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1970 Odysseus visits cousin Patsy in New York City she introduces him to her best friend Lauren’s older less attractive more reclusive sister Tanya Mulhaney extremely wealthy family father founded corporation manufactures pinball machines which years later develop to video games then casino empire he favors and spoils Tanya but dies suddenly her envious sisters and mother gang up on Tanya is pale skinny flat-chested copious brown bush Odysseus sits in bathtub with Tanya and he probes in a way they hits it off maybe no boy has ever touched her in that way her complexion is so fragile slightest fluster prompts pink blotches on her cheeks neck chest back he admires her book smarts he’s attracted to her refined strangeness he thinks her bush and flat-chest are **** she laughs shyly offers to take him around the world he accepts Odysseus tells his parents Mom goes crazy yells into telephone what are you a ******? you father and i work like fools to send you to the best schools so you can make something of yourself you’re going to throw everything away to be a ***? i tell you we’ll disown you you won’t have a home to come back to do you hear me? we’ll disown you! she sobs how can you just walk out after all we have done for you? you ******* kid! Odysseus takes leave of absence from art school he and Tanya take Iberia jet 12 hour flight with stopover in Iceland to Belgium Tanya sinks into one of her moods swallows several pills to help her rest sitting on other side of Odysseus is curly haired skinny talkative musician claims he has jammed with Miles Davis and other jazz greats Odysseus says yeah right and i’ve shown with Johns and Twombly where exactly are you heading in Europe? musician answers he is a scientologist on his way to visit L. Ron Hubbard in England Odysseus does not know what Dianetics are and wants explanation he asks many questions and musician talks for hours they enjoy each other’s rapport as jet descends in Brussels they exchange home addresses in the States 9 months later when Odysseus returns to America a friend notices scribbled address while skimming through his travel journals Odys! how did you get Chick Corea’s address? do you know him? do you realize how brilliant he is? he’s a keyboard virtuoso! Odysseus questions Chick Corea? who’s Chick Corea? he looks at journal page then says oh that guy i sat next to him on the jet to Europe so he really is a famous musician huh? wow!

in October 1970 Brussels is damp chilly Tanya wears hip-hugger jeans black turtle-neck top North Face shell she huddles her arms around her chest smokes cigarettes looks through hotel room window out into gray overcast sky speaks in defeatist voice i didn’t bring clothes for this weather she picks at her plate in hotel restaurant glumly vacillates later in bed after refusing *** decides they leave tomorrow fly to Canary Islands for several weeks to get tan before traveling through Morocco during winter months Canary Islands are laden with Swedish tourists including bikini clad young girls many not wearing tops Odysseus is thinking about how to swing some of that Swedish free love once Tanya gets drunk succumbs to Odysseus’s ****** overtures it is good  one day while returning to hotel from beach 2 Spanish police stop and question Tanya and Odysseus police order to see their passports then command them into squad car police bark in Spanish rifle through their daypacks point a finger Odysseus can smell alcohol on their breaths Tanya and Odysseus are terrified police drive off main road to remote location abandoned ruins no one is around police order them to step out police drive off laughing Tanya’s complexion is crimson she sobs they could have murdered us no one would know who we are or where to find us we’re lost where are we? Odysseus looks around replies don’t worry we’ll be all right i watched where the driver was going we’ll retrace their trail

they fly to Tangier travel south by train Tanya is irritable insisting Odysseus carry her backpack Casablanca is ***** 3 men peer from sunglasses act suspicious wear tattered trench coats Tanya and Odysseus snack at cafe which provides hookahs for smoking hashish Odysseus scores several grams Tanya laughs suggests they rent car drive south travel to sandy beaches of Diabet for 6 weeks in the morning she paces around French hotel room with cigarette in one hand ashtray in other like she is sultry 1940’s Hollywood actress she stays in room and devours Penguin Classics Tolstoy Stendhal Proust Huysmans Zola turns out Tanya is sexually frigid she buys Odysseus anything he wants but does not put out they take train Marrakech it is sun drenched with blue skies mountains in distance Odysseus wants to go out explore get ***** with the natives he visits Medina daily witnessing many bizarre scenes he does not understand a woman squatting over an egg a man with no legs dragging himself through marketplace holding up cigarette butts in his hand he meets a professor who is out of work because king of Morocco has closed the universities due to teachers’ strike professor explains woman squatting over egg is fortuneteller and man dragging himself has been offered crutches many times yet makes more money playing off pity of tourists cigarette butts are for sale the professor invites Odysseus to visit Berbers in mountains Odysseus persuades Tanya she reluctantly agrees the 3 travel by bus in first-class front row seats vehicle filled with lively families chickens pig bus driver has assistant who lugs people onto bus or shoves them out door at a midpoint bus stops in little town everyone exits bus then men women children urinate in street local venders sell trinkets snacks Odysseus buys nibbles shish-kabob that later professor informs is roasted cat and dog they reenter bus wait suddenly butchered lamb flank is flung onto Odysseus’s lap a man climbs aboard bus stairs then grabs large carcass and heedlessly walks to back seat Odysseus wipes blood and slime off his jeans Tanya demurely giggles bus climbs mountains arrives at small Berber village professor leads them along narrow winding street of shanty huts sheltering merchants open kitchens professor tastes from various steaming iron kettles finally decides on one they are directed to rickety roof where they sit wait a boy comes up with plastic bowl filled with water and small box of Tide following professor they wash their hands then minutes later proprietor brings up simmering *** of couscous serves it with scratched raw plastic bowls no eating utensils they eat with their fingers Tanya seems bothered declines to partake she withdraws into silence after meal she becomes irritable complains of headache says she needs to return to Marrakech she remains standoffish on bus all the way to French hotel

after Marrakech they take boat trip to Italy while onboard Odysseus meets Italian Count who has an eye for him Odysseus wears Jim Morrison beat-up leather jeans Bruce Lee t-shirt scraggly whiskers Count wears thin manicured beard tiny red Speedo swim trunks Tanya grins amused Count offers Odysseus and Tanya to be guests at his villa in Milan city flourishes with stylish clothes loud lively restaurants classical sculptures covered in car pollution following several weeks of aristocratic wining and dining amazing 11 course elegant soiree Odysseus botches compliance with Count’s desires they are asked to leave Tanya laughs hysterically they board train to Germany based on Tanya’s tour book they find historic hotel with wind rattling windows coin operated hot water bath in Munich Tanya stays in room Odysseus goes to dance club meets brown-hared pale skinned German girl neither speak the other’s language he pays for hourly rated room they play German girl in animated gesturing warns him as he is going down on her but he does not understand until several days later scratching beard finds ***** seeks A-200 lice treatment German version leather pants disposed Tanya knows but says nothing she buys Volkswagen they drive through Black Forest Tanya wants to visit King Ludwig’s castles Odysseus does the driving mostly they listen to the Who’s “Who’s Next” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” he follows Tanya’s instructions not knowing who King Ludwig was eventually he learns Ludwig was colorful character built extravagant Disney like castles and friends Richard Wagner Bavaria is cold gray brown deep forest green scenic Swiss Alps visible in southern view they drive from Neuschwanstein to Linderhof to Herrenchiemsee then Freiburg lodge in bed and breakfasts Tanya grows restless by all the driving decides to ditch car along road in northern France as Odysseus unscrews car license by road side several cars stop French people concerned they need help Tanya is anxious hoping for clean get away from abandoning vehicle they board train to Paris Tanya speaks a little French in spring of 1971 they are backpacking in search of hotel on Left Bank it rains all morning sky is overcast Tanya reads “Pride and Prejudice” Odysseus draws in sketchbook at sidewalk café sitting next to them are older Parisian couple man detects they are Americans he turns to them expresses in English his contempt why can’t you Americans learn from France’s lessons in Vietnam? Tanya and Odysseus don’t look up they feel like dumb ugly Americans within days they leave Paris

