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

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
fidgety.
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
MAKE THEE **** A HOLY **** WORDED & WORSHIPPED!
ARSES IN THE AIR GENTS... WE'RE GOING TO HAVANAH!
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
with the birth of money the old, ethnically categorised
unity broke apart,
now the rats in banks, now the rats stocking
cheap metal jump the ship called humanity unanimously,
we no longer have tribes of apache, or maori,
we have ethnicity via professions - the ‘i scratch my back
you scratch mine’ lots drawn... the shortest match
gets to be in the philosophy gang of severe individuation:
it’s not that the english languages from philosophy orientated maxims,
the english language is quick on that, quick to spot that,
but in terms of a philosophical narrative like a complex prose book of fiction...
well... its legs are broken, its arms are broken, it’s simply languishing
behind all the truths proofs innuendos and falsities, like an eager puppy.
with the birth of money traditional tribalism died and became
a curiosity prior, the least amazing job in a society with the piston
named money expects us to gratify existential qualms like so:
least responsible most likely to profit... most responsible the type
to be political in salvaging the least responsible role of a postman
or a cashier with lies...
now you... waiting eager for the ear to hear sweater music,
fare well with the anti-communicative charon - ah death
has a boat and a gondolier’s oar, rather than hood wings and a scythe...
see past the pagan burial of putting two coins in the cauldron inferno of
******* stacked to send the signal of the departing soul: partly brain
partly heart... that inverted exoskeleton capacity to feed the idea of soul -
they make break my bones with sticks and stones...
on the outside bruised... but then the surrealism of the inside attracting
an unfamiliar species of thinking: either singing or harking.
with four beers in the churchyard i took the last remnant of my past
with me, a d.c. belt of my ex-girlfriend, and thought about black magic
and voodoo, hanging it on a branch... instead i wrapped it
around the tree and gave it a model’s size 0 circumference,
thus i ended the session thinking about buying new gloves for winter
feeling my hands turn into ivory at the touch of the cold beer can...
but prior i was well aware of the possibilities, when the theft / injury took
place in a frenzy of such jealousy as to acquire theological dimensions of proof:
at least i will leave the world satiated by convenience of the misguided act -
as to answer that famous question: leave numerology aside,
come with me from how you acquired your use of language, your vocabulary,
make me see you turn words to words... away from the jewish tradition
of numerology... let’s face it... would you answer the question:
what’s the meaning of life? with (23 + 8 + 1 + 20 + ~9 +19) etc.?
or would you care to peer in and say:
the question has no verb in it, i.e.: not activity, anyone can ask it
but still prevail in their vector coordination of plumbing or
spanking faraday equations with newton training the monkey to dance:
pronoun (what) 3rd person singular present indicative of be /
you might as well be saying 1st person plural non-present non-indicative of be /
schizophrenic / there’s meaning in the sewer blockage with eager hands to fix it /
the crooked tree with a straight shadow / the badger shrunk from a zebra and became
the petted dalmatian that became a cow (is, i.e. too much is happening) i’m looking at something with myopic directness of the far far blurry / a direct article (the) now open the dictionary and tell me how cave is a ditto of rock and mountain without antonym proximity (noun) prior to me there was ****** and mussolini, pre that while i mind the pro that’s me (of, preposition) the river sooner than soon pours into the ocean and becomes saltwater, it could be called the heraclitus estuary, but it’s the thames we’re talking about; many men became rivers but still the godly wound itched for more bloodshed, and all those that attracted sweet water fish ended up as salt water poisons known as oceans, known as humanity (life).
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
sorry... have to be pedantic all on you...

   you ever think that some people
are born illiterate, at leat,
partially, to escape the label: dyslexic?

sounds to me, that pretty much
all h'americans are...

     is H... neither a vowel
nor a consonant?
you ******* eating steam-****
curry or something?

fill me in...
last time i heard...
you'd doing what the Hindus do to H...
they put it in,
but classify it as neither vowel,
or consonant...
   some whacky orthographic
insertion...
        
        certain languages treat H
as a... surd...
       you write it... but you don't speak it...
it's like people forgot the pivot letter
for either harking up phlegm...
or laughter!

   and Al Paccino can have his ***** fit
in the devil's advocate
all he wants...
                that famous:
look, but don't taste,
touch, but don't taste,
taste?! but don't swallow.
   sorry... own a DVD...
   because you know how the English
variant of sorry, goes, in England, right?
you're not...
i always thought that
the h'Americans had a terrible
problem with having their
personal "space" infringed...
weirdos...
  a part of conversation is also
a part of what monkeys find
the last bit intimidating,
close contact...
            touching each other by the fur...
tugging along...
     H though?
   it's a surd, not a vowel,
not a consonant in the english language,
a "revised" replica of
Hindu orthography...
which inserts the letter,
as neither vowel, or consonant,
but as a surd...
           oh but the Judea pundits will
what to know this info...
  like?
  you forget harking up phlegm in
clearing your throat for rhetorical
purposes,
or you forget how to pivot on a letter
that encompasses both sighing
and laughter?!
      your choice...
         so is the first H of
ha-shem a sigh of relief?
  and the second H a pivot for laughing
into a vacuous space
of planets, stars, and orbits?!

i cannot not be pedantic about language,
there are rules to language,
which is how, people like me,
ensure it's sustained,
and doesn't devolve into
internet EMOJI hieroglyphics...

         savvy?

           the language stays,
but sure, you can run along and play your
little, pseudo / + crypto- linguistic game
of whatever the hell
a correct spelling doesn't suffice...
mind you...
i'm dyslexic on certain words in english...

e.g. vetenerian...
   as you already know,
it's actually veterinarian...

  and that's because of what, exactly?
quasi-stenography bound to english...
e.g.?

     don't: do not
      isn't: is it not
           won't: will not...
you get the drift?!

   i call that the highest form of
cannibalism,
eating letters...
                  serving the apostrophe
Canni...
            and yes, a (indirect article),
the (direct article),
               's (possessive article):
there is a third article in play when
reading english grammar...

but eating certain letters
within the construct of crafting simple
compounds - i.e. -
simple sentences?
no wonder the spelling errors...

back in Poland?
    you don't have dyslexics -
you have orthographic ronin -
the clarification of syllables
is, to my knowledge, ever question...
but in English?
always.
     i make the mistakes...

the English are a race
of linguistic cannibalism,
they eat certain letters out of existence...
never having noticed
that H, is neither vowel, or consonant...
but a surd in most
obscure instances...

    esp. in that "cultural appropriation"
dynamic of borrowing Hindu words...
or Urdu, whichever...

              hatchet -
  hovering -
              hay -
   wasn't it the Cockney shlang
that ate the H out of existence?
    'ay,
           'atchet,
     'overing...
                  oi! 'ate me sum more!
i swear the Cockney accent
don't allow H...
                      but did the Cockney's
laugh more?
  or sigh more?
   the H is about to become dodo
and people are still desiring to use
it for either sighing,
or to pivot on it for the consummation
of, laughter!

  odd... isn't it?!
       and it's the English who are
attempting to **** of H...
                  via Cockney,
having introduced the surd Hindi
H in... say... words like
dhāl (see how the H "suddenly" disappears,
the macron elongates the spelling to dhaal?) -
lentil curry, decent provided
enough chillies...

not funny anymore?!
      How will you laugH?
witHout this letter?
    oi! Cockney sHdders!
      tHe **** are you going to pivot on?
wHat's your tigHt rope, replacement?!

let's just say...
some of us, are pedantic enough,
to care about setting standards
of literacy...
or at least? up-keeping them...
like gardeners...
tending to the gardens of Buckingham palace.
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Pleasantries aside, did you feel that tremble?
Not earthquake, it was heaven's shake

when you took me

by hand
led away

deep in wood
STOP...
and stood

Pierced constellation's reflection
Eyes sent soul's orbit
Forbidding further speak of

Harking horror
for it is tomorrow
and I still don't know your name

Or...
why your grizzly ways
Turned me into bait

Ursa Major I hear Ursa Minor

He pines for your return
...because you weakened him
The complexities of thought processing as a **** and ****** survivor. Always emphasis on survivor.
Rangzeb Hussain Dec 2010
"Once...

In my hands I cradled the dream of a candle,
A candle made from the weeping wax of peace,
The frozen peace of winter did kiss the flame to life at the dawn of time,
A time when life glowing was first born,

He was born on a night where even wolves hushed in solitude,
The solitude of a winter’s sparkling moon,
In the moon's ink a book was spun rich and old,
Old it was,

As old as the child of a dying nightingale,
A nightingale born from the symphonic blood of a Saviour,
A Saviour pure as softly sprinkled snow,
The snow in glory harking,

Harking the flute made from the ice of sublime love,
A love eternal,
Life eternal for all humankind,
This same humankind is now distracted and blind,

We are blind to the silent solace of winter and no longer seek the divine,
Our divine King of Kings it is His song that we forget to sing,
Please sing once more and hark the angels of heaven.

In heaven there was once upon a time...
There was a time,
A time of hope,
Of hope and of mercy.

Mercy and love too,
Love,
Love,
     Love..."*



©Rangzeb Hussain
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.i get it now, the more i make it a detention hour writing lines: doing dull work, makes sam a bored boy... intra-racial variant of slur qua intimacy, in-group standard... take any "n" word "extra g" word "thingy" among the non-exported examples, non-NBA privileged, say... in Kenya... friends? **** no... feeling intimate? huh? like i said... watching 2 hours of a washing machine cycle, is probably more entertaining, than, seeing, the cages, the - - - - - morse breaks in... so... everyone is being a ******* ******, creating a natural response to a river, that must become a reservoir / fake lake? whatever etiquette equated to politeness comes from this... no wonder we'll be doing it from spite... rather than a genuine sediment of genuine feeling, flight of the heart & and all the fickle thoughts that go with it.

