
without... really...
gaining a truth of them...
        the best music in the world....
axiom (a) no one...
really knows... (b) point (b)
is so boring...
     let's just... read the gobshite
and the tabloid...
have a quick passion-fruit
moment pressured knees
in the back of the bus and...
mr. android was always...
the fail-safe mech. driver
for that... c.c.t.v. link-up with...
mad-basher *******...
quasi-and-a-"god"...
          i.e. last time i heard...
the socratic invention...
dialectics...
it... wasn't...
          an object-sharpening "tool"...
no truth would ever arrive from
dialectics... no...
******* spontaneity susan...
microscope in the age of hammers
and chisels!
          to enjoy subjectivity
was beyond a mere: yes or no...
      that... whoever reads Plato...
will find...
so... why... the lobotomy libra blues...
since... characters blend into
the character-narrator complex...
i.e. you just can't disagree with
Socrates!
  it's either a yes... or a no...
binary complexity of a socratic audience...
but dialectics is not an art of...
what objectivity defines...
      the invention of beer wasn't
talked about... it was... the fermentation
process surrounding wheat... barley...
hops...
      there is no... "superior"
objective reality that's spoken of...
the best we can do is... enjoy...
a muddling of subjectivities...
                muddy waters:
   nothing at all can be confined to being:
objectively true: when spoken...
or thought...
  the objectivity rule:
             surd letters... an object falls...
the wind carries the creases of...
poorly tailored suits of suicides...
          
after all... dialectics is a subjective art...
that was aimed to subvert...
rhetorical peacocking...
         how to interrupt an orator...
a sophist... a "know-it-all"...
   dialectics is... how to... allow two objects...
the entertainment of being:
displaced as verbs in the mouth
of others... to entertain...
a theatre of nouns...
a band name... and a song name...
"counter"...
to make... con-ver.... s'ah-tion...
     i will not say... what is already being
said...

dialectics and... "objectivity" -
talking like autistic androids...
recycling... encyclopoedic facts and measures...
life talked about...
like... two butchers... arguing about...
a certain cut or pig torso:
as... the rib-cage is plentiful in sizzle...
oozes... "character"... when properly spiced!

i am subjected to a body...
but i also tend to objecity this subjectivity through
the aid of the "other":
i am subjected to gravity...
i am subjected to hunger...
i am subjected to... the litany essential...
i am therefore introspective:
object-and-subject alike...
but dialectics is not born from:
a greasing of fathomable:
            incorruptible truths...
certain realities exist for the focus of
nuance: for conversation...
one doesn't beg ausitic-esque scrutiny
to android a future of a day's
blessing with them...

i am subjected to heat and drought...
i am subjected to thirst...
the objective reality that is concerned
is a welcome attache...
stating... water boils at 100°C...
that's an objective statement...
water boils at 100°C...
1 + 1 = 2...

kant ***** descartes and says:
is it a priori subjective...
or is it... a posteriori objective...
that i have a fetish for...
looking at insects...
but not...
              to hell with those
who defame the concerns for
subjectivity...
fact-regurgitator-spewing:
spawns of beelzebub!

         dialectics doesn't require...
the certainity of oblong scrutinies...
we are here... to entertain...
fixations of: prefixed standards
of fixation of... counter to...
movie or music critics:
established by the will of mammon
a status of paid... professional...
lingering umemployment
secured by... the people in...
the... "know how"...

                  being confined to...
being the subject of gravity...
being the subject of history:
a time... deviating from...
everything past... otherwise...
doubly... "somehow"... apparent...
subjectivity is "less"
than objectivity...
i can fathom one...
and two...

1 + 1 = 2 is an a prior objective statement...
roses are red... sorry...
that is an a priori subjective statement...
since... we'd like a triangle statement...
but there, isn't one to behave as
one might wish: for it, to behave...

  dialectics "contra" diacritical markers...
"facts don't care about your feelings"...
come to "think" of it...
neither does my autistic-android
non-self...
i will allow as little facts
as i will allow the opinions...
to find the truth of opinions...
last time i heard...
the facts need no siamese
abstraction of addition / twinning...

one fact can't obstruct / negate
another fact... since... "the godly narrative"...
but opinions are wavering...
to talk is to entertain...
subjective nuances... or no nuances...
hello tomorrow...
today hasn't been kind.
I presented her with a bottle of Channel and
as you can see the manufacturers made a mistake with the spelling
,
although it cost me two shillings
I didn't begrudge the price
she was nice
nicer than the perfume
and now I do
begrudge the price I paid

Thinks.

with that cash
we could have gone to
Windermere
if I look hard I can see her
enjoying the views
until some gobshite asks her
'what perfume do you use'
and she says
cheapskate over there
didn't buy me any
to wear

and that was that

what I could have spent the cash on
and in fact did
was
Channel.

— The End —