cross English Channel by boat they find temporary apartment in Earl’s Court in London it is overcast almost every day within a month they move to larger place in Chelsea with backyard with run down English garden Odysseus weeds garden plants tomatoes lettuce carrots radishes flowers Tanya stays in her room smokes reads at night they go out to ethnic restaurants one night they visit Indian restaurant a very proper English woman sitting at next table orders exotic fruit for dessert Odysseus asks waiter what kind of fruit waiter answers mango Odysseus has never seen or tasted mango English woman delicately eats the fruit with fork and knife Odysseus orders mango for dessert he attempts to imitate how English lady proceeded fruit slips around on plate finally out of frustration he picks it up in his hands bites into it he is aroused by how luscious mango is sniffing with nose scraping fruit’s skin with front teeth then ******* the seed Tanya makes a face suddenly the seed slides from his grasp shoots across table Tanya’s cheeks neck turn scarlet voice raises stop it Odys! you’re disgusting! are you intentionally trying to embarrass me? why are you doing this? he replies i’m not doing anything to you i’m enjoying the most delicious fruit i’ve ever tasted who cares what it looks like? later she laughs about incident offers to buy more mangos promises to take him shopping at Harrods tomorrow he goes along with their arrangement until it all seems like pretty background scenery to an empty intimacy missing all his friends back at art school he writes about his loneliness he feels trapped in Tanya’s web several times he sneaks English girls into his room when Tanya jealously confronts him he admits he has had enough and wants to go back to Hartford she suggests at the least they fly to Bermuda for several weeks to get tan before returning he declines on June 30 1971 Odysseus returns to Hartford and Tanya moves to San Francisco on July 3 Jim Morrison overdoses in Paris
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
co ma piernik do wiatraka a kóra do pióra?

immortalised mortality: Achilles -
some also quote Zeno on the matter
suggesting that anyone can be involved
in the question of turtle shells:
mortal-ised immortality - meaning
it's democratic, any mortal can think
about it, since there's only one Achilles.

what has a gingerbread to a windmill?
Don Quixote. again:
what has a chicken to a quill?
Nietzsche's handwriting - kura pazurem
a człek igłą.*

but there's a majority of us that think about immortality
seriously, only because he haven't fulfilled an
adequate mortality - we haven't, there are so many
of us that haven't fulfilled mortality to depart with death
with agony, we're just happy it's over,
i end up drinking beer like it's apple juice
on the after taste - we're called the depressive ones,
but still they make money off us -
the fault is the stars, we're not in it -
and why did he drink? the shame, the travesty -
i too wanted to fulfil my mortality to the ****,
convene on naked-concreteness, on bare concrete
and cover it with tar, so that someone might
watch television...

i don't know the result of the referendum,
i woke up early, took two acidic ***** into the bowl
and thought about my mouth spitting venom,
too little, too late,
walked for three beers to balance the metabolism
and walked back, waiting for cat-food to arrive -
nearly sunstroke saying under my breath:
'if you really want to make Wales into Sudan,
go the **** right ahead, book a Disneyland trip
to Florida, for all i care, i'm a Kentucky fried chicken here,
oh no, go ahead, i'm really eager to read your journalistic
attempt to be serious like they were about Watergate,
no, please, no Pelican briefs, just socks... oh come on,
we can't be seriously, we're trailblazing the **** out of
whatever we thought about the penguin continent;
Green Peace? here?! you have to be kidding me,
i have Arabian playboys playing chasers and racers
on real-life Playstations at Knightsbridge, they think
Harrods is the only shop beginning with H in London;
what about Hamleys? i'm sure the playboys and blonde
****** would be better suited to race around Regents
Street... matchbox Ferrari ***** -
i'm not going to be some Sudanese suntan just so
you can jet stream to elsewhere -
i'm guessing they all had ***** when the Reign of Terror
happened, 'cos what i'm seeing right now is a bunch
of eunuchs biting their toenails -
me? no one gave me a firearm to shoot someone
like Napoleon said, i just posed for a portrait;
i'm not into torture, i have a memory of goldfish
reminded of a globular tank, given Newton's explanation
of the curvature of the eye, upside down and all,
i'm goldfish Bob, dubbed 'the all-seeing eye'.
i have to admit, the artists were crude when they
painted Elizabeth I, or anyone prior -
they didn't exactly represent them as human,
humanoid, yes - quasi ****,
i'm Darwin in Tate Britain looking at canvases
and regarding mascara as the new adaptability tactic
for what the Galapagos "Rhodes" colossus turtles took to
over-sizing  and imitating boulders - the art those days
was a Bayeux Tapestry - Shylock after Shylock after
an oversized ***** graffiti inserted somewhere instead
of an arrow piercing a neck - the artists weren't sloppy,
they were simply unkind - i'm shocked that so many
kings took to up-keeping their vanity of rule due
to the sloppy hand of artists painting them as if ******.
Robin Carretti May 2018
He quietly appears so many years have passed smelling the amazing greener then life grass a potent filled with magic the invisible man he passed.
Splendor in the grass

Ehh Oh yuck someone
abandoned you
On the runway
He Grilled walked in
fashionable late
The head of his
mansion

You needed to
tolerate
Oh! Chuck
Full of gas
shattered_
her mind
with scars coming
toward her
like glass

The wake-up call
The lady of
all envy
Winning
an Emmy
Adelle
We could
of had it all
Another name
Amy
For the love,
Of a ghost
Like the
Candy Man
Invisible man
from
Ireland

Something got posted
seductively
Blindfolded hosted
Designed into his
Money hand
Powdered substance
poisoned her

Invisible man
Her eyes got
Smoked like
Poison Ivy
In the Army now
Please too much
Attention of green
Arabian in the Nile
Miles and miles
Navy to be seen
He was colored blind
Different eye
Brown in one and blue
Something hatched

Matchmaker  Ghost rider
Fiddler on the roof
We need a story writer
Like a horse
without a hoof
To neigh the right
stuff

I Sir "Infinitely" so
"Existentially"
Remarkably
Divinely
Ghostwriter
Her words were
blank
She is so genuine
Every other day
He was mine
The quiet man
Super shy
Another try
Valentine's day +*

Writing but not seeing
I love you until this day
Quiescently being forced
he entered emerged
I love you let's get
engaged
Beg your pardon
was not her
To be loved so sorry to be
changed
Like a stale piece

Her niece vintage
furniture more love
and peace
Quietly operation
tugged
Someone got flagged
That blind man
faced
And looked into
the  quiet man
On someone's 
body
The smells
like Moms
perfume her
exact tune
New Jersey Patch reader
"The Catcher in the Rye"
To weird the movie
Carrie
School can be strange
A bucket list of water
down your head
She walked

The Quiet man lips
No small talk
Ghost post bed
Not even one star
could be heard
The gas lamp
she tripped
Out of sight

She saw a face not to
be described

So inhibited like
endangered
species

The invisible man
loved her
But got his
vengeance on
anyone
that was too near her
People wanted so
much to
be her
Her force
indescribable

When someone was
clear to see
Extremely well visible
she didn't care to
know them

Her nose on the tip
baking with flour
Ghostly the hostess
of the most
But feeling his
energy the invisible
the man was
courting her so challenging

New flame "Procreating"

Hemming her long skirt
Her diary innocence
Being on her side
but scheming
Disguise home staging
From the ridiculous to the
subline

Her address
Send forget me knots
street
Only blind
people are the kind
you want to find

SOS  surrender or out
The other S Soulmate
Ghost
Hailed the Mary
The Quiet Man
John Wayne

The laundromat
Mack the knife
Invisible man
Inked his whole life
Waynes world
Born to be wild

The other man
Hit the metal
heavy music
fan
Drenched so humid
He was the Murad

Triangle mess
Shopping at London
Harrods
Let's hear it for
the girls or ((Gods))
The magical channeling
TV on the blink
Went right on his computer
All the quiet man linked