please, please, put me into handcuffs
for ******* in an alleyway,
the english sort of handcuffs,
the ones where they can't handcuff
you from behind,
   because the cuffs are not connected
by a mandible chain,
but a rigid middle,
implying that you have to be handcuffed
with your hands in-front...
which also implies:
   well... if **** turned ugly...
i could just wrap my hands around
a boppy's neck and just turn into
a boa...
     but that other police officer was
nice, turning the police van cell
into a taxi...
   racial slurs...
   intra-racial, or inter-racial?
  big difference...
            inter-racial slurs,
namely an english derivative:
the empire britannia rule the waves
what not?
   crass...
      not too... genius...
no real outlet phonetically...
  the language is too soft as it is...
i met one german at university
who complimented the ****** tongue
with that one general-****-over
word for everything -
conjunction, was the word,
the word is treated as a conjunction:
kurwa...
        i once dated a french psychology
major two years my senior
who i lost my virginity to,
who, let's say, enlightened me...
she was looking for native english speakers,
she told me the most fascinating
fact...
        the fwench used to attach
a trill to the R...
   before they started harking up
an R like phlegm when smoking too much
or down with the flu...
inter-racial slurs are... yawn...
   who gives a **** about walking
on egg-shells...
   i'm watching a ******* football match
or swan lake with 22 *******
                                       pansies?
everyone's suddenly going to be
     as sensitive as a fwench footballer?
****: french / fwench...
  it pretty much sounds the same...
the fwench speak one language,
the french write the same one language...
but the german complimented
a language for the: pristine outlet
of frustration of... tongue licking
a metaphysical punching bag...
but inter-racial slurs are crass,
for the simple fact that...
          they're just too plain in sight...
there is no intimate history of
a people...
   me? personally?
   i'd love to know what the african
royalty called would-be slaves
picked up by western europeans
for export...
   it's not like these colonialists run
these colonized countries freely,
without collusion with the african ruling class...
there was an african ruling class,
there is an african ruling class,
     what's to be exactly changed?
lost in translation:
    former soviet states people /
  but not the satellites?
   kacap...
   from the song husaria by bujak?
ahem...
     muscovite gałgan...
never heard that one before...
   gałgan...
   i once dated a girl from st. petersburg
that summarißed my mutterzunge
        as a crackling of radio static...
just as the english say:
of a people, with, "too many" consonants
in their surnames...
   ask a ****** about hindu surnames...
i mean: intra-racial slurs...
a movement toward real intimacy
of the use of language...
e.g. in england:
    northern monkeys,
southern fairies...
      and the rest? eurotrash...
       i once heard a intra-racial slur
about the english -
                  angol to pedzio...
and then back to cosmopolitan english...
the "n" word... night? nightmare,
nigh?
                oh... the n- word?
if only i could find some malice in
the context of use...
yes, i know the content of the word,
the content of historical usage...
    and now the whole intra-racial
comradery... inclusion...
familiarity...
                a joke of latin...
   to me that's like saying
              Nigeria...
  and then thinking:
         so... it's not the "n" word,
is it? it's the "extra g" word?
better start writing giggle with an optional
   gig(g)le:
   which could become problematic
when it came to a double omicron:
to go, among the goo...
the intra-rascial slur for a german
east of berlin?
          švab...
     funny that... the saxons are
not actually minded...
  the anglo-saxons (intra-racial
mix of celt and saxon)
             as we see them today...
but... when the teutonic order came
to the area around Danzig
     and further east to Königsberg...
further... to Riga...
         a Prussian isn't a German...
              die Preußen ist: Preuße;
  now?
   the Preußen have been reintegrated
into a dialect of Polen...
        kashubian: or at least,
        that's                     sort-of...
ultra-nationalist "sentiments":
   in "exile"...
          i love that, brushing aside
any economic migrant in favor
for the immediate migrant
   of conflict, or political asylum...
you know...
   economics: is a type of war,
                                 in slow-motion...
it's a peaceful war,
   well... ergo it's a "war"...
              and the economic migrants?
disorientated *******...
who can't exactly fully assimilate
to the expectation of the natives...
i.e. speak our language in public,
and our language in private...
  no... no thank you...
         it would be easier to remove
a tattoo with a shark-bite
and a scar than to remove my
                                   mutterzunge...
and here i am... "worried"
about the N in the word trigger...
or the "missing G" in the word: Nigeria...
like... ******* pandering
        to a panda in a Beijing zoo...
now comes the malice...
thought-prison, metaphorical dyslexia
and tattoos of grafitti on
bypass highways...
   like dirt behind my fingernails...
looking for gold nuggets
picking my nose...
   as harold norse once stated
in his memoir (of a ******* angel):
a sign of a Brooklyn intellectual...
   but i just have to point this out...
LGBTQIA...
   nice acronym...
but you're missing two letters...
**** me... if mr and mrs H
  are not included...
LGBTQIA is missing two protected
groups...
     mr P and mr N...
LGBTQIAPN...
    the ******* and
the necrophiliac...
                                    no?
   they'd fit right in...
        no? they wouldn't?
weren't we talking deviance,
             per se?
so...
          those two outer-outliers
    are legit. rainbow deviances...
no? at least mr P can have some sort
of a religious backing...
whether in the desert slap-stick
ninja sketch and satan's postbox...
or at least, back of the queue of a choir,
and some boy...
   but that's the scary bit,
isn't it?
            mr N... now...
                that's... some would claim
it to be art... or what the hell became
of eddie gein in american mainstream
culture...
                  ****... forgot ms B+...
   i do remember seeing internet
in its youth,
                   rotten . com,
            and the earliest edgy ****...
now... not even a black guy can
leave adequate compensation...
   for what... began as a saddle,
reins and stirrups...
          and became:
   a demonic hybrid knock-knock-knocking
on Gomorrah's door...
fastforward...
men on stag outings before
being shackled by the ring...
inflateable sheep
   and granny dolls...
          oh yeah: i'm a real moralist
at this point...
                    what i do find scary
is that whenever i'm confined
to a waiting room, a confined space...
and there's a child with its parent
present... there's an animal...
   there's a very old man with
a middle aged mentally ill daughter...
i'm suddenly likeable...
a curiosity...
        just like today...
  her dad is nearing 75...
      she's unkept... greasy hair...
                  rags, rather than clothes...
and in the corner of my eye...
she just couldn't stop glaring at me...
i'm sweating like i'm the sort of hell
where i'm supposed to **** her...
or go to her pajamas sleep-over party
if the case was: she was sixteen
and i was eight...
                        as i went into
the doctor's appointment
    and recounted my 2 week psychotic
episode of being strapped
to the bed... in a quasi-paralysis...
citing metaphors of p.t.s.d.,
                   not talking a word for
2 weeks, only because i received
a ******* questionnaire from
the dept. of work & pensions...
   'am i a fraud? am i?'
   between 48 hour periods...
i'd chance 2 hours of sleep...
     the usual questions...
suicidal thoughts, hallucinations?
   no... the 1st episode, yeah...
but now? it's just debilitating,
quasi-paralysis...
                  nice doctor... plump...
beauty of a doughnut...
          and doughnuts are beautiful...
esp. if you throw them into a lake,
and they float,
  and then you watch the ducks
                  and the swans swarm it...
if i lied: i should be contending
for an oscar...
          then she measured my blood-pressure...
first instrument failed...
the arm-band was too small...
the air was pumped into the band
around my hand:
    arm-band snapped
  of the blood-pressure measuring tool...
so she had to resort to
the old method of using
the stethoscope and a bigger arm-band...
i guess she knew she was
dealing with a scared / agitated
animal...
   that just so happened to talk
                  some words in human;
a wounded animal,
is hardly scared / agitated...
a wounded animal,
   is whatever implies...
being elevated to a status
that transcends the wound...
the doctors came too late,
i'm fidding with letters
    like jigsaw...
  i'm fiddling with the then
larger jigsaw of words...
   and the whole point of the picture
will only arrive,
post office stamp and all...
akin to a postmortem:
  that part of life...
where...
   eh? how would you classify
man...
          pork, beef, game,
poultry, fish?
    all... none of the stated?
that's almost funny...
   HOW WOULD YOU CLASSIFY
MAN IN THE "CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE"
of said classes of edible meats?
am i pork?
   no... am i beef? no...
veal? no...
         well, we already know
that some examples of meat
are actually vegetables:
   brain damage, coma...
like:
   do you bite into a tomato...
"thinking" it's a fruit...
or a veg.?
         "logic" supposes
that a tomato is a fruit...
common sense?
     it's a ******* vegetable!
post-racism...
   what sort of meat is man?
eh... bewildering...
   i guess we can only find
an answer, in China...
  should we ever send
a pet dog & its owner to
some obscure, countryside,
small town, famine riddled
(or straight to Kiev) place...
sorry...
******* a black doesn't make
me "less", "racist"...
i might as well imitate
a colonial overlord by the act...
seriously...
english, these days?
watching a ******* washing-machine
is less confusing that
walking on egg-shells in
this tongue...
currently, available...
so let's forget, black, or white...
you beef?
   you crab meat?
       you lamb?
   (slippery *****
of salivating sounds):
what are you?
       it's called:
  SEEING PAST THE COLOUR...
so...
     what's the meat worth?
is chimp meat the same
as human meat?
   no, wait...
that gorilla grew big-*******
eating shrubs?
anomaly of human
dietary requirements...
a horse became so big...
only eating... grass...
      yeah... no anomaly...
and then my brain starts to short-circuit...
past the colour,
infancy of discrimination...
how would to categorise
the "body" of christ
if no bread was available?
beef? pork? veal?
fish?
      i already know what
the ****** would be...
   sure as **** it wouldn't be
*****'s liquor worth of wine...
i went straight to the beast
of the wheat...
    and i called her...
        ms. amber...
                 and... maybe i just didn't
like the wrap-up of rap
because of the lyrics and
my unrelateable tendency
to never **** the bid-bop head...
of the music per se,
but the lyrics?
      sure... the music is great...
but the lyrics?
     i can't relate to them...
i need, something,
mythological and obscure...
a time-wrap not minding a grief
                 of / from yesterday...
mind you: i'll write this,
as i'll drink whatever is left,
and tomorrow...
            is a tomorrow without
this current zenith of the hours...
come beethoven thinking
of tux in the variant of rigid
geometry in the form of music...
           like when sartre plagiarised
joyce at the end of iron in the soul?
- that's the next tier of "racism"...
    as far as i am concerned...
it would be nice to re-evauluate
my position
    on the libra of being
reengaged in a food-chain
hierarchy...
                  cancer is a primitive
pseudo-vitro-forma...
    great... eaten by parasites...
germs... etc.,
  guess what...
   at least a lion is beautiful...
i'd rather be eaten by a lion
than a ******* tapeworm...
so what am i?
              beef?
                     ****...
       first i'd have to put monkey
on the menu...
to tease at the taboo
     of teasing the cannibal
    while performing oral ***.
betterdays Apr 2016
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.

the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on

planning, prepping, late night stressing

then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******* in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter

and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away

no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty  red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no,  you be the one to corner the beast.

no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty

please, please show me the door.....

not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more

but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.

the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar  that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.

November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***.

last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb



yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
if you won't learn a second tongue, that's foreign to you, like, let's say french, or spanish... don't expect me to "integrate" into your society, and leave my mothertongue in a ditch, in the gutter, in a forgetfullness... i'm keeping mine, and you'll have to cut my tongue off, to make me forget it!

why? what's the main reason?     the r!         the R!
the trill!
               well... i have another name for the so-called *trill
...
   great oral ***...
                        for one...
                                    but in my gob... that letter equates to
a rattlesnake...                         the english took the ketamine-numbing
approach to the R...          the french?          they, they...
     they just ******* hark it out... ha ha... as if they were clearing
their throats from too many cigarettes the previous day...
                        my R is a rattlesnake...
                        so, once more... oh, i learn your language, i'll even
beat you at it...                 given my current expression...
  but forget my mothertongue, and not have the odd sing-along to a song
in my native (tongue)?      forget it...
              you numbed the R...    you're almost swallowing your tongue
when expressing it...
                                              where's your serpent regarding
the letter? oh... an anaconda... quasi-bear-like hibernation
              after eating some animal in one gulp...
     where is the snake's ****, by the way?
                                           do they have one?
                                                      i'd love to see a snake take a ****,
but that's like: a month's, if not half a year's worth of "indigestion".
             n'ah... i'll integrate, for sure, i'll use the tongue,
                      but not using the native?                      forget it!
you learn a second tongue!         we have to meet halfway, after all.
i feel sorry for R in the hands of the french, or the english...
      the former are harking it... the latter are numbing it...
                                    me? thankfully using it like a rattlesnake.
thinklef Sep 2013
My thought is empty,
I'm in search of something to let in,
I am gazing at nothing,
In search of something,
I'm harking back to my past,
Trying to find out what I left out,
The only thing I remember is the future,
But its just an illusion,
You may call it vision ,
Since I'm on a mission,
that's the reason why am confused,
Because I'm been used,
Now I remember what I must put together,
I most achieve my aim,
Through the meaning of my name.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
some would call it a profanity - from the islands of northern Europe i liked the Scots the most, in my first year at Edinburgh Scottish weather played a joke, i don't remember a single gloomy day - i do remember not sleeping one night, and trekking up Arthur's Seat to watch the sunrise, then climbing down, buying Kellogg's cornflakes and full-fat milk and eating them - that magic moment just between daytime fully sets in - it's so fresh, a reality proof, just before the mundane job applicants get up, you get a sense of what's truly taken for granted in society - it only lasts for a few minutes - before the commuters' nagging sets in, and everything fresh (awaiting the new dawn) becomes custard thick - sticky, sickly honey glue pungent... anyway... i'm making a grand profanity at the moment: tier 1 - whiskey and ice, tier oblivion - whiskey and coca cola... but what i'm drinking is like a virus immune to antibiotics, no amount of citrus barley caramel can mask the smoked salmon with a tinge of variously fruity accents can mask it... Glen Moray, single malt, an Elgin Classic - it is a profanity, i agree - i should drink whiskey like mulled wine - but i'm in a hurry for a mindset, and i'm not bothered that much about passing down aesthetics - my palette says otherwise. yeah, my love for Scotland came from climbing up a ladder in the English hierarchy at school - everyone wanted to be taught by Mr. Thomas Boonce - aged 15 went into B1 (or however they noted the selection process) - aged 16 on top of my game, A1 class - a blazing comet trail of ambition, shared the same desk with my enemy shoulder-to-shoulder, the one who promised me a south american plant would give me grand hallucinations, ****** the mother of my ******* son and wa-lah! elephant trunk pulled from a top hat playing jazz - that Jesus bit about loving your enemies? esp. if they're your childhood friends and are **** crazy? you don't love them, your heart turns to stone and it says skipping on lake: what a shame... so much potential in him wasted on jealousy, the way he trusted a woman that is now on some sort of psychiatric medication... i can't love enemies, what i can do is feel sorry for a waste of human potential... (knock on chest)... yep, this ol' ticker is solid stone... and sooner or later it will be added to a mountain i'm constructing in my mind.