He finger waved by the world
Guinness drinking Heineken
beer
The ghost rider
Got grilled called upon
By Ron
College kid playing
Rugby
The good bad and
the Ugly
Clint Eastwood
stretched them out
like Gumby
Western gunshot slinger
He couldn't see the
Ghost rider
the
blank stares
Perky Rabbit Hares
All the negatives got
burned
Exorcist's heads twist
and shout eyes healed
about

Climbing the Jacks
of the shinning
Nowhere in the beauty of
Her heart gleaming

Took a blindfold call felt
somewhere but where?
But I couldn't see blinded
by stars
Over the rainbow, the skies
weren't blue
Being stalked by
someone you know

By the greater impossible
love
To be silent like she was
invisible
So naive at time feeble

Without an honorable
love of fee
Gone with the winding
shopping spree
Disworthy and sneaky
but for being
who or answers
Doctor Who?
Invisible man what
could he do

He was so flavorful
well balanced
strong nursed her well
and sturdy
Quiet man thinking in his
beloved study

She was no goodie
magical shoes
The Ghostwriter
left invisible
clues
More Quiet time
Lemonade time affair of a
Ghost man
Like Hannah and her sisters
Woody if he could
But he is a **** good writer
The Movies of NewYork
I am proud to say
I come from
Brooklyn NY

If lips could talk
pouty
Sensing something but why?
Hans Christian Anderson
Quiet man playing softly but
Killing me easily through the
Blind sighted window

The widows
War Veterans
True Hero My dad
World War 2
Wifes lies and fibs
Quiet leads to invisible
Heller Keller was so
fortunate
Like Fate, she was
the real
Mccoy, she could light
anyone's smile
with joy
The barbecue next season
So many years to reason
More gun control
Be more visible to others
Mothers and brothers
Have a heart of soul


Only the strong keep the
  fight
Just keep on trucking
Grill them show them
What you could write
Perhaps it's cool to be the
Ghostwriter
Not everyone likes
To see the clear picture
What is really taken

So what if people cannot read us
Somehow we are all blind that's
OK its a miracle how other people
Can make it the beautiful day


Of the next groundhog day
He was loving to be invisible
He wanted to keep it that way
So deep set her eyes
to die
Somehow talk could be cheap
And the shepherd of love loads

of sheep, silence is the best sleep

All in someones head so lovingly deep

Invisible but remarkable to be the person
you want to be or let's really look closer
it's not always rosier.
Can we be so invisible to everything we look at? What about being blind Helen Keller to me was the fortune of better futures your best wine out of the cellar. So what if you are blind there will always be someone you love around you just have to feel them
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul
,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah

this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.
Yenson Sep 2018
I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate

I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel

You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with  B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine

Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew

Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i did study schizophrenia for several years,
i'd 7, in total -
                             but would i agree
with Kraepelin? probably not...
                       after studying five psychiatrists
with the power position of:
                 well... i'm not...
                                          what you think
i am in your attempts to treat me, i learned a great
deal of things... as you know the now infamous
national health service is doing a cracking job
at infuriating junior doctors...
              the media are pressing
for more investment in why no one has bothered
themselves to identify premature depression...
only because... schizophrenia... is... quiet frankly...
a non-medical noun... call it what you want
otherwise... it's a highly polarised name
for the leftist agenda: it's basically medicine:
politicised -
                       i.e. you can be a conservative,
a liberal, a socialist, a ****** fascist...
or a schizophrenic...
                                       i'm just thinking about
genuine sufferers huddling in their dozens saying,
in accordance with the previous name for
the condition (premature dementia):
   why the ****... am i so creative... all of a sudden?
and Nietzsche was right when he said:
individual madness is rare... madness en masse?
that's a norm...
                                 none of those bargain shoppers
waiting overnight in queues to get into
bargain sales at Harrods ever get mentioned...
but to my: i spy with my little eye...
        about a hundred crackpots standing to ovation
(deeply desired) -
                   **** me if you get trapped in this
windmill of the medical joke...
                     the part of medicine that left it open
to allow politics to engage with authentic conditions...
authenticity has a ring to it: John Nash's
Nobel prize medal and diploma will fetch
an apparent $4 million at Sotheby's (if not more)...
   i just can't see how schizophrenic are what
they aren't: wouldn't it be easier to say:
                  the other kind of dualism?
or Geminis without the ****** zodiac talk of:
peasant watching pheasants die at a shooting range?
     i don't want to be believed...
         i have my national security number,
i have my passport number,
   i have my date of birth... and **** me... a telephone number
  +44 01708 766 994...  
                i just hate the fact that people with
this condition aren't acknowledged...
    ****** me off, day in, day out...
                          the peasants just licked the salt
from the wound and added pepper for the extra sting...
it's the one medical condition, not
                 understood, precisely because it was reined in
by politicians... and, let me tell you,
understanding something while practising
rhetoric is how sophists go about their ways...
they're already two timing the ******* crowd,
and they can't seem to address what schizophrenics are:
hallucinatory self-esteem minders: basically:
they don't know how lucky they are...
             symptoms of the Buddha preaching a middle
path... or Nietzsche's beyond good and evil...
                  they are simply exercising
   an experimental duality without a need for
obstructive conscience or lack of it...
             yes, experimental because of the symptoms...
and therefore lacking all the symptoms of someone
without a conscience:
                     enclosed: the subconscious speaks -
and god forbid i like this psychological verbiage...
let's just say i want to make language pharmacological...
    i want to make the ideal pill in terms of language...
but never prescribe anyone anything...
                           but in popular press
the political elite always exploit a genuine
medical condition in order to quash their competitors,
while the genuine sufferers become obsolete
oddities...
                    because why would you first call it
premature dementia (two classes of old people:
the melancholic and the demented...
                the demented are suffering for past and hidden
ills done unto others... the melancholics?
      it is done, and all i have in reward is a television
set and a bribe from death to live 25 years in leisure
watching sea waves and wrinkles tattoo my forehead
with age)...
                         but imagine premature dementia...
(the praecox variation) -
                                    the older name evolved
into a description of en enhanced version of dualism:
or split-mind (******                        could evolve
further into duo-                   or two, rather than split,
            and hence the mind, or -phren) duophren...
the lost impulse to follow-up thinking of choice -
          in the "schizoid's" mind i see
                      the subconscious brimming to its full
potential and reaching a hallucinatory status -
and if ever you thought that auditory hallucination
wasn't the worst imaginable hallucination -
then your Darwinism is shy-locked into
    the fancies of Huxley on mescalin and the hipster
trend of the 1960's escapism...
                  auditory hallucination?
well... you're probably part of the bible crew...
       and that nutty fragrance of your words:
appeals to the few: frightens the villagers...
(**** break, headbutting the cat, yum yum yum)
           or the Sims...
                                  i stopped playing the first
edition after discovering a wormhole when
i steered the Sim to play computer games...
          you know how it goes: you're playing a
game of puppets, you make a puppet go to a computer
and play computer games, you're yourself playing
a computer game... ****! then you stop playing the
computer game.
                that's 7 years studying the disease
(lighter use of language? dis- [negation] of -ease,
          being denied a certain ease of mobility)
                  and not based on theory,
but based on experience...
                                   on the petition so far?
   Bukowski and Burroughs...
                                      obviously icons but not exactly
saints...
                                  but after a while, you sort of
forget scientific positivism...
             they're looking for life on Mars and a Jupiter moon
when they know that the earth as hostile to anything
but volcanic reactions... if there is life on these two
globes: it's way past gone...
                     as already stated,
            schizophrenics are actually the most formidable
political tools: the fear of men in white coats...
  because everyone accepts the apathy due to their
persistent lying (politicians): the men in grey suits...
                        schizophrenics, i'd say,
are the source of all phobias surrounding mankind...
         oddly enough: schizophrenics are the most
adaptable to fathom the divine comedy...
                        it's gone way past Balzac and the human
comedy... it really has...
                                         i just don't like the way
schizophrenics have their condition robbed of any
medical ambition to say something, but instead are
drowned in sophism, a mere rhetorical tool
to scare off opponents... 7 ****** years...
                      and as i began, i'd disagree with
Kraepelin, but agree with Eugen Bleuler -
a Swiss who i thought was an Estonian... never mind...
because psychiatry is at best, a populist version
of philosophy... like Christianity is populist Platonism...
psychiatry is a populist version of philosophy...
   and what we're talking about is not a sigma
interpretation of uniform evolution of species,
but the evolution of words, or, specifically:
compound words - the desire to replenish aged
standards of then original insight:
         premature dementia (dementia praecox),
that evolved into              schizophrenia
                                   (split mind)
                          that had to evolve into a tier of
acceptable dualism -                     casually phrased:
           to be of two-minds                   as in zodiac
in all alchemy shortened to:               the schematic of twins.
obviously the table will not evolve -
                          it's probably a borrowed word
and has its limits - probably Nordic or Germanic
and standardised to a babel transliteration -
             but concerning scientific words...
i see a need for a linguistic Darwinism (fancy words,
coming from someone without an
authoritarian position to prescribe pills to people),
                it has too evolve, primarily because the word
has been underused by the medical profession...
       and has been overused for political despotism in
shaming political competitors and exposé journalists...
       added to the fact that psychiatrists in
England are clueless people who were abused as
children... one even admitted to me,
a confession, musing aloud, not exactly prescribing me
with a delusion, although i gathered just as much:
             oh, he must have been abused as a child -
to which i might have added:
           and turned toward the study of psychiatry to
claim the ultimate fetish'o-sadistic status in society...
   a cowboy psychiatrist.
               they're out there... they're waiting with
the zombie pills...
                                    anything except sleeping pills,
vitamins and high-blood pressure pills...
             i'd flush down the toilet:
well sure, i used to weigh as much as i do now...
the weight doesn't make me uncomfortable...
               i went down from 101kg to 70kg
       over one summer riding my bicycle i
He is a gentle, lonely man
Looking for love
But willing to accept
company, and comfort.
He is crying alone, now,
In a vast and empty bed
Having said goodbye to another someone
Twelve hours later than advisable.
Those transient lovers
Are always impressed with his beautiful house,
His designer bed, with Harrods sheets
Everything white, and the best of the best.
He tells them he's an architect, and it shows
In the immaculacy,
But last night he took home a builder
To ***** and rumple those pristine sheets,
And he wished for an excuse to knock through the walls
And tear it all down,
So he could keep him, to rebuild.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
sometimes the title would just do,
                                                                      in the days
when fame doesn't echo throughout
the ages, where to find
   a Hector or an Achilles?
             only in times when life was
precious that it was doubly precious
by being audacious and teasing death -
where are the death-teasers among
us? who among us is a death-teaser?
no one... the myth of Sisyphus isn't
exactly a myth... what was a myth
in the 20th century is the plateau reality
of the 21st century -
                             there's a great joke
concerning Norway...
    a book sold half a million copies
          in a country populated by 5 million people...
so it's basically a village mentality "nation"...
i already said you should teach evolution
on the canvas of vikings rather than working
from neanderthals...
            berserker turned cultural clique -
the joke about the british decision to leave the e.u.?
hmm... multiculturalism? taking the genes
     to the cleaners in fear of hereditary weak genes?
isolated muslim communities who think that
britain is a country that's 75% muslim?
           it's, the, *******, irony... the brits can be
as well gifted in rude humour or smug with their wit,
but they've hardly explored their gaft of irony,
well, that's a miscomprehend use of a word,
for the mere phonos of the word: i had to use it...
   like gaffer is the chargehand on a building site.
what i mean is that the brits put so much energy
into a monty python sketch that they can't see
the irony they're implementing...
         can england ever become clique?
              did the british empire ever exist is a similar
question: yes, the british empire imploded,
we have three generations of the Raj living in
Islington, three Saudi generations living
in Marble Arch on Edgware Road...
                           we have hobnobs Harrods
lit up like sitting on a marble toilet with gold plated
toilet seats... tacky... that **** is tacky...
          and when people get rich, they just have
   a new way of saying they're poor... no taste.
me? i feel like having a patron... the pope, for example...
for all the god willing reasons i should have been
the poet along with the Renaissance masturbators
of the ******* in clay.... boy... Donatello really rubbed
that impression right into a David post *******...
look 'ere, placid like a gluttonous mosquito...
n'ah... fame these days is too much of a corpus -
it attracts hyenas and vultures once the lions
got bored...
   fame these days is too much c.c.t.v. -
             the omni eye looks at what colour my ****
was (and what consistency) from last Wednesday.
plus modern dialectical discourse has either become
too much solipsistic / autistic... or it's a wanking
marathon... which makes assurances to unsafe
*** between partners, and ultra safe *** between
pundit and *******, with the *******'s
reassurance: i get regular health checks...
        i mean, when she's so hot that after zenith
you jump into the bath and pour cold water
over yourself and she remains in bed *******
herself looking at you? genuine scenes there...
i have a ****** imagination... experience is so
much better... i'd rather slit my wrists than
work for Disney.
no, wait... wait! there's a point coming, referring
to the title... yep...
   a culinary rebellion against modern art backed by
Cézanne
... you seen the recent Turner prize?
         i used to see a Turner prize every time i went
to the recycling centre near Upminster...
or a car-boot sale down Walthamstow...
i also used to go and see the dog-races down that route...
E17... when you used to have yella-double-decca
buses 123 and 179 travel the route...
        alright... look at a Cézanne still life...
(i call it instilled life) - now... can you imagine any
artist attempting to depict a modern culinary
experiment? can you, imagine a heston blumenthal
on a canvas in oil or watercolour?
      no, because you can't!
                                  the china or porcelain is the canvas
and there you have: a painting.
             this is a culinary rebellion against modern
art... the chefs decided to work from scratch,
or what you might call: working from Cézanne,
just because we returned to the Lascaux caves
  with huge open space art galleries and a toothpick
   that is cited: abstract of a pine...
                           and it takes 20 cubic metres to
be admired...                     (ever tried nagging?
  it's a steam-release, or like watching an entertaining
homosexual, same ****, different cover);
    and if you have a thumb's worth of a litre bottle
of whiskey? well... hail west!
             no sane artist would re-apply the modem of still
life into depicting modern cuisine...
  i know, i know... some dynamism went into
             turning a pear into a poached pear...
the hand of god...          but that transfiguration cannot
escape the stillness... it's not moving...
                 it's prefiguring a diner (not a place, a pundit
in a restaurant) doing a minor Pavlov experiment
when the plate is before him... at this point,
unless he's not a starving refugee, i think appetite is abstract.
          you know what was in the background
while i was writing this? ambiance...
  feng shui... refrigerator ambivalence...
     in a world when a chinese cobbler gets paid 2 squid
a day... and a poet in england gets paid zilch or close to
10 quid in a decade.
Third Eye Candy Jul 2014
your cell phone vibrates like a pixie on a train.
smooth as a glass baby's
loose Blue Tooth
in Vaseline
you were miles away from my empty pail of rain
a watermark on the moon, maybe
you knew every
thing ?
maybe you do, maybe i'm drinking my lunch.
you amuse the air i breathe through my skin
like a pearl soothes an oyster
in a bed of nails
and spring.

your ******* are amazing.

you are vishnu at harrods. an airy gorgeous.
a gourd of palpable kiss.
you are the meaning of senseless joy
and the engines
of yes.
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
We went to the Vatican Palace
The Persona Grata feeling
Royal but not so loyal
Why did they serve
"Pina Coladas"
((That Good Eats)) Alton Brown
Please join us
A plus money greens
Whoa!!! $$$ Alice tea-light dresses
and gowns

Why does this good earth
only have lettuce

Alice got malice only VIP Lettuce_**
Only for me very fancy Bell a-me
Feed the solivagant lonely lettuce
Roll out the mice