thank god for rabbinical literature -
i could pour days over these pages - i literally open a book,
a compilation of entries -
why hasn't anyone noticed the genius of written Hebraic?
i know in the middle east is a wasp nest of harking and
memorable achoo - or quasi (~, literary denotation,
thereabouts, so so, kinda, well, approximate too,
hand gesture in that symbol, good-in-bad-bad-in-good) -
just now i was admiring the fact that Hebraic hides vowels -
truly, they hide them, ingenious buggers -
all the vowels in Hebraic are hidden -
in translation to Latin the Hebrews treat vowels
like post-Latin users of the original S.P.Q.R. alphabet
use diacritical marks - and newspaper Hebraic doesn't
include them in print, only: i suppose in poetry and
rabbinical writings are they exposed -
which stems largely from what is cordoned off -
or rather the fruits of the work of encapsulation -
Latin is slightly biased, no letter is truly encapsulated,
shut-off from another - aye, be, cee, dee, ee, ef, hay'tch (
a distinction), em, en, ***... zed (an exception), ex, you
get the idea - there are no nouns in the post-Latin
alphabet as such - which is why in science Greek letters
were used as constants - these consonant constants
encapsulated not only the phonetic content of a symbol,
but also allowed for an encapsulation of some higher
purpose - e.g. α (angular acceleration) -
β (sound intensity) - γ (gamma rays) - δ (heat in chemistry,
the perfect error, the Laplace operator, etc.) -
ε (set theory, the limit ordinal of the sequence -
    html disapproval to be written as: ω (tier squared ω,
    and one above the squared tier ω, ω root ω double root ω -
    variant alias of this? Hebraic notation of u .
                                                               ­                   .
                                                               ­                      .
     *shurek
) - Θ (Debye notation) - θ (potential temp. in
thermal dynamics) - ι (orbital inclination in celestial mechanics) -
κ (curvature) - Λ (lattice) - λ (decay constant in radioactivity) -
μ (micron, SI prefix, one millionth) - ν (a neutrino) -
ξ (a random variable) - π (too obvious, πr squared) -
ρ (correlation coefficient in statistics) - Σ (summation operator) -
σ (area density) - τ (torque) - φ (the golden ratio, 1.618...) -
ψ (the cat in a box, wave function, quantum mechanics) -
ω (the infinite ordinal);
                                         it's precisely because the Greeks to
encapsulate their phonetic symbols that so much stability
was brought up - look how poverty stricken the Latin variations
are - these are not merely letters, they are actually nouns!
you can recite the whole Greek alphabet a bit like going
to a party and being introduced to people: Jim, Charlie,
George, Rosemarie... obviously there are exceptions for
this observation to be bullet-proof (i.e. μ, ν, ξ, π etc.)
but did the scientists mind not using them? no! they kept to
this interpretation that symbols of sound need to be encapsulated -
held together, stable, each symbol needs to be a balancing act -
an ~equal amount of consonants and vowels need to be
invoked when writing either a or α, b or β, g or γ -
there needs to be an invocation of names to these symbols -
not mere ah be c e ef gee... English for its laziness in omitting
diacritical marks did the unspeakable when digital paper came
about - it turned itself into a quasi encryption tongue,
acronym fuelled and in all honestly - self-conscious of its faults
yet basking in them! but the real genius in encoding signs truly
belongs to the Hebraic school...

you find them so coerced by naked pictures,
that their outer resembles no inner -
you find them bound to an idea that the inner can
somehow compensate - but it can't -
the outer as the inner reveals nothing,
no love, merely a **** - the winged-Hussars die
in Ukrainian fertile land, and with the music,
you can only think of the drudgery of walking
through knee-high mud - you can just picture
the Cossack moustaches wedged behind the ears
like earrings - i too would have eaten my tongue that way
had it been permitted - without permission
i spoke of a stake tartar and my tongue into one -
then the mantra came - kametz, tzeré, chirek, kametz,
tzeré, kametz, kametz, tzeré, tzeré, cholem, kametz, kametz
,
- i will not be treated like some dumb farmer!
      your Yurt empire is fledgling into the sunset!
  and my heart is enshrined into a bitter toil! it will love
as it pleases! not with you saying what there's to love!
tzeré, shurek, kametz, kametz, tzeré, kametz, cholem, tzeré,
chirek, kametz
. what a mantra!
a, e, i, a, e, a, a, e, e, o, a, a, e, u, a, a, e, a, o, e, i, a -
patterns strangre than in a poetic rhyming scheme -
respective incisions into still-life motives of movement -
i.e. if a vowel be my hand, a consonant be a chair i sit on:
kametz of aleph (א), tzeré of bet (ב), chirek of gimel (ג),
kametz of dalet (ד), tzeré of heh (ה), kametz of vav (ו).
kametz of zayin (ז), tzeré of chet (ח), tzeré of tet (ט),
cholem of yod (י), kametz of kaf (ק), kametz of lamed (ל),
tzeré of mem (מ), shurek of nun (נ), kametz of samekh (ס),
kametz of ayin (ע), tzeré of peh (פ), kametz of tzadi (צ),
cholem of kof (ק), tzeré of resh (ר), chirek of shin (ש)... and
finaly the kametz of tav (ת)* - we really like our matchstick
men, don't we? in terms of ancients tongues,
we like our curvatures in modern tongues of Greek
and Latin, don't we?
instilled the names of vowels! kametz (a
                                                 tzeré (e
            chirek (i
                                          cholem (o
                 shurek (u
                                                           pentagon thus far,
    revealed vowels with diacritic interpretation
           kametz, as soured: חָ - tau, vowel as diacritical mark
elsewhere -
                       tzeré - or umlaut below the letter - alternatively:
           וָ qàmetz                   וֵ tzeré
וִ ḥìreq                              וֹ ḥólem                   וּ shùreq
     (c, k, q - make it quick, à, 1st),
                (é - prolong it, to catch a breath, or the first
                      tetragrammaton H),
that's the genius of the encoding though... the omission of
vowels, or vowels as diacritical marks - one shurek (u .
                                                               ­                                   .
                            ­                                                                 ­        .)
among 10 kametz and 7 tzeré - gematria at its purest -
one shurek, 2 chireks and 2 cholems -
a form of encoding deviating from obscure onomatopoeia
and the void and meaninglessness, toward
a sound ushering a word for word, and actions parallel -
but this encapsulation of breath taken and
breath released, as in writing, the speaker does not
suddenly breathe again - but is kept within limit,
a consonant starting point, the zenith of breath or soul
and a return to one body, v A v (e.g.).
but imagines being able to avoid noun insertions -
then Hebrew is very much as modern English -
when modern English ought to utilise diacritical marks
on either vowel or consonant, it does not -
it doesn't have a single sound encoding worthy of a name -
there's no omega, there is only oh -
Hebrews treat their vowels as diacritical marks -
their language is one massive crossword -
how do they even read HBRC? who the hell taught them
when to insert the vowels from following the roots
as stated HBRC toward the tree that's HEBRAIC?
this is ******* bewildering - i don't know how they do it!
what's agonising is their notion that patterns in letters
having numerical values is somehow meaningful,
as if something horrid can be averted - to me 1 + 1 = 2
is enough - i don't need alef / αλεφ / αλεθ (א) + bet / βετ (ב) =
anything but gimel / γιμελ (ג) -
this is the ****-pile of having so many prophets in your society
and not enough philosophers - the Casandra Standard -
Greeks had the philosophers, the Hebrews had their
prophets, both in excess - in the end the cult of prophecy
in Hebraic society turned into a Casandra Standard
borrowed from Greek myth - while Greek philosophers...
i don't actually know what happened to them -
i think most of them became dentists after Aristotle suggested
women had fewer teeth than men.
Keith J Collard Mar 2014
Voracity is the centipede,
hunting in a-downhill-bleed,
pull what you think is a string,
to pitch your tent,
feel the centi clench,
and incision of dopamine,
your esophagus that screams,
could have had the segments and seams,
harking back to when the earth was steam,
when night jungle shines upon it,
with a red lens,
as it devours a tarantula,
adding a segment to its length,
sense the kinship,
sense the progenitor strength,
turn your red light on,
see the red esophagus of black chiton,
run for the zenith,
before the apex makes you bleedeth,
let your bayonet it bite on,
drop in alchohol,
and as a dragon,
it will soar and fight on,

beware the apex,
only the mountain,
set your sights on,
beware the early esophagus,
of red-neon, black chiton.
Mara Siegel Jun 2012
it.
With its life in the palms of person(s) unprecedented,
And its soul orbiting other oppressor,
And its eyes glaring at glistening gloaters,
It slithers and slides and twists and turns,
Ruthlessly reaching for a rapid revival.