The safest place to be for Alice
Love more worry less
So high tea bad batch of lettuce
no man no God
Gets my land and treehouse
That Prima Donna's their names
Are not anything close to Alice
The children Baby Bella greens
Those vendettas of Vamps
Lady  and the *****'s Disney
tea-light
The ****** British teas fight
The Kings speech host
The headline (News Alice Nowhere)
To post
_
  Only Lettuce hear me!
The college sophomores I pad
so poshly followed
Alice felt like Giant Pea Pod with
her plants

He galavants he hit the jackpot ((Greenhouse))
Her spouse has the rabbit foot
the Jolly big dollhouse boot
shape Sicily
That stuffy girly cabbage
Hollywood Alice look a likes
The garage sale if only only
?
Came with two brains there
better than one
Doing the airplane the girl
Alice so highly Jaded spoon
She went to (Dallas) cute
teacup pups
They shredded important
papers instead
of shredding
her lettuce
The stewardess marked malice on
her dress the mess
She got arrested by the Police
The plain Jane looking, Alice,
The only Bow do the Grace
The Palace aurora borealis,
Her four-leaf clover Venus
(Green Planet Day)
Ahh I need your love girl
Guess you know its green
Eight days a week so mean
But she goes three days a week
for dialysis

Alice got laryngitis
The others team of brothers
Other Mothers and
lady Mary Alice
in her own wonderland

Premeditation green
between meditation
She saw something eat me
Aforethought
The picnic so vindictiveness
She saw the rabbit hole
Alice expression mark mole

New Alice face Holyland
she missed her crownland
Another trip to Rio De Janeiro  
Surrender to the (Scottish kilts)
Face close near a computer and
her crazy cat on her Lapland
She finally ate the salad 
 the green ticket Oliver tea bags pocket
Drop to you shop at ((Londons Harrods))
funds
Alice in the wonderland friends
The Gods Shamrock pudding silly
Aforethought if only_ this wonderland
Off with the Queens Brass head froze chilly
Malevolent  so malice
She came back with a flying
colors no more greens she wished
if only__
only
My Rainbow how it always seemed
This is a fantasy land very far from the real Alice in Wonderland it has a cute style I hope you enjoy this divine tea party of a treat
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
i hate technology, its automated typo system, i write one thing and then it starts playing hide & seek with me... i rarely make mistakes, but this a.i. automated typo system makes me look stupid, or neurotic in the least, i hate this automatic typo signification as if i am teaching someone!*

i love that drinking wins over writing sometimes,
like this strange neo-left asking me to top it all off
with my communist grandfather living under stalin
completely in agreement with them girlies weeping
when he stank the dog off the grave in terms of bio-tech
completion; he wouldn't be dear to the left epitaph,
he'd be like voltaire & the priest: given the devil
in the sickbed there was not time to choose enemies...
he'd be branded a ****... worded... the worst kind...
a pseudo pacifist of some sort... couple economy
and atheism and you get a darwinian exclusion
where the ants aren't oblivious to lions but exclude them
for their species so well organised, god can take
the hangover route and make the "self" less sellable;...
(economy of a species and darwinism
demands communism - exclusive economisation;
not inclusive economisation...
that's some sort of theological branch
of personification where man minds spider above
another man, etc.)...
there's no self included, esp. a (")self(") worth selling...
which means exactly that (the opposite of now)...
NO TOURISM INTO THE REALM
OF CELEBRITY LITERATURE...
WHICH IS ONLY BIOGRAPHIES....
GET YER **** OUT GIRLS!
YOU'LL WRITE A BOOK SOMETIME!
god this culture is barren, and to think i dressed up
in uniform for school listening to jethro tull once...
this ain't the same country...
it sold out to the arabs... charles iii
is a ******* traitor!
traitor!
charless the iii is john ii... character assasination
you like you did with diana...
diana's revenge... yeah i believe you
were wearing silk straps of safety and the
driver survived and the parapazzi blinded the driver:
one thing about jealousy... it has dwarf legs.
they pass into the political realm they do....
easier come easier to take on in politics...
economic migrants (we'll see about that,
your philanthrophy just took to faking flight
via an invisible magic carpet flapping its trims)...
i told you once that democracy is like inverse voyeurism...
mark the x on paper, ***** an ****** into jugs for
pale ale... excess carbonation... it turns all fizzy...
the geese marched into winter...
the swans marched right into a royal edict...
the neo carta was never crafted...
but i got the hang of the diacritic marks...
i was walking drinking a belgian cider...
C DER.... in belgian french there's an accent,
stress the c, makes the vowel missing...
cídre - not really acute i, but an acute c...
c         dr. dre, i.e. dre, c dre...
it's the acute stressor of c that makes the vowel
disappear... not that a vowel can actually
become acute... vowels like women wear
mascarra to look pretty, the consonants are
serviced for a complexity... via hebrew original...
c                        dre
not
               si                        ahem...               dre.
in passes on the pompom for expected pomp -
i can't believe it took a bottle of belgian cider
to get that across.
oh sure they can hang me... by the snout...
for i won't be able to march into a field of truffles...
but hey... big snout worthy... never mind
trying to wear leather shoes given the hannibal
treatment for tacky snakeshoe leather.
most say that difficult literature is literature unread...
there's no other difficulty in literature...
difficult literature is simply unread, that's why
it's difficult... simple literature trickles down as easy as water...
and that's why it's easily managed by what
the chinese done already, having no hollywood and
damning india's bollywood... their phoneticism
is lodged in ideograms... pictograms...
european phoneticism is lodged in a skin to number,
B akin to 8, e.g., we get rich owning ovens
televisisions and satellites... but we also own
watiers and cooks who are mechanised...
and have no richness of thought...
who cares if beijing is clouded in smog?
we have 15 more years of carbon emission to wait for
before our idealism is profitable!
ah but the arab girls will migrate to london every year
between may and august... i should be so lucky lucky
australian girl pop lucky with them shopping
in only one hot spot, a grieving egyptian's legoland
of tacky known as harrods!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
there are three rings know to man,
the ring of courting,
            the ring of matrimony,
and what the prince of egypt
said was: an abomination -
                 the flesh riddle ring of
fore                         toward the obelisk's
shadow -
     she is but a child by comparison:
re-attired: when samael gave
Adam Isaac's ******* to eat...
and even he, with her,
in her pseudo-niqab attire,
the heart-throb dajjal -
            he went out to buy napkins,
she went out to buy Houdini -
       at the end of it: mini-skirts didn't really
matter whether it remained a liberation ditto -
worn-torn in Armani -
                      the Qatar and Kuwait of
Saddam: kto daje i odbiera:
ten sie w piekle poniewiera -
or: szemra...
          there's the point:
the tarantula bite: to disorientate
etymology....
     capircious copernicus said to
Columbus:
            vest Indies...
yet a violin's worth of the jade resounded,
or what was worth the envy...
and i did stand in the centre of
Warsaw, and i felt having stood
in a non designated spot,
even though the traffic was a stream...
then someone started sprinkling
the drums and snares with salt...
until i heard a legion of ants
march without god, or any
telepathic origins from man shaved
to ape in shavings attired,
to the cyst pool of gene and
abandoned limbs in siamese windmill clap -
i say word: you cannot identify a sound!
i write down a word, i say:
rektor of Bonne university,
you quickly say: quick-sand in Zurich!
if the Koran was a blessing
to the Arabs... oil is their downfall...
they don't see their downfall, just yet,
but it will come unto them,
like the slav be the Orc...
look at the shadow of the Germanic
peoples... Charlemagne...
saying that, some Slovene will prune
me as being too: Miloševič -
then we slobber and tell ***** *******
jokes... ye'ha!
   post-colonial stress disorder...
me? moi paysan,
moi manger un gross déjeuner: Antoinette!
cake... coca coca cola... and all those panda
nicotine jokes... macabre:
   she was never ***** by a man who
still practised ******* tennis solo!
                 p'ooh cha cha.
me writing nonsense is a bit like you
tickling mosquito's ******* while wearing
boxing gloves.... Beethoven became double deaf
when the Pope asked him how to translate
the heavenly choir's: ambiguous ******
saints of Auschwitz - Mel Brooks?
         only Jews tell good slapstick?
lazy lazy Pollack... ah cranberry jazz...
   vermin... bloated Pakistanis in Rotherham...
i never understood liberal leftists....
           not since what happened since Ełk...
and the LYNCH MOB...
             or after Charlie... and the arm-in-arm
*******:
   you buy a kebab: you assimilate an arab....
it's called racism after the fact...
kristalltag...     grafitti hereoism...
                      then ****** is relative to
talking a labrador ****** a flamingo
asphyxiating on helium...
    alo alo Berlin née Nice - or an uncle's buttock
blaze in claiming a stirrup for Hollywood...
    matchstick choking... sulphur: airborne:
slightly salty.
           well... the media is one propaganda machine...
and indeed: america isn't defending democracy...
it's defending nationalism, patriotism, primarily.
democracy is abstract, it didn't exactly exist
in ancient greece... america is being fed-back
the cold war i narrative, the paranoid scewer
    ambiance of a dying refigerator...
                                 please: extract a cough
from the "word" bzzz... and Danish ambiance -
ice ice baby.
     well... um... d'uh: buzz.
hey amigo! Alfons is doing the fidgety with
consquistador maracas! we'll get onto
     Abram "Biño'' Conejohaß -
and that film, cited: doctor? doctor doctor.
               three rings...
                                         cut the male bit off
and become too dependent on the female remains...
                    vice versus...
       and when neither are cut off?
almost dinosaur time frame...
                                             shoving a carrot
up my *** feels as good as shoving e = mc squared up
there too: for the ultimatum cinema
                                         as:
res ex re.                    who ever said being conscious of
thought was not a ref. to ''god''?
being conscious of thought = not being conscious of
                                    intuition.
                                      if ever man's revision
proved to be contrary to his eternal life,
the 2nd one to come?
      me too... a bit tight... i'm sized xl and i
need a loss of the excess skin...
god almighty... is that a question of
the river of abortions, or that of *******?
                             being bound to a woman
with two rings is enough... but being bound to
a woman with a ring of flesh?
   no wonder you buy sushi from Harrods -
the Cairo of the north, shoe-box's worth
of tourism... and still the persistent blitzkrieg of
confetti...
                     the observsations of *******
bound are beyond niqab...
            talk about revisionism...
at least Dobbermanns with their slit ears
and snipped tails look quicker evolved
into chimeras than man will ever be when
strapped to a shed and whipped to bark...
          i call man's secular organisation
a shed...
and man's religious organisation?
     a bone.
                        8:55...        8:55...
cut the *****! we need to cut the *****!
we need to cut the ***** of those in power!
    we need to cut the *****!
just cut the *****! make them come the Niagara Falls!
we can train with cauliflower...
                   (citing klemen slakonja yako
                  slavomiri ziewzek)
          8:59....                              08:00.
Tell me this,
how nice is paradise
is everything free
or is it cut price
Is it Harrods or a Tesco?
That's what I'd like to know.

Do you sit do you sing
do you do anything
or do you just float in the air
are there many up there?

can you fall in love
or is it just him up above you adore
what do you wear?
I care to know.

One day I'll go and give it a shot
will you forget me not?
in the gardens of Eden we'll meet
parting is not sweet
just bitter.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
it was 1994 - the offspring just did their most infectious
drum beat with gotta get away from their album
smash; years later their most infectious
riff off americana with pay the man,
they set up a charity foundation
with the quote: any hacker who downloads
our entire album gets $1 million -
true story, heard it when i heard it -
but this thing about imitating a fox's
mating calls, Keith Lemon would know
via his sketch show - wazza wazza poo p?
listen, when the offspring's smash came
out i was 8... introduced to them via
my uncle... when **** took off for them
the dreadlocks were sheered, Kerrang!
inspected the case and they were playing
arenas rather than the Brixton Academy...
so the laughter... well, you gotta laugh...
a saturday the times magazine flow:
pages 6 - 7 the sheikhs of instagram,
Lamborghinis (bikinis?) gold plated parked
with a £350 fine by Harrods, the cheap
shop for the rich - the £1 store for the rich...
Knightsbridge - call it what you like with
capitalism's Hajj of eager bargain hunters on
boxing day - shtampede! indeed, a stampede...
then on pages 8 - 9 'i knew i needed a chemical
crutch. get back on the antidepressants. be realistic.
feel no shame.' she fell off her love machine
like Catherine the Great in a bed with one
to seize the craving of the appetite - horses,
wheelchair, you get the picture, ask the Übermensch
christopher reeve -
then the crescendo - pages 10 - 11
would you re mortgage your house to save your
fur baby?
- yep, arabs as decadent as the westerners
with the poor wheelchair bound woman in between
them - the vets doing brain surgery, MRI scans,
kidney transplants on dogs, cats...
i've actually never felt happier to be alive
given how the world looks right now,
and let me tell you, if Muhammad came back...
ha ha... he would do the same as all these jihadi
peasants are doing to europeans, he'd slit their (the sheikhs')
throats... at the same time wishing islam was kept
in a tight circle, passing the baton of observation to
Ali - the patron "saint" of Iran -
rather than enshrining it in the caliphates
for widespread scheme of conversion ranging
onto the borders with Catalonia -
how early the schism then! how early the schism!
the genius of the egg: yoke and white -
for years the Vatican the yoke and Canterbury and York
and Cologne (etc.) the white.
DIYA May 2019
(1)                 Peter Holcusker was not a sinner          
                    tanned and dried like a prune
                    eyes wandering, glinting the petty change in his pocket
                    cobblestone bruised knees and half-eaten bagels
                    denim overalls, probably stolen
                    the land was impolite
                    it's inhabitants no less
                    "who could love a *****", they hushed
                    aren't they the children of filth and ****
                    they steal and they stare
                    the grumbling of their belly is it not an excuse enough


(2)                 I've heard he lives in a barn
                    near lake Marshdon
                    he keeps to himself
                    a sly and sneaky little chap, he is  
                    he is no guileless soul
                    we all know his truth
                    he needn't say much
                    Peter Holcusker is the worst of us
                    vices know him well
                    he hides the devil in his trenchcoat pocket


(3)               now you ask
                   why has Peter not spoken up for himself?
                   gossip and tattle envelop him
                   yet he like all of us has fallen prey to it
                   why don't we forget
                   all our past- doings  
                   like the town-people have forgotten his goodness
                   everything Peter did with them
                   they have labeled him, caged him in a flurry of words
                   they cut his tongue and spoke for him
                   oh Peter, how did it come to this!


(4)                I saw him begging on Downbury lane
                   his beret was from Harrods
                   who in their right mind would  give money or pity
                   to a prince-like pauper
                   Mrs. Zeta  saw him in the pharmacy
                   "He must have stolen all those medicines", she hollered
                   "Disease  is an apt punishment  for people like these
                    these villains must live in constant  misery
                   ; that's all these slimy miscreants  deserve "
                  

(5)               The goldsmith and carpenter, radical believers
                    of the notion of heaven and hell
                    look at Peter as if he is already living in the fiery pits of
                    shame
                   but they do not pray for him, looking all polished in
                    their Sunday suits
                   the army of hypocrites walking in unison to  church
                   singing baseless hymns in great fervor
                   they leave religion an all its virtues in the bible at the
                   pew
                   then gossip away to glory eating pudding  after service
                   mostly about the widowed or Holcusker


(6)            all the gossip-mongers huddle
                their spiteful remarks like invisible daggers aimed at their
                 latest victim
                their words pierced  poor Holcusker's ear
                 echoes of opinions and beliefs
                hound his mind, for who knows how long
                oh look, God, at Peter drowning in a sea of helplessness
                how often he sits, whiskey in hand
                looking for ways to sway his mind
                away from his unsaid murderers
                


(7)            "Peter, are you as bad as they claim
                tell me you're not the anti-christ, they say you are"
                he does not wish to say who he is, or not
                but he knows for a fact that 5 years ago
                he was just like these hearsayers
               looking down on the so-called plebeians  
               salivating at stories about them and gulping them just the
               same
               circumstances and karma are powerful beings in this
                universe
               He regrets ever saying anything, for the postion, he is now
               in


(8)           Holcusker was a farmer, living happily with his
                sweetheart
                he had three precious cherubs, whom he cherished deeply
                he too went to church every Sunday
               with Mrs. Zeta, the goldsmith, and carpenter
               eating chocolate truffle after service, mocking the poor
               widowed Carrie,
               now a harlot, trying to make a living for her children
               his words were sharp and ruthless
              and now he is at a loss for them
              the great misfortune took everything away from him
              "Oh, Peter tell me what did you do so ?"