Its heart lays limp on the long, lonely lawn
And its spirit sinks silently
And its mouth cries carelessly
It pulses and pushes and wriggles and writhes
Hopelessly harking for a hint of help.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
ząb... or tooth... zęby... or teeth... the lesser Ezra in me is more bewildered by the non-existent strain of either vowels or consonants in English, than the Chinese ideogram... i agree: you must have an idea when reading Chinese, and a population of over a billion... and subsequently a well-known linguistic complexity, a thrice-over Chinese wall in the eye and off the tongue, to later precipitate into an ease in making the mathematic tongue acrobatic... but then have no theoretic procession to study the complexity, or hear a xylophone... i'm the membrane mid-way between burying the Latin anecdote Beijing... and asking to kiss the hand of Marco Polo... had he wrote the Quran... i'm just simply juiced for one reason, this is my take on the corner-stone rejected... ******* the crucifix, and tickling the feet of the crucified one... as anti-jew as i can be... well: volk zu γoλγoθα... or volk zu γoλγoφα... compass! mein kompaß! alter: volk zu ßιναι! oh look... quantum physics... it behaves gleiche y = w, ~i, >ł.... and into a p.s., as γ = Υ (upsilon contra gamma)... once more, the lesser Ezra in me is bored with the Chinese ideogram, it's translated plain and simple, perfécto arithmetic! and the billion-strong populace... applause to the Chinese politicians... democracy as an pure English export is not wanted... it's decadent, and ripe for only decay... please, god or yoga no... we can do without it! this is the lesser Pound... i could be fascinated with the Chinese ideogram, but i'm frankly occupied with addressing the English encryption.... mind you, that translates as: you missed a spot... and they did keep their language so diacritic-free in order to form the global empire... which can only mean that mad geniuses and other akin stipend students will ever appreciate... but my fascination with diacritical marks, or their lack, is akin to Ezra Sr.'s fascination with the complexity of the Chinese ideogram, or rather the syllable form of not enraging the trinity, therefore concise, xi (ξ), chi (χ), chow (χω) mein (μεjn / μει - gagging ιota: main... mejn... replaced by additional curvature of j), kfu mang thu! kuchi kuchi, kat(h)mandu.. gucci gucci... rattler... or pinky on the black key in a piano concerto... the odd number... thus the english siamese of i and j, the only letters with diacritical marks, beginning with ιota being the one under-dressed... and they are indeed there, for clear syllable intake, as a way to pave for the architecture of punctuation, and what could be later described in the real world, as a punctured rubber tire, or a sewing technique, in the guise of tartan to a cayleigh whirl / orthodox scot that's: ceilidh... ****** me, god's a pauper, leaving him out in the cold of nonsense when man just asks for kejl i, p.s. dogged out hound harking grammaton, and some random number outside of tetra.

pst! look in the woods! you might find him there!
music always overpowered my
need for women, i always found music to
be antidote
  to ensure women exist -
               dunno, dough]nut -
or dunno, it just happened...
      CENSOR MR. CENSOR!
HELLO?!
                  LOSER. HTML
IS INFECTED.... now i'll come off as paranoid...
    but then i am typing in paradox
  land...
                my keyboard is ******...
a case of etymology... *wargi
- and
pysk - or usta, and buzia -
one's kiss kiss,
      Tarkan style...
  but i wonder why when i listen to
  in extremo's rotes haar...
i imagine dwarfs dancing,
        but then the prancing pony of
hedningarna's vargtimmen -
       which might    
mean *******, but
then it might mean something
in Finnish... vargtimmen: meaning: close your lips...
in Finnish; so bound to the word trim...
trim your lips.
even though the people didn't move,
a lot of ******* children made Poland their
home... for example wargi, which
means usta... add a p to usta
and you'll end up saying: she's empty, barren.
no wonder the transgender movement
occurred in english... words have no
feminity or masculinity... so ***...
they're asexual, apathetic...
   a male can't own a table
in the Freudian sense of signifying a phallus...
stupid me blaming St. Thomas' gospel,
when the problem lay within the realm of per se...
       i have to add: it's a bit foggy where i'm right
now... and my html is a bit bonkers...
     but it still stands as Finnish and Polish
versus English non-mythical when sniffing
the **** crack of America...
          fog ought to be enough, apparently it isn't,
you need to care to
economise and work to an ethic of working
so hard throughout the year for a 2 week holiday,
   and then end up throwing away your food produce
and then feel irritated by a homeless person...
   so yeah... you're grand!
          i mean i am...
the we is automatically bewildered...
i couldn't pet a woman, women are much more
than cats, and i pet two cats and hate them...
     not having women means i am resistible...
if i were irresistible i'd be insane...
      the magnetism of prefix convergence...
   re- means again, not against...
   and in- can also mean a-,
          every time i speak the scandi tongue
like i might found saying the lazy way an english
man says ****-,
               i feel like jumping up and down...
hed- -nin- -garna!
      hey hey **! jump you mo fo!
                     and i live in england and i care to
take to escaping english, that's really messed up...
i can't listen to the tongue... a bit like my russian
girlfriend said to me: Polish is just static,
sh sh sh sh ch ch ch ch... i mean, the best
***** in the universe are done by the people that
really hate your ethnicity,
they love you as a person, and the person they
love to ****, but then the collective unconscious
comes along, and they say the most horrid
things in between the orchestra of vowels during
the ******... babe, you drowning? i know
i am.
            if a yiddish man would come along,
he'd write yzwz... because that's how h became
z in the grapheme sz and ch...
                 and paradoxically: it's not the smallest
sound... and if the Latin grapheme continued its
existence... and was regarded as the smallest
linguistic unit, it has to mean that
    two names converged... it means that
the coliseum will overpower the church...
   which means that the Latin man had names for
his letters... and it was never all about music
and castratos... it was never a simple a when
the Greek said alpha, or it was never as simple
a b when the greek said beta...
vargtimmen! purse yer lips! ye gods, pout!
  duck-alliances throughout!
   yack yack yack... quack... ******* ponces
and narcissistic nuances...
yes, when w = v = w = ł -
               when it is meant to invoke the ugly duckling,
and a swan, and a łabądz -
my soul is already Scandinavian bound...
  like Frankenstein's Jr., to the fog, the snow, the frost...
      if Spinoza is the prince, then i'm the king,
the tetragrammaton just drops out like
a birth of an antelope - it just drops out of language,
but it only drops out, once you have used
a language associated with diacritical marks...
knowing solely English or Russian Cyrillic won't
help you... it really does just drop out from
the ****** of nothing like an antelope on the savannah
plain... but given there's no diacritical
distinction in it... being born into a language that
uses diacritical markings to ensure there are
distinctions, makes studying the tetragrammaton
all the more fascinating...
English uses no diacritical marks, neither does Cyrillic...
the Greeks are cosmos (polish slang reference
to them being on l.s.d.) with their niqab of
diacritical usage when English Latin remains
slap-stick naked... come on! put on a ******* bow-tie
that might be at least the french acute over
e!         éh?!           knowing the lazy sod, he won't!
but such is the joy of experiencing etymology
with music... to associate
vargtimmen... a Finnish compound word,
with the English word trim...
         or the word dimmed...
           and the Polish clear-denotative word
for lips... i.e. wargi... or usta...
  timmen might also mean: to bite...
  warga is the singular of wargi, i.e. bottom lip,
    to bite the bottom lip...
            does the music in hedningarna's expression
say much? no it doesn't...
   poetry can be the least musicological
         when analysing music...
             the best poetry can attest to is:
gauging your eyes out with it's bewilderment that
it has become such a primitive art,
   compared to the etchings in the caves of
Lascaux...  how that's really said?
                 obviously las-cow...
                  or proper: lascau(x)...
            the two tier of language... those who live
off it as noun-to-noun... and those who live
off it as hand-to-mouth... solely verb in action...
    it's actually a great shame that i should be writing this
and having a father who perfected the craft of roofing...
  i feel more an imbecile, and even more a rooster
in a wheelchair...
        so much for having a russian girlfriend for a summer
and an egyptian friend for no reason;
don't worry, you won't write a biography about me,
  such nuances of language with a personal twist
can remain where they are, in the archeological
dept. of nowhere.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2013
The heavy smoke of war lay across the world it was laced with carnage and had the sounds of screaming
Shells and the screams of the dying men but as it continued its drift at the far edges a cloud and mist
Began to diminish the former and distil a brighter future there was the timid glory sounding the
Harking tribute of childlike memories the power of innocence to diffuse the base and inhumane
To spill across these scathing pages an ethereal presence that was empowering of good that
Could and did straddle time and space with magnificence drawing from exploration and history
That beheld the worst but mined the hidden gold to enrich the world it knew secrets that
Exposed the damnable lies that bankrupted former empires we were created to be conquers
Our mettle is an amalgamation of weak flesh but inherit in the confused and reciprocating
Action ultimately a flash of inspiration leaps from the spirit the dead end near sighted flesh was
At the wall of limitation now we stand at the zenith of the universe at its ever increasing of it
Self this inestimable spring of well being floods the low plains we ford these rich waters
Immediately our impoverished cares taste and smell the high and great call of hope we
Instinctively open our heart and mind as a great sail we find our self in the envious position as a
Seafarer our very sinew is awakened to promise and opportunity we have left far behind the
Naysayers we see gifts of beauty spread everywhere where all before was drear now victory is
Courting us to rise to even higher heights boldness infuses our demeanor we now throw off
Yesterdays doubting with eyes that are no longer dim we see with clearest vision and with
Steeled determination former days of being wistful vagabonds is forever forfeited we have the
Right and the might that Lincoln addressed his generation we align ourselves with the high
Ideals of past warriors and martyrs know this our enemies whatever your culture or ideals you
Have come among a stalwart people and the foundations of our forefathers will defeat you the
Same as others who came with inferior and demonized religions know this truth will and has
Made us free look well to yourselves continue and your destruction is guaranteed check the
Harbinger winds and save your selves from the only outcome that will befall you which is
Destruction
Alan W Jankowski Jan 2012
When life hands you so much sorrow and pain,
And takes so much with little to gain,
You're like a train that somehow left the track,
Can we ever get the good times back?

Do you recall when the world was so new?
And there seemed no limit to what we could do,
Harking back to those simpler times,
Of children's books and nursery rhymes.

Can you remember those simple joys?
Childhood dreams and children's toys,
How did we ever lose our way?
Can we ever get back to that day?

Yet somehow those dreams all have faded,
Have we really become that jaded?
The only cure for lost love is a love that's new,
The only love that matters is a love that's true.

And here we are, two souls destined to meet,
Why should we ever accept defeat?
For us our lives have just begun,
We can do this together, let me be the one.

11-24-10.
Would you believe another love poem originally posted under 67Goat?  I thought so...the 20th actually...
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013
It wasn’t chance or accident that Walt found you it was destiny his genius needed a perfect
Form of expression and you were the one that met and exceeded all the requirements your
Favorite song to sing as a child was the hit Jonny Mercer song accentuate the positive little did
You know that you would not only sing it but be asked to live it and you did this as a true marvel
With grace and charm you said the Mickey Mouse club was a slightly better version that what
America really was then you went on to say that America even is gone forever but in the
Encroaching darkness you carried the fragile lamp of purity and modesty it was the harking
Back to innocence so precious and held in such reverence the rock songs were about young
Love holding hands in the silver moonlight carried along on a river of dreams infatuation it
Showed in that special time of being a teenager not a child but not an adult it was the ultimate
Carefree high that didn’t mean you were ****** you were just grooving hot rods and babes
That Knocked your socks off you wondered around in a stupor all you could think was how
Could anyone be so fabulous maybe they made those clothes out of magic cloth and thread
Sweaters white blouses poodle skirts or not bobby socks and black patent leather shoes sock
Hops Friday afternoon in this reality freedom was the it word fast cars girls were cool may I say
Winsome and not be booed all you wanted was to be with them get to know them they were
Exciting they were worthwhile and they sent you tripping cherry cokes was the drink no one
Ever made a fool out of themselves that came natural when you would stick your foot in your
Mouth trying to be cool and that even played out in a sweet way no one looked better than
When they flubbed it trying to impress someone you did get favorable points back then and
Annette ruled as a queen in many minds and even today she’s gone but her light continues to
Shine down through the years it is carried in the most beautiful laughter and character started
On Disney’s lot but wowed far beyond after the mouse ears were laid down it came with a rush
On California beaches youth was right where it needed to be in the forefront because it only
Last For a seemingly brief summer and though it floats back in time again you’re only on that
Beam of Light and fully on and with it for magical moments we close our eyes in quiet respect
For a time and a special one who was and is unforgettable
Dave Robertson Feb 2022
What does Eunice bring
on these blustered, raging winds?

Busted fences put up in haste,
a forlorn balloon cut loose,
with a smiley face harking back to those
asymmetric aceeeed days
when polarity was frowned upon:
what’s your name where you from what you done?

A man cut from rich serge
can be employed to gaslight
blackened eyes to white,
but the **** in Kent’s hedges
don’t lie
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
so i have this book my Steφan, and here the
unpredictability: Steven?            even elevens?
                       Stephen
Steven          Stephan? no matter, the joke
comes with the diacritics         in the surname...
      they wrote /ˈʊmlaʊt/
when the diacritical marks weren't investigated:
  is that Körner as in ariθmetic
     Koorner?
       or is the poncy
    Kœrner - which is
softer and therefore almost Kerner?
the book? fundamental questions
of philosophy
-
hence the dialectical applicability
of diacritics: archeology in vivo:
oh no glass chandeliers darling:
            butchery rather than anatomy:
chop
        chop
                chop
                 ­         (oh looky looky, Jacob's ladder).
y = id est.
                  w? haven't figured it out,
looks like trigonometry to me,
all that sine and cosine jazz.
         you know that mystery of lawlessness?
English, plain and simple,
the English language: good that we had the Scandinavians
and the Dutch learn it better than the natives,
mind you, also the Belgians,
they speak a foreign tongue better than
the ****** natives:
the natives? they speak some urban slang
profanity: diabolical verse;
                                        putrid ****:
sulphuring smoke, astounding.
              reverse dead Latin / living -
was that comma necessary?
  or should i have written astounding sulphuring
smoke?
             or Sartre: existence (quantity)
     precedes essence (quality) -
         qua qua either way, a mode of being,
   duck here, duck there.
          oh me, right? *******, maddened,
i was hanging in the trenches and had a drink:
now i'm really mad, bursting like a tense
   soap bubble: (a bit of nostalgia to cool the nerves)
i come from a generation that listened to
mortiis - and we actually bought the silverware
(c.d.) rather than the liquorice (vinyl),
               and we were the ones that translated hardware
into software (mp3) -
         but as a thoughtful suggestion:
scratched c.ds,
                   right, you have a c.d. and you try
to encode it into mp3... right...
    why is it that scratched compact disks can completely
**** up an iPod? i.e. why can't iPods encode
scratched compact disks?

            cheaper mp3 players can do it,
no problem, you have a scratched c.d.
and translate it into mp3: boom, the whole iPod
shuts down... try a cheaper mp3 player
and the whole thing still works...
          well, it's just a curiosity...
the bigger ones comes from:
i'm probably one of the last dinosaurs to have
actually bought a ******* magazine
from a newsagent,
     the glamour model type,
nothing **** included,
               and feel the agonising shame of
predicating a ******* session -
                  bony **** of the hand -
            looking for soft pouch kangaroos and all,
but how many people these days buy this ****?
       in Belgium i bought one and the woman
was so not condescending that i thought i was buying
penny sweets...
                      there's this culture of ****** shaming
in England that surprasses me in engaging
in relationships, i don't know what these slags
are on, but it's certainly not tango in stilettos
on cobblestones.
                    of course i'm mad,
i tried to rebel against Christianity and got
****** into practising it, i actually forgave my
enemy, a jealous **** who almost killed me,
       and as Nietzsche said: a Christian is a
sick domesticated animal -
              i could have been still rooted to the longship
roofs while roofing, or metrosexual lumberjack
     in an office, concerning paper rather than
blocks of wood.
     but good to know that all of Europe is known
as the bloc, rather than the eastern fringes,
god i love English arrogance, which = ignorance,
now wave bye bye to the Galactic Empire:
******* engraved Latin without barbaric diacritical
marks and had a shot at world *******...
  **** me! even the Greeks are applying refinement,
no wonder the digital sprechen dragged
English into the dark ages if not the caveman
        chant Darwinism! chant Darwinism! hoot, hoot hoot!
rarely do i desecrate books,
                 but i had to write on something,
i have a copy, of Kant's critique,
and in it my macabre Dionysian zenith fury
statement:
                       power is never a cul de sac,
                         for a king to don a crown,
                         a peasant must pocket a penny,
                         if a peasant doesn't pocket
                         a penny, a king doesn't don
                         a crown
      (note, colon and italics
translate as bold inscript, double emphasis) -
this isn't cryptic, it's ****** obvious,
       it goes way back in suggesting
we're either smart or naive -
           or playing the adult version of hide & seek
                                    doubt & negation interplay,
so when Charlie Chuckles the Third comes to
power i'll be thinking of Charles the First:
as i told one homeless woman i sat down with
for a cigarette under a bridge and told her
of the Henry VIII likening in terms of the
decapitated wives...
                                    she got up and ran screaming
down the street. true story.
                 only in America a humming sensation
and a deliberate ploy to create a monarchy...
              call it what you like:
you appease the illiteracy of people with only
one book, and have people speak about it
without pontiff or priestly attire: you're bound
to breed a viral infection desiring a king.
         is this the second Elisabeth-ian age? might be,
well, it's nearing an end, anyway...
                        still, English is a lawless language
that transcends all tact of French flawlessness -
                  those nasal harking buggers know all too
well the covert aesthetic they write
      and the counter they speak -
                  leave the exactness of spoken and written
to the Poles, and spaghetti chemistry to the German
excess of compounds hydrocarbon etc.,
                    di-proxy-blah-blah in hyphen-centric
Essex.
            well, because if we can't have proper discussions
about our beliefs, we might are well apply
diacritical investigation into diacritical markings,
  or how long you hold your breath between
.                ,                     ;              -              
                  because that's what i'm suggesting:
invariably this suggestion is pulverising -
                             or how that famous category
of universals (metric)
                          is usurped by particulars (imperial) -
within the bracketed suggestion: units,
                   Francophile centimetre
      Darth Vader inch....
                                                Charles de Gaulle kilometre
                              a Heathrow mile.
if this was a chemistry experiment, which it is,
               i'd suddenly realise it's over,
                                                      and it is
because i feel a sudden rush of radiant cooling down
     from what charged this outburst in the first place.
ArturVRivunov Nov 2011
Upon her return from desert Vegas,
Like lizards kissing in the heat,
The rain drops poured so hard, how lovely again to hear each other’s heart’s beat
Upon our meet, and washed away the agony of the everlasting wait.

Upon her voyage from earthly east,
Within the beast between Pacific and Atlantic feast.
Flowers crying, in a vase soaking on the table,
For they did not meet,
The sunshine hidden behind clouds of darkness.

So vague the feeling from one’s love departure,
on voyage resumed by time ahead 3 hours.
The dreams came quickly, and time more distant,
if to the moment of her departure,
Yet I still could not touch her.

The carcass harking for a crow to feast,
of my safety I’m concerned the least.
For by her voyage I am not,
My mind does rigorous of thinking and succumbs to plot,
What is there, and what is not.

Through I grieve to think me lonely,
Even as much her look gazes in my heart, stonily,
The sudden energy passing through the wireless speaker,
Her voice traveling over to mine much meeker.

My mind compels me to the image,
Of what other’s gave to me by words,
That this time I have to fight with swords,
This sad place they never speak of ruled by lords.

How relentlessly I tried.
My heart for her safety cried,
Until my mind gave in to show,
a point in back of my head I fried.

The eagerness of her time next to mine.

My selfish understanding sublime.

Like tea was seasoned with thyme.
Instead of lemon,
Who’s there to blame on?
Then action of mind of mine.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.
KM Ramsey May 2015
My calendar isn't on paper
it doesn't hang on a wall
neglected pages to be turned
two months behind.

It isn't on my computer
in the cloud
synced to all my technological tortures
physically formed as notifications
short chimes to coax time forward.

My calendar is plastic
it sits on the toothpaste coated
counter in my bathroom
and I tell the day by which
of the seven perfectly segmented
little boxes are open and closed.

S, M, T open
it must be W
Wednesday
the red capsule and three white tablets remain
it is still morning
i trust my calendar
the light outside
or the absence thereof
can be a trick of my mind
day and night are not so
clean cut as the purple pill organizer
which contains my madness for me.

When things seem clearer
I approach my calendar
knowing beforehand which
cube on the string I must open
and retrieve these drugs
that keep my feet planted firmly
on the rich earth.

When I know the day
I rue these pills.

Why do I need them when
each day flows effortlessly into the next
like iridescent pearls strung along
into an unending sequence
of beads on a string
each one singularly unique
imbued with the essence of
the divine mollusk who incubated
this precious day?

When I can turn the pages
of the socially acceptable
calendar on the wall
I am a perfect imposter of
what is considered the norm
and I can look at days as
units in months
or years.

I stop living inside a partially
opened weekly pill organizer
and I am convinced
that I've taken up residence
outside of that gravitational
pull of the underworld
who buries me six feet under
to suffocate by the weight
of the soil pressing in.

My castle
my palace
is seated atop
a mountain carved into
the rugged stone
enveloped in a downy blanket
of cloud.

I'm miles from madness
light years from the person
who doesn't recognize her
face in the mirror
distorted
melting.

It is a seemingly endless summer
the easterly sun's warmth on my face
harking morning's glorious arrival
and hazy lilac hues dancing
an unparalleled pas de deux
with the sun's last pink rays
peeking over the western horizon.

My mornings are not
one red capsule
one white tablet.

It is a morning flight
free amongst the last stars
clinging to the pastel blue
of night's retreat.

Night is no longer
two white tablets
one yellow
it is sitting on my
mountaintop and watching
the god of the sky
falling in slow motion
imperceptibly lowering
into the horizon.

And the cycle repeats itself
in a euphoric loop
of twenty-four hours of heart-breaking beauty.

But the cycle is not in fact endless
just as day turns unfailingly to night
my cicada days
turn to static
and the churning black clouds
take hostage my paramour
the sun
and lost in the abyss of un-delineated time
I run to my mistress.

The weekly purple calendar.
How th' very mention of my lover's name, still makes me even rock with helpless vigor! And red doth I become, painstakingly red, until t'ey hath no more choice but swivel around until everything, everything of t'eir collective bodies is but a giddy blur in th' young-capacious distance; and rapidly doth I slosh forward afterwards; like a blade of remorse being sadistically hurtled onto th' chest of a savage, lying clairvoyant. But killeth him it not; ah! Just like a maturing star-guess, my ardent reader-how it flashes-piercingly, and flows about-doubtfully, with a swamp of questions in its godly eyes, before stabbing itself calmly, into th' realm of holiness on its side! I am t'at blade, yes-t'at blameless blade-guileless and chaste just as its courteous rim hath never hurt any life. And I indeed am, t'day! Wordlessly doth they bound away, o, until t'eir lithe figures art but th' mercenary of a trifling shadow of consecutive breaths on a faraway ground, meanwhile storm I, plausibly, into th' nearest ajar door! What a gouty, sickly constitution doth it bear on its wooden shoulder; clogged by dewy sobs it wasth-with droplets of girlish rains giggling to and churning about its hinges! How cruel indeed, t'is oddity is! But canst no-thing refraineth me onceth more from smiling, as now I doth know th' very luck of mine-and its returned feelings, today! Perhaps, just perhaps, he might have simply been too bashful to utter any due phrases. Still, grinning quietly in my new knowledge of womanly joy, ah! Leap I upwards and into my plump room, to supersede my obstinate foggy layers-prior to my other subsequent journey-oh, on discovering my truthful lover in his current runabouts, and accomplishing my destiny-by surrendering my crown into his charms, and truest affection, finally! Shaking all over with passion and speedy heartbeat, petulant bursts of laughter doth I t'en utter, and danced about as I doth-majestically, until my heart is thoroughly enveloped, and sanguinely bathed, in its long-lost, principally sought-after pools of happiness. Laugh doth I, in incurable fascination! As t'is day hath just been too exquisite-yes, too frantically ecstatic, reader, to be inanely waned away-without any poem; ah, especially with all th' virile, ye' soothing, humming of th' boyish songbird! And shrink I again into acute-o, even unhealable felicity, upon harking to th' panoramic-and harmonious scene t'at's all enlight'ening th' tender ambiance of affection, out t'ere. What a perfect concord as it is, with t'is inevitably dear-and o, invincible loving feeling of mine. Oh, my Kozarev, I have only words to play with!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
strange to be surrounded by the heroism of the careful edit of Thespians, who can wage win or lose wars with a careful edit and the use of steroids to show the hardship of our former life now made easier - being surrounded by the staged heroism of careful edit, Thespian expression breeds in all a dissatisfaction with menial labours we could be better off to encourage as a non-victimising share of labour, and yet among such numbers of fellows we find our labours too menial, robbing us of the comfort of being as one among so many, only because we're being fed fake courage of Thespians and the subsequent fake adventures of the same profession, to only turn askance into the world and instead of adventure only seeing prospects of tourism, and former hardships of our forefathers as only menial banality.