(9)           tears stained his eyes, he wept and wept and wept
                he cursed the past and its unruly effect on the future
                "oh dear, o dear  I did what I had to
                I did what I thought was right in the heat of the moment
                but I can assure my heart guided my unlawful actions
                even the psychic could not predict my dreary winter  
               the opinions I kept ever so freely, were now aimed at me
               I was the runt of the town, the fool, the disgrace
               now stories and rumors are synonymous with my name
               yet no one has come up to me to ask me the reality of the
                situation
               why would they I don't blame them
               for, I wouldn't have done it either "



(10)         now Peter Holcusker lives alone
                he carries the burden of his past mistakes with him
                he is  prey to mockery and stares
                the source of all gossip and rumors  
                but I ask you, witness to the story
                Is is right, in all its entirety
                to reduce the dynamic **** - sapien
                subject to change and circumstances
                to a mere static picture of that one thing
                he once did,?
                I leave it to you the same species to answer this lingering
                 question
                are villains always villains?
                who's to say who did what?
                and can we for once break free from the atmosphere of
                suffocating hearsay
               and see things for ourselves
                I ask this humbly, the rest my dear is up to you
Robin Carretti May 2018
All-Ziggy in--- one
He's the dockers
Let's zoom in clickers- - -
The computer meets
Mr. hackers
Deleted all my cookie's
All we need is love and crackers
Am I bookedslightly jammed jar?
Just like Romeo huh? love-scarred?
So hurried ((Agatha Christie))

Overwhelmed worded
Overboard been thrown
Inside her mystery
drunks of the
Dynasty

Lippy all snappy
G-Q this isn't a
book quiz

I Quit Hippety-Dippetty
Hungry Hippos
Hop(scotch) drinkers
Queen hoarder of junk
ZZZZ Tiara with *****

Zillions got jealous
Charlie of the sea
tuna fish clunky
Where is the Pasta
So Sticky (Seashells),
Bowie bow-ties Z
Ziti
Man of La Mancha
Like a muzzle puzzle
Mr. Mancini
Ronzoni
Meet musical genius
Bowie
**

((Ziggy Stardust Wish)

Ziggy zero 000-000

The zoo-keeper Mr. Bentley
So zealous fast food
jealous and devious
Mistress of the
Agatha got tedious
Jean Jeanie magician

Music notes and
  Stripey stars Bass
Her speakeasy pass

((Breakfast at Tiffany)).....**
The Auditor of the
Audry Zig Zag
Putting on the ritz
Hip Hop Hepburn
Zigziggary
book narrowminded
Zachery? Broad-sworded
Ziggy Star Dust
David Bowie talent to trust
The ground
control
___
**
to Major Tummy Zonky
And Slinky got stepped on
Over her ring pinky

Zionist Benny and the Jets
Elton John pianist hits

Zoonotic Gin and tonic
zigzag Zebra
style purse
Where are her show
Polish up my poodles
The restaurant was cursed
Zagat rating
leash she went out
*
hypnotic ZZzzzz's
Queen buZzzzz Twiggy
Fame whose to
blame
Zoe her macaroni
Twist and snout Grill

Cherry blossom
Shiba Uni
Was her best thrill
his zig-zag tongue
Ziggy playing rugby
She was stretched

((Ziggy Book like Gumby))

Zonked spaced out
the Zonka truck
Phantom
Theatre Dig her Dorothy
red slippers

Ziggy Stardust
Disney Pixar Flippers
Totally Rad Toto
Zoe met Joey GoGo
Felt like Chop Suey
Agatha high drama
African Queen Jungle
Dr. Suess bald eagle boss
No ******* to twinkle
The bad day of
tendinitis
The ringing cheering ear

Martha my dear
Never beat Beatles
Jim Carey hell of a
sleigh rideTinnitus

At the Marilyn
Millionaire bar-hop
bus stop wiggles
Some snags fishnets
  Trump it up
everyone shut up_$$$
The *******
_

Zillion Price tags
on the plane
The Easter basket
Just Sunny she's over easy
eggs ramble

Ziggy Scandals
Odd-couple Oscar
Trumpets Tony Randal
Zip of the lip
Miss fuss ***
She needs her
diapers

Beach Boys Truffles
Sherry baby got poison
mushrooms
The bed end
__
(All Z) initial bookmarker
The end of her sleepwear
Her backpack bad crow
eye pack
and zigzagged---///---
Ozzy Oz land
Arrowsmith dead-on
nailed it, witch
A to Zzzz's H Harrods
Her London's hair
The rock (Fritz) That's
Showeyyy biz
Cleopatra
He's the Mantra zestier
Zoological Mixed greens
Ziggy zig-zag salad

All wormy Planet
Humming and rhyming
Wiggly but not ugly
_>>>
here's to all of
you Ziggy Huggy
Ziggy Stardust Bowie is the genius I saw him in concert but this is about a funny side to comedy Robins flight stay awake because of the ZZzzzz are coming
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i found that only the mono-phonetic peoples of this earth act like neanderthals did: protectively... implying i had a chance with one of their ****** counterparts... the loss of monotheism in a largely diffused area creates them, they're prone to shouting drunk slogans when watching a football march: with no foreign invasion impeding... to say the basics: that they can't intellectualise drinking is their downfall... drinking is shamanic like eating certain mushroom is: drink is liquidated fungus, it's an implication of all things thriving on the degenerative, to thrive on decomposition... even those championing the psychedelic escape route with the fungus can't see for a miles' worth of **** the potential of liquidating mushrooms / wheat and bottling it... i never expected to say profound things... and even if i did, i wouldn't get a ***** from saying them as those quasis who say profound things and leave me limp-dicked anyway.