recitation of religous mantras
seem all the more important
with the blocked toilet
of darwin's **** keeping
the foremost populist adhesive
among people reciting no other
scientific theories -
like that one about a pea-sized
dollop of toothpaste
and any more actually causing
nicotine colouring on your teeth -
dentists                  &                  money
&                             each             other
trade (tried and tested, agreeable paradox).
well currently darwin and einstein
are instructing societies in terms
of respectable talk, talk so respectable
that no counter opinion can enter,
because too few scientific facts
are given mantra status...
cite me a theory from chemistry,
cite me at least one thing
about thermodynamics...
exactly, you can't!
we might as well endear a harking laugh
of a fox and the howling bark of dog -
because the western dogma mantra is so
limited - maxims replace poems
and poems are hid whether under the
debasing blanket of lyrics that are simple
due to excess instrumentation
and no hope of singing in duo presence
of both singer and the one expecting song -
or under blankets of fictive corpses
of bored readers - as once noted and spotted:
a funeral service corporate "shop"
and in it too st. francis' hospice selling charity books.

should shiva's attainment of vishnu's peace of mind be attained and subsequently lost, shiva's third eye opens and turns the mind toward the only subsequent definition of former attainment of peace, the third eye opens and turns to warring and destruction; toward the east, Asia's Thespians are known as Avatars - if not thieving from men, then at least enriching gods.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
suddenly... my skin
"feels" freckled,
or that ginger is abhorred,
or that orange is
queeny -
                 leisured at -
a bat-haven.
poetry is words
         philosophy
only punctuation -
take to fathom a Norwegian
acid bath...
               murmur of marrow -
then the chemicality of Hermes -
what exists:
globally under ****
sloth: lo
                          so
dough
                     cop
                                    eerie navy
and  nazal -
                              i,
am, centrist.
                   blister
scold...
                 b l i s t e r
s  c  o  l  d
     b   l    i   s   t   e   r
   scalp and the mustard:
  khaki khaki khaki!
coca cola khaki!
                      father says otherwise,
****** and puritan pirranha -
Warsaw subway girlen -
              frozen, minus bowtie + yurt dover -
         ****: closure and escapism
from war, entry point: *****, your culture.
as the joke goes:
   the jews spoke more zion than they spoke
yiddish: baalam - donkey-riddle -
but at least jesus entered jerusalem,ioe
or the tool-forge of alpha blo blo Indi.
Nikita...
                 cobbler smacker...
shoe fits fine...
                   now you juggle GDP
against cabbage... and horse-radish...
iron eagle no hail mary, no iron,
no golgotha... as intricate be:
american coca - lobside Xican milken -
NIKITA!
if i have my regrets... then i have my
love-letter... art... Juliet...
thus you have your politics....
   if i have my regrets i have a chasm
to overcome,
         in yawn as to conquer depth -
thus with wind, adjoin weaker slav -
german... german...
who said german inclusive anglican-sax
and svab-frank in Lorraine -
Iblis in Matador crimson quake,
numb Paris, numb Paris...
                          Elba...
               goat,
              geiß - gąś - goose - stratum!
           kindred SS man
or the ****** joke in Auschwitz -
100 years... then szkodliwych...
  rekindled... at least what took place
in Auschwitz was also said: Eva Braun...
5 years... not 100 years and fake,
and almond culprit...
    5 years and the gas,
a chemist suffices...
            100 years of ******...
the jokes coercing Auschwitz with Hastings
are but candle-glamour for what
nimble in wax, be turned to enshrined stone...
              memory: was never to be a Disney.
     i'd prefer the uncanny - Schubert bound
high-class death,
  that this horse-bound harking a phelgm
to no rebuilding founding:
Pilate washed his hands of Yehu
       Pilate washed his hands of Ishra;
                Solomon is
     placed  in the House of Saud -
                           and a quarter - toward the tumult
a desert of white fog,
                  a *** fetish...
   and you jogging after Honolulu in bone, gene
and lava...
                     sunken lung, shiva's "star" of anise -
that spoken of eye -
           said green, said envy,
said but once in absent-mindedness - an absinthe -
crystaline in milk -
                     heaving the ache of mind
and the heart as copper in a lacklustre of
former hope of nurtured hearts' gain:
with painter as kindred and unison with a plumber's
  to the death toll chime: an eon worthy
               a sneeze, if that be a sneeze to
rekindle colour in spring, and moor in auburn
   lazed...
                               and between extremes:
the two deserts -
    and that i be bound to the tomb
               and the stone,
and the fox tornado tango of the trial
that would never be a Friday of what would
always be: a revealing noon:
be it orb, or be it scythe -
                           be it Everest, or
be it the flute in the dough of Nepal as enshrined
                for the arithmetic of shadow:
pauper plato... pauper plato...
                                                       pauper
                                  one and all...
                     if we all but possessed the luxury
conversation...
                                    but none of us possess the
capacity to treat conversation as a luxury...
                          conversation will never be a luxury,
given the fact that we decided thinking to be primo,
the luxury... to re establish conversation as a luxury
we have to prevent thought from innovating...
from invigorating...
   but since conversation cannot achieve this paramount...
the only achievable parallel suggestion is to talk about nothing:
and think about everything;
likewise to think about everything:
and talk about nothing -
and as Heidegger expressed:
   we are non-being in number,
                               because nothing negates
a quantity -
                        how then to rainbow into a presitent
continuum? chameleon culprit?
    only via an elasticity of language...
             thus 10 am gives gallop toward horizon
and sun, and i am furthest from staging a continuum
of what i am an example of:
man, husband, father, partner, son, cohort, cohesion...
i feel no reference point in having to demand from a per se, the nearing-claimant pejorative antidote, other than the one i have aspired to as merely a sand-castle, rather than the bombastically-fuelled pyramid.
To a passer-by
Whose eyes are as blue as the sky
whose grief is maddened, whose cries are silenced
but whose joys are quenching;
The hiding sun is on your lips
As beguiling as the sky-lark's song:
thy movement left me fainting and murmuring all along!
That roaring sea of blueness - glistening in the wintry throng;
endless and limitless in its own fieriness, which thy gracefully bestowed upon me!
And the bronze of thy hair, thy smooth, cloudless hair!
How unsorted this gleefulness is, upon harking to thy voices!
Yet shadowed by the fitful trees,
Murky is their grin, greedy is their rind
Oh then how I had to leave thee; for the slim but fleeting rain!
No, how I longed for thee, thee with me!
Oh the dear, dear love of my life! How sought is thy presence, how cherished it is in my fair chest!
Had I then to relent,
I sprang from my lavished comfort, I retreated to my creaking den
And wanly blent myself into the scenes, again.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
The Tracks Run in and out of town
When you arrived the glory rested and was well established the combined ease and effort of life
Produced a place called hometown parents were youthful we children lived and relished life that was
Made up of cool people and cooler places to visit idle away your time enjoy those special times depths
Were found because you were touching the flow of life at its roots these circles gently move collide
Divide break into memories that are laced with emotional content and portent you can circle the globe
But there is a harking a spilling of sweet nuance that drifts among the deepest plantings where you
Stood among magical wonders they never lose their power or intensity standing outside the home
Looking through the window the small part of life is ebbing and flowing through it you are changing and
Growing tomorrow it will be showing your movements of innocents will beautify the world you occupy
Make it softer and wizened in the quiet measure that you add by being a tender breeze among
The heated exposed crush of life hear that whistle blow don’t you know the sender is speaking
Creating the strength of home it is entering your being it will be endearing the far horizon is calling
You must answer the towering glowering harshness will tell you when the time is full when deadness
Chokes the town and all heroes die only the silent wind remains you must now take all of that which was
Instilled carry it to a new beginning release it bestow the riches that each loved one and friend possessed
You were there guardian the proof of all that they believed in you looked deeper than you know their
Faces held an abiding glow it went deep within their it grew collectively it aged was seasoned day by day
A measure was added your stature grew it would serve you well and tell in intimate detail of your
upbringing and who and how they influenced your life some would be hard as steel others would pour
in the vessel purist thought mix it with love watch it swell you took their hearts and their spirits it truly
was an investment they made now you will spend it in the greater world for the greater good of the
country this is nation building at the basic level all continues on an out down the rails a future assured
untold blessings ignite the true burning of a host of men and women whose ideals built a structure invisible ever its orgin exspands
in time now it burns and inflames a new generation of those who love freedom and all that it stands for
Jenny Gordon Oct 2017
FIRST:  the poem which inspired...oh, yes, laugh--it's reminiscent of, of, would that be the old "the house that jack built"? ie, Joshua Amos Graff/aka Graff1980's poem--

Graff1980
4h@18:04, 29Oct17
Untitled

The phone store
is closed,
but I can still see
the sharp blue glow
of those
bright screens
blinking out at me
from the window
to the streets
where I am walking slowly.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2187429/untitled/

SECOND:  the comment his poem inspired and which he too generously told me I "should post."--

[He said Jenny Williams]--Like a ghost none sees, catching the lurid eye of those eyeless windows to the black hole of an eerie yonder, the speaker treads as if slippered through the darkness which itself is alive and aware, the scene commonplace, yet rendered thus with a poignant ghastliness, a delicacy. Thank you for sharing.

THIRD:  the sonnet which I told him I'd endeavour to compose from that same comment, yet which is a frustrating reminder why as Stella Armour was it? told me years ago she did NOT want to force thoughts into sonnets, and I heartily concur:  I'd far rather pour the unformed thought into that "most exquisite form of poetry" than try to squeeze a complete thought into that "gilded cage"--

...for Joshua Amos Graff's poem--



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCXXII)


Likeas a ghost none sees where streetlamps fence
The blacker shroud of night, how in betrayl
'Non catching lo, the lurid eye's detail
Of those more eyeless windows harking thence
Unto the black hole of an eerie sense
Of yonder, how you tread as if t'avail
Now slippered through the darkness which in pale
'Scuse ah, itself's alive and 'ware.  What hence?
You only put down for the page as twere
That lonely walk through naked streets left to
None else.  Yet where dead cellphones look in poor
Excuse out, la, you render thus anew
What's common, but whose ghastliness in tour
Is poignant, delcacies I cherish.  You?

29Oct17a
Haha, I gave my notes in laying this out, frustrated upon completing this sonnet because, as wont, it has lost the tantalizing thought's keen sense which provoked it, the thought itself being formed as it tripped out on the screen under my fingers, a thought I never had until the keyboard rendered it up, yet which now punishes me for forcing it out of existance into a sonnet.  *cue a wry smile*
It was a gin house in Limehouse
a fine house
to dine in.
But long before then it was an ***** den
where the 'Gents' from the city
came to look at girls
who once,
were quite pretty
that was a long time ago.

Now it's an inn
and the in place to be.
Once where dragons roamed free in the heart of the East End
People now spend  a drink or two
allowing the theatre queue
to go down.

The town's not the same
all the music halls have closed
and the dreams that were posed on the pages of magazines
are just scenes I remember from childhood.
Maybe that's a good thing and perhaps it is not
Perhaps it's a sign of the times that we've got,
when we had ****** all
it was the music halls that enthralled us
that mixture of melody and comedy,
tragedy and look at me
harking back to those
'good old days'

It pays to recall the gin house down Limehouse
and the Ladies who knew nothing else
but the dragons who perched on the end of a pipe
or else I'd think it okay
to think in the old way.
Which is not the in place
to be.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
some would say that Ashley Montagu was mad..
actually everyone would, eating Chomsky,
then again the English forgot to trill ρ -
for a row row - it's pronounced hollow -
an evolutionary step in the wrong direction -
my learning of English as a language was
incubated by learning history, when i returned
from incubating it, i had no novel,
three years in Edinburgh (said Eden borough)
and i never went to the fringe festival...
nights when i prefer drinking than writing,
my mother is a housewife, i'm guessing
your mother is an aspiring sociologist,
for you the world is a treadmill on max speed,
for me every day means i am kept counting snails...
it's slow... they never bothered the man
where feminism never encouraged perpetuation...
i said i needed cushions, you said i needed stones...
here's a stone with Magdalene, throw it...
throw it at your will... i never had ******* dysfunctions
with ******... THINK ABOUT IT!
why didn't i have ******* dysfunction with ******
but i had them with you? actually, don't think about it...
you might hurt yourself... you probably will.
i swear on the zenith of mount Sinai...
this woman is an Everest... let her freeze to death,
i will not clamour a house to such heights
establishing her as a worthwhile continuum -
the English made the R glutton, forgot to trill it,
the French harked it, rhapsody became hark
po see - we call it the phlegm lettering -
so why did the English on purpose drop the trill
of the tongue rattling? the French kept the harking,
but the English forgot to trill the trrrrrrrrr illion words
unsaid, why? one of those days when drinking is
more pleasurable than writing,.. i kept the narrator
in the laboratory under tight inspection...
he said no characters deviated...
well, there were characters, but nothing
compared to Ivan, Achilles, generic types ready
to start families... the fortunate without none types...
that trilled r is not imagery of bouncing,
it's a case for a drum-roll pendulum...
now i know why i feel so alien in London,
London is an alien entity in England, compared
to Newcastle, or Hull... it's a hallucination...
it's not there... three years and i never went to the Fringe...
theatre land *******... my mother is a housewife,
time's slow slow for me, i don't have the
attachment of keeping up, halfway between
homeless and a monk... i really don't think about
a life like Rousseau's... i prefer the drink...
i just minded the fact that the English once
trilled their rho, then lost it...
that that French still hark their rhos like
rhapsodic fugitives fighting asthma...
it really doesn't matter...
atheism is not that crucial, it's not even that
severing in severance of follow-up engagements...
atheism isn't scary... it's pretty pointless
when you take up a fight against both God
and solipsism.. popularising atheism is a fight
more in the care to erase solipsism than it is to
erase god... atheism meaning an: en-grouping
is more a case of involving an individual
in its affairs, that it is to take affairs with god...
obviously militant atheism failed,
there's no consensus agreed upon to involve
anything but the crowd, the crowd is unnecessary...
politics knows this, the crowd is subterfuge...
the eloquent measure of saying things as they are:
sabotage... this night in particular?
not a lively night, not an inspirational night...
just a night for heavy drinking.
they're looking as much for the solipsist as they are
seeking god... the Gemini of artefacts,
twins introspective that constantly mingle
and never leave a still-life concern for a canvas and a
brush stroke... a second later another baby is born,
we get to keep the shapes, and we get to keep
reminding ourselves that: there are fewer and fewer
stories to tell... replaced by paparazzi epilepsy
of the flash... text when it was once narrative-form...
we forgot the bonfire narrative...
we replaced it with images, flashing images...
for a minute there i was sure we could maintain
encoding sounds, however cryptic and difficult
in the arrangements of letters...
but as i am assured there days, this wasn't to be:
we favoured images, ideograms without skeletons,
and slowly, but surely, we started to speak less
and less, or if speaking we started to experience
the attack of dementia on rhetoric...
there was a meteorite in us... we dampened
intelligence to a chop of the guillotine...
we really did undermine encoding sounds,
we really did undermine encoding sounds...
we really did undermine encoding sounds,
our undermining of encoding sounds created
the parallel of phonetic encoding that gave way
to digital acronyms and :)... this is the desecration
of the temple that would have been built...
this                                     "
is but a butterfly... but a butterfly in a tornado...
when we speak of a lack of painting on canvas,
when we speak of copyrights of handwriting
digital with us universally trapped in
Times New Roman, we speak of what's being defiled...
you can draw a moustache on a Mona Lisa...
it doesn't matter, the Mona Lisa will smile
through it more empowered... but when you desecrate
encoding sounds, not having applied diacritical
acuteness / sharpening the chisel... you have
simply allowed for a wholly immune form of former
escapades into the Caribbean scythe of harvesting trade...
soon the post-office will oblige its status of former
use as neccessary redundency,
soon the serpent eating its own tail will come into view
like a tumble-**** of where competition leaves us:
the last rat begins to gnaw at its own flesh,
the N.H.S. is gone via the Japanese oops,
old age is a problem of advancing sciences,
humanism got ***** for being too human
and not centimetre wide-enough for journalistic
sensibility that kinda wished for dictators even
though it criticised them...
sooner or later our world will become more
two-dimensional that what our immediate
ancestors experienced: a three-dimensional world...
that three-dimensional world will be no more...
reading futurism of the 20th century is like
soft-core ****... 21st realism is so far removed from
these prophets it's like watching communism reinvented,
only worse... the dogma of fierce competition and
enforced individualisation has not prepared us for
nations the size of China, or India...
at least in India street children can meet their Gulliver Oliver
for adventure among the Delhi slums:
put the rich under the microscope, and the poor
under the telescope... you'll hardly find a savanna's worth
of antelopes grazing on the workings of Patchwork Armstrong.
as any working man said: feminism is boring,
well, it's not exactly boring, i come home and my wife
is arguing with me, she says she earns more than me
and that i can't transition into being a house-husband
because the professional historians are restoring knowledge
of the Ice Age that doesn't fit into our Monday to Friday
work pattern paying the rent... no landlords in the stone
ages... evolutionary conscripts we were, by the mammalian
glands were actually insect glands...
in this metropolis few would claim a mammal to be hot blooded...
scurvy lizard tongues worshipping the Idol Babel;
it was never necessarily an architectural feat...
it culminated in what we talked about,
how we sang... you could out-build the pyramids
with the Eiffel... any time you wanted...
but given the wrist-mirror of Chinese ideograms
in matchstick translation... what came was not only
the height of the Dubai sky-scrappers...
but also the tongue that spoke... wheelchair bound
with two tonsils worth of wheels...
it sorta forgot rhyming, and rhymed to
yeah, mm, yeah... gotta ***** my *****
to get a score...
   yeah, mm, yeah... i'd love to endear that masochism
of white girls getting even with their fathers as
to why the black man tilled the cotton fields...
but i'm sorta like... got mouth-***** by the Prussians...
got **** treatment by the Russians...
cut off my genitals cut off by the Austro-Hungarians...
mm, ye'ha! cowboy in the sand gotta make a
camel cry.
Jenny Gordon Sep 2018
...want M&M's right now!


(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXIX)


Out where a fragile silence listens, pale
Sweet minutes on their honour as suspense
Hangs like the rick'ty signboard of what hence
Shall cough ere giving voice, yes, in that frail
Calm rain does not quite tiptoe through t'avail,
The voiceless naught is keenly for intents
Half harking to what we don't hear from thence
In all our haste to be, I search for bail.
Old pools of water, silver-faced, don't stir,
And crickets gently fiddle; cars pass through,
Truck sans a care, weeds look too yellow to
Be ransomed, and the eaves drip.  Oh, what were
We thinking, really?  Death knocks 'gain in tour
Yet we feign not to notice.  Ah, what's new?

30Sep18a
I forget what else to add after that.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
you sometimes just wake up, **** into an empty plastic
bottle (because you're too lazy to leave the room and
go to the toilet), open up an autobiography of
West Berlin ****** ****** addicts, compare
the beautiful account with the macabre works of
Burroughs and feel this lazy need to ride the groovy train of
empathy - then you go downstairs and drink
two glasses of water to ease the throat, smoke three cigarettes
for breakfast, flick on the television as background noise akin to
the ambience snoring of a refrigerator and grind your eyes
on a Sunday newspaper... which is something of a novelty,
given the headlines, it's the perfect horror novel,
even though i know that it's not a novel (yes, a misnomer) -
but like that matters - newspapers are scarier than any
Stephen King novel - so you summarise the day ahead:
that Frenchman was right, hell is other  people...
and by people i mean the people you have no childhood memory
with, or of,
                  when it just goes back into
the basics of social tact, manicured conversations,
and all manner of woo ha...
                                                 the blatant disrespect of
literature: celebrity's dogs getting published -
how can you take a society like that seriously?
so you bask in the remaining whiskey -
                              wondering:
   why is everything so suddenly auburn,
or so amber? and why is most of the amber
the stuff of legends from the Baltic - and why is half
of Europe forgotten, marginalised into
living out a dodo fate?
                  ἤλεκτρον (ēlektron):
never quiet the order of things, a car - škoda -
how the English pronunciation avoids the law:
said: shkoda - not skoda.
                                 as above, a prolonged eta -
with a caron, or runic kaunan -
eta-macron                                       reversed back
into Greek: eta-caron                 thesaurus rex argues
synonym-variation, suggesting Bach was never
the first in polyphony - as such - at this moment?
when writing turns into painting -
             etymological genealogy of amber?
'anbar                     'aah           like a macron -
            Arabic, from middle Persian
ambar -                                          hence the vowel
dancing and provisions in Hebrew to
hide                              e, i, o, u                            but
keeping two aesthetics of alpha      , i.e. aleph
             and ayin                          -
mistook as silent, yet blatantly obvious, i.e. written -
          then the variation of aleφ and cheese: aleθ -
so much beauty, yet so much pain -
and the everyday rigidity of language when buying
potatoes -
                    and all manner of haggling.
so back to the etymological genealogy -
                 via middle Latin ambar          and
middle French ambre                            M. Hombre -
                  so when the Latin world was conquered
and the grapheme æ was cut open and separated
as with Milton's Satan - the fruit bore ash -
                                          the French harked the R,
the Russians said Я                        and the English
softened the trill                  Ra Ra                 Ra Ra -
it was almost like singing opera -
but the history teacher spoke Latin in Catholic
school inviting the trill back - the French used to trill,
instead they preferred harking the phlegm back -
Kabbalah - or the exclusive anatomy of the mouth -
podniebienie-er - i.e. R said with the tongue
touching the palate for the momentum of the sound -
as too the vector of grammar changed:
easiest example? left to right, not right to left -
Copernican dispute over the sunrise and the west:
e.g. King of Denmark, rather than Rex Dania,
no, that's wrong, translating compounds sometimes
never does prove correct when crafting
carbohydrate polymers of bundled blah -
                              wise man - but the reverse
man wise            i.e.                  **** sapiens -
thus the acronym i.e. became a conjunction
                           like e.g. an             and-type-of-word.
Mark Parker May 2015
A harking shadow from past times
came back to bomb blast my last rhymes.
It came back so suddenly, with a fit of rage.
Now all I do is write cute page after page
of feelings that do nothing but bloat my mind.
Now all I feel like doing is trying to find a new grind.
A distraction for whats behind my memory's rind.

Simple mental satisfaction is what I long for.
What I remember now is what I abhor.
Take me back to a time before the days I deplore,
take me back to what I adore.
Ever remembered everything in a flash? I do about every time this year. It hurts like hell.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
and you sometimes try to get over a tobacco hangover...
so that means: excess phlegm...
you apply quasi therapy to your
neck muscles and massage the
cavities beneath your forehead
(internal nasal lines equipped
with two furry caterpillars -
otherwise known as eye brows) -
and this ****** of a headache
is going nowhere... you coughed
for about an hour,
     took a **** to alievate the mental
pain of a throbbing brain,
that keeps bashing like a hammer
against the insides of your skull:
mainly through being awake for several
hours and not bothering to
empty your bladder (which by now
is the size of a watermelon);
but stashing a **** in your ****?
                   that's what a homosexual
tongue feels like in your ear...
you listen to it, and listen to it, and when it
stops: you go to the bathroom and
sit on the throne of thrones and relax
for a bit... some fetishist cat will want to
take in the experience with you...
        "i think" i'm at the meditation phase
of this reflection... cats and human excrement...
never knew the two went so well together...
like oysters and lemon juice...
but given that cat **** has a stench so foul
it could usurp the scent of sulphur from
the "depictions" of hell (scents are hardly
depictive, so... description of hell)...
        lucky *******, oysters... i once dated a girl
that thought it was funny to pour
salt onto snails...
                        but i can beat that!
back in poland, in the most obscure place
imaginable... two boys... a frog smeared with
lipstick and a packet of matches...
              boom! a dancing prince on fire;
which is why i rely on memory, or (ars memorandum)
rather than take to imagining harry potters:
it gets you the money... but doesn't give you
a hard-on to just sail... enya: sail away sail away sai
that haunting celt-elf type of mmm...
       lost for words: or just plain lazy because
digression, really requires speed,
         and the speed it requires has to (also) include
punctuation marks.
    it would have been easier to just cascade and write
boom!
boom!
boom!
               but not right here... what was my original
point? oh yeah, a typical tobacco "hangover" (yes,
because it's more like getting rid of excess phelgm that
has built up inside of you): but please!
please! someone find me a poet that writes about
the experience of harbopuring a tapeworm: i'd love
to hear from them in verse.
           so you cough and you cough
   and the three piglets live their "happily ever after"
in the first "house" they built (wigwams or igloos...
of just hiding under a mammoth sized wig;
scalp that ****, right down to the base, where a hoof
ought to be!)
seriously though: you take a **** and you refill your
sharpshooter round of ***** and ms. coca
            and you ponder the **** once more:
          death-bed regrets? why didn't i shove something
"else" in there? don't know, i was keen to compare
it to animals and the duty: she cats?
they're almost always ******* about the act,
that look in their eyes that could put oliver reed's
hellraiser antics to shame: given the look in their eyes
while doing the ***** bits: ****** come out!
      ****** come out!
                                  male cats? they're almost smiling
while doing it...
                (i think this is the part where you
can mutually acknowledge that i think my writing
is ****... comparing over drunks?)
               tobacco "hangovers"... you finally end
them, by harking...
          a bit like barking, but what you're really doing
is spitting the excess phlegm in your nose
      out of your mouth... disgusting, i know,
but what can you do... turn peafowl?
                                but you really do have to go
through this process every day (never mind
the headache: brain throbbing **** of skull:
thump thump thump... thump thump thump...
hammer sickel, hammer sickel)...
oh wait, that brings me onto my original prompt:
  a video (big fan, you tube, we channel),
and it's nothing like i might actually write a comment
in the "description" section (or simply add to it)...

tara mccarthy - laura southern:
how feminism hurts women.


                      i'm just a sucker for the drool... or nasal...
or whatever you like to call american linguistics...
          zombie oogh?         hooh?  ** ** **?
                             now i really feel like a viking, pillaging
people's punctuation styles and reminding myself (cognitively)
how it sounds in reverse... on paper... in script and not
in conversation... and it probably sounds a bit like this:
         and article in the times newspaper (editorial section,
just after the opinion section of journalists... like some
quasi reincarnation of dialectics)...
   the video's content? right-wing women cry valkyrie:
left-wing women respond: cut off the genitals and it's a community
founded on christian heresies unearthed in 1945, in egypt,
when the world was almost going to end (nag hammadi)...
                boy cry wolf, eh?
                                        so that video...
and the "anonymous" writer of the article
   seedier media (subplot): social networks must recognise
         their responsibilites and crack down on hate speech...
the two outlets go hand in hand...
         if mccarthy (the real one, the homosexual)
was alive today, he'd be like... perfect:
    the whole concept has automated itself via digital
human connectivity, now i can go to the beach
and bounce my beach ball and get suntan lotion
applied to my back by my boyfriend Fred;
                yeah, that mccarthy; (joe).
                    
i've had worse days, but they usually end with:
i start to write thin, and then get bulges that don't seem
to fit, totally anti paragraph...
                          (too much american media,
too much american alter media, matthew, i'm seriously
going to punish you for this)...
split conscious alternative realities?
      ******* talk without a well paid narrator
to create consent of any art form to begin with.
   second deathbed confession?
how to write a poem that would eventually lead
to a neat conclusion on form, i.e.

| begins here






                                                   ends here |

and all the line breaks are |
                                            |
                 ­                           |
                                    ­        |
                                            |
|
|
|
|

               behaviour-wise... alas... but at least i managed
to get a sneak-peek into what inside out (pixar)
would look like... it was a three way conversation...
3/5 (three out of five)... i'm missing anger and i'm missing
disgust... oh **** me: so 1. joy, 2. sadness, 3. anger,
4. fear, 5. disgust...
                                 to be honest i'm seeing all of them
and writing pointless fractions concerning
                    ethnic correlation to something that looks
like that thing i, also am.
I am physically ******* and
mentally chewing on this factual statement
I release the pent up anger
that I've lingered​ over and
blood​ starts to boil, yet
I'm imbued with a sense of well-being​ which
is like seeing yourself with a knife in your brain
and thinking it's fine so you see it again.

Of necessity and because of my age
any rage is a carefully controlled emotion.

A lifetime,
a pastime?
but now it's time to get real.

I deal from the bottom of the pack,
got to have an edge
but that's harking back to
the bad old days and the
old ways have gone.

Game on.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
Hello Matthew,
Sorry I missed your visit the other day; I was obviously teaching and the office staff couldn't locate me.
It is encouraging to see I am now dealing with a published writer who will hopefully tell me what the book title is without my need for research.
Glad to see you have remembered that punctuation is a linguistic colonialist, for wNt of s better term.
I picked up your books yesterday and immediately gave one copy each to two year 13 students with the simple instruction to 'read this.'
The one you kindly inscribed I have taken home and intend to read over the October half term.
How's everything going?
Mr Bunce (or to use my colloquial Glaswegian first term, Tam)
Sent from my iPhone*


Hello Thomas,

no apologies necessary, it's well understood that a teacher is always untouchable when it comes providing an aqueduct of intellectual assimilation peppered with acquisition and relative hope for pedantic (missing the plural).

The apologies are all mine, I spent the week at the Cheltenham like ****** pusher, evidently not everyone is hooked on on poetry; but I did find the deviant art form that's known as "spoken word" a blast, i dare stand-up comedy to compare itself to the antics so hushed by society.

The part where you say: dealing with a published author... well, authored: but via my own expenses. Entitlements of the book being titled so? i was trying to remember how anyone gives up a good portion of their memory to remember something like the atom R               without the English softening, without the French harking up phlegm, and the age old Victorian trill            of the rolling Baskervilles... i tried to attire Grecian optics in how every child expands his capacity for memorising language on the basin of up-keeping and use: via the need to abolish hyphenated compound words, and against dyslexia that turn English into a complexity that's German, remnants of it remaining true with e.g. hydrocarbon, or chemists punctuating: or averting from the hyphenated ease: as truth goes: chemistry in English is a standard Saxon German. A lesson in finding enough eyes in a single tongue that might make me forcefully distinguish an N that's a V that's actually ν (nu), sharpened, and υ (a              u that's capital y that's less sharpened than nu that's Y that's upsilon - and that's lowercase gamma)... I hope some form of a kaleidoscope might be revealed with this revision of Copernican East on the moon.

I have more copies you can distribute, walking from that netherworld that's bound to be tamed with the name of Romford into the A406 region.

I hope you might find the inscribed opinion kindred to your own, its authenticity is based on how serious poetry is taken in the East, the western world has solidified itself in proclaiming poetry with rap, in turn poetry has become less rhapsodic, but that aside, I hope you enjoy the end-product, it's only a snippet of my work, evidently by the fact stated, I have more.

Everything is as everything should be. My 3 years in Scotland were a dream I wish I never woke from; I could not have wished for a more welcoming convent of lessened religious ridiculousness among people: churches turned into nightclubs and chandelier shops? Well, that's the bright-sprung reality of the Scotland I remember, and from what the journalists provide, it seems the story has just begun in terms of a youthful invigoration demanding a voice: yes, away from the infamous deep-fried Mars bar. I still remember that self-deprecating joke you made about how copper wire was invented: two Scots arguing over a penny (pulling it apart).

Well, if I over-economised my reply I apologise, otherwise I hope I can enshrine your legacy further, with the motto: don't teach them grammar (the subconscious)... teach them language, or what's lessened arithmetic rubric concern, and more: authenticity - a variant word for familiarity and a tattooing on one's locality as primarily organic: given the inorganic trend of globalisation. Can I offend with an informality? I will anyway: sounds like a ****** manifesto - in the end all I wanted to reply with was: thank you.

Well, thank you, for teaching me English without necessitating a concern for a grammar consciousness / an awareness of grammar: public school ponces can have their Eton mess funfairs: language is pure, pristine, palpable, and we're allowed our own interpretation of grammar, even Nietzsche said: we only believe in god as long as we believe in grammar... as said, I can provide more copies of the book, I'm duly counting the numbers in terms of representation, given that the book is but a snippet of the Σ, I can gain as much as I have already lost, which in practical wording equates to nothing.

Kind regards, dearest Tammy (inexplicable innuendo to follow without the appropriated seasoning to match,
                            in this grand era of political hoo correct ha); or otherwise intended in the more formal
acquisition of familiars -
                                              thanks, Matthew.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
it was announced, rolling stones and the beatles,
michael jackson verus prince,
while a classic song by prince was in an ****
of famishing spreading with direct contact with
google, i dare say english requires phonetic
pointers... like ħ... in exampled when,
ah and hatch... it's in need of deciphering
particularity.... it's a surd symbol...
it's not a clear methodological approach to
tonguing it... it's whimsical, very daring...
i too could hate phil collins...
but the 80s were defined by bankers
trading property values with no straitjacket required...
and that's the pop *** we all wanted:
loss of violins and cellos, gain of drum machines...
i'd pick prince any day, for the gems that can't be heard
on the major channels...
or like lao che's gusła or róże europy / roses of europe's
1989 blood of marilyn monroe song:
kości czerwone, kości czarne
(red bones, black bones), what remained of the
band was just a song: jedwab (silk):
she told him high society drank cognac with a slice
of lemon like the slavic way of drinking tea...
he preferred the beer and dried out russian sushi
that gave way to gurgling thirst...
no, i mean it... ħ should be introduced,
a strike of usage erased, like when, like
the excess trill of the r in slavic, and the excess
mitigating harking of the h in germanic.
Charles Sturies Apr 2017
From Beyonce's blood that flows
to Brandy's flush face that glows
to J. Lo's fresh flesh
to Joy Bryant's, for example, self-dignity
that talk about the pulse
that refreshes
that same fountain
of Reality's Child
and a "cool chick"
reeks of a blood type
dealing in chocolate code
of the mind
and cherry coke of the ***
such that
Lana Turner
would turn over in her grave
if she knew of
a new breed of female *** symbols
harking back to her, Gable,
Heyworth, Bacall, and Hepburn.
Charles Sturies

— The End —