a bottle of beer in between glugs of whiskey as they are:
the most refreshing and happy: sunshine down
my throat... and with those words unsaid
but typed: how i too can adopt a sarcasm
for all the woes that un-inebriated
people state, middle-aged and sexually frustrated
from socially-invoked inhibitors concerning image...
sarcasm is all they get back...
it's kinda sad... kinda...
all i'm doing in writing this verse
is an attempt to re-enter the haunting
house of the epic i started
writing two days ago...
    on the principle of ensō i find myself
unable to reenter than narrative,
every time i think about doing so
i think of: inauthentic...
                and it would be,
authenticity and the equivalent of
said once, therefore said properly...
but i wish to: only to erased the (pending)
in the title...
   but then i look at the script and think:
i've moved past this...
    why would i want to turn a river
of yore, into a lake of the now?
then unto man, who unable to coerce the elements
sought a fifth for elemental as too sensory
encapsulation and boundary,
   lightning being the fifth element...
candles v. light-bulbs, right?
       for too long the tetra-said-and-tetra-experienced...
or toward encapsulating man in
     water (creativity)
       and within wind (empty talk)
          as with earth (proverbs)
so too with fire (rhetoric)
                    so too with lightning (genius),
how i wish to have been able to write those
belittling notes down in industrial print
away from what would be considered
mindless sketching: that is why industrialisation
of print has created a medium of uniformity,
but also the Picasso's worth of hand-craftship
in what appeared at Belshazzar's feast in
the invention of late, western origination of graffiti:
******* rebel. can anyone else imagine
saying something like that, instead of asking
us why the flu or the tapeworm exists?
       the re-, the one true unfathomable monstrosity
apart from the logic of moving from point A to
point B... the re-, the one true unfathomable
monstrosity that burdens us all: who are rested...
the repetitive dream when we are instilled into
lying back and unconscious...
   for the blinking of the eye: and what is sight...
     for the first oyster gulped wriggling down
our oesophagus, alive,
    to the second and third, on a date with a lovely
   at Harrods... for all that re- is, without the -s,
it can only be a thing...                        as
thus said: that ancient curse of the vampiric
insatiable thirst to continue: under whatever circumstance,
repeat, replicate... oh the woe of the re-
                         as to be endured, heard, seen, felt, tasted...
with the demagogue all suicides rebel against:
master pro, master pro,
         who ***** his re *****, who ***** his re *****
in all of us: as transcendental genetics might not teach
us... bound to only escape such a formula,
staging ourselves within the groundwork of
the pre formulae; or how i can understand true will,
or the existence of will, as only a suicide might
investigate: to take death into his ***** and say:
for what will continue in me is but mere an apathy
of submission, but if i take death to the dancefloor,
i will truly find death's master: for in old age i will
not find wisdom, but merely the plagiarism of
childhood with less haste: to chase, to hide, to speak...
i find old age as not blessing with that childhood
already was... let me take death to the dancefloor,
on the seabed, in the hands of a hurricane,
         in the sunken sockets of gravity...
       please, here, in the crescendo of what i feel,
rather than in a congregation of mourners who
weep only in the thespian courtesy for others.
suicide? that is what i understand as true will -
              man, bacterium infernum: lost within
a blinking of an eye - within which all fates of things
freeze, undisturbed, as if alive and relentlessly blooming,
for within them an untrodden path and
within them a hand that never endured tilling as
a scythe... of that Edenic hope: to live among
the less mechanised things and in turn be a lessened
replica of that mecha-...           should this be seen
as an encouragement? too long has the asylum been
romanticised...
                    few have ventured to romanticise
the eventuality of Camus' culmination...
of what had to become the *sole
question...
          hence the taboos... people demand to think
that certain cognitive states are akin to viral infections...
   as if all those bound to the unexplained are
pulverising leprosy to the general public...
   a common trait, among neanderthals.
Megan Sherman Jul 2018
I love the hunted not the hunt.
Pursued, they want to hold your warm heart,
My trophy, gold-gleaming and thunders with love,
Proceeding from your great soul's core.
More beautiful than a rainbow.

Maybe you consider yourself a messenger,
Megaphone for the wisdom oppressed.
Fifty years now you have, wide-eyed,
Rendered the world with beauty,
And Proustian sensual bliss.

Pacing little alleys with just my passport and mauve dress
I crawl towards the dead-end, its van
And its suited men; they point and laugh.
To save myself I turn back, run;
A car swerves in, fast as a gun.

An obsidian dread engulfs my heart,
Running faster, ever fast
Underneath the emerald green parasols of Harrods.
I am the hunted now, they want my heart
Too. For being one who is kin to you.

Anarchy on the streets, I scream!
And then as if on the zephyr of a dream
You, abrupt, enter my sight,
Drifting through the pacing crowd
And I turn back, to distract the police.

Counting the beats of my thundering heart
I, coy, catch glances. You glance back.
Seeing you return, your back, head to the ground, the lady officer swivels,
Sees you! Fills my heart with dread.
I do not flinch: the questions resume.
A true story
John Bartholomew Jul 2018
I am a man living in a house made of boxes
some are posh, others are bedraggled, anything to keep away those **** foxes
I started with a base build, long and robust, its where I have my open window above
only a square mind, it couldn’t be too big although it’s what I’d really love

No corridors or an upstairs en-suite
no no no, not in this hovel, now that really would have been a treat
The big names placed accordingly out there on the front entrance
Amazon to Harrods, Waitrose to Marks, leftover Poundland to build my fence

The roof a leftover roll of industrial cellophane wrap
my outdoor toilet just by the tree, a forest en-suite but no basin or tap
cooking can be a pain as a fire really could spread
a front room so small I eat my dinner from my bed

Now don’t let people tell you you're just some smelly old ***** as you are not
it's just a wrong decision I made in life, now this is how I survive and to camp
the boxes build a structure of life that is not always sturdy and stable
but if that’s how my life went, now I’m just bottom of some table

For this is my home
my refuge
my rest
my result

Remember, we all live a different life, just be grateful for what you have

The Box House

JJB
The home is the chief school of human virtues - William Ellery Channing

There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort - Jane Austen

My home is in Heaven. I'm just travelling through this world - Billy Graham
Lewis Miller Apr 2016
My legs burn, my teeth bite into chain-steel,
The lever of a radius - my wheel.
I am attached on many levels to allow
Acceleration and braking, only through pedals.

Life seems a fiery time-lapse of lights
As I feel evolved - my air is spiked.
The rush of risk, driving me to live, move.
Distilled liquor of Man's ingenuity propels me.

Tube, link, cog, chain, lock-ring, cork, alloy.
A bicycle Cossack charging the marauder, lines of
Barbarians keeping their metal defences high.
Red is blood. Green is grass. All new symbology lost.

I flow like water, mind at once empty
And full of flashing, raw animal intensity -
Sixth sense turned up to eleven
A roadblock turns and steps, I see it in slow-mo.

Harrods Hamleys tourist, an alien unprepared
I predict, see, smell and react - thinking for them, too.
Before I am ever registered, a shadow: I am gone
Trickled away through gnarled city fingers.

My strides geared by a loved machine
Into motion at once manic and serene.
Gritty, visceral yet wrapped in velvet cloth
Beauty, tradition, belonging and souplesse.

I am a working rider on a crest of euphoria.
A day-full of rain slides easily off my skin,
As limited others forget how waterproof they are
And deny gifts of movement and life. And riding.
Written while I was a bike messenger in London
My British husband and I were visiting his folks in London on 9/11/01.  It was afternoon and we were in St Pancras tube station when I caught the tail end of a news crawl moving across the wall. I said “ mmm…looks like there’s been a plane crash somewhere", and we went on about our shopping excursion.

After choosing a model car in a toy shop a little later, we went to pay and the young clerk I spoke to said “Did you hear about the planes that hit the skyscrapers and made them fall down?”  That didn’t make any sense, and I wasn't sure I understood his East End accent so I just said, “No we didn’t - guess we should check the news” and we walked out.  As we went out, I said, “I guess another little plane hit the Empire state Building, but it certainly wouldn’t fall down.”  

However, on the tube on the way home, we overheard bits of conversation that frightened us, so we rushed in and turned on the TV, where they replayed every terrible scene over and over for the rest of the day.

We were glued to the Telly for the next 3 days for round-the-clock coverage.

When we finally ventured out and anyone heard my American accent, I was immediately hugged and told how sorry they were to see this happen.  This continued for the following three weeks of our stay.  Never anything but sympathy and kindness towards me and America. I’ll never forget it.

I wonder if we were so caring when Irish terrorists previously bombed Harrods.  I somehow doubt it.  The other thing I will never forget is the burning hatred that welled up in me for Sadam Hussein who was named at the time as being responsible. I had never before or since felt such virulent loathing for any one or anything.  When those thoughts threaten to resurface today, I shush them away by recalling the overwhelming kindness of the ordinary English folk towards me.  I will never forget that.

I saw Ground Zero shortly afterwards, and the hatred resurfaced, as  it does in some measure on every September 11. On those times I again turn to my memories of British kindness.
                                                                              ljm
Everyone has a 9/11 story to tell.  This is mine and every word is true.
A do it yourself lobotomy
if only
to get this song out from me
but
they don't sell them
in Harrods
do they?

so
down to the funny farm
tell them
I self harm
get some medication to
get rid of this musical
situation
but
it's vinyl and I'm told
that
that's final and not only
that
it's a long player too.

back to
do it yourself
a trip to MFI
to
buy a
kit off the shelf
and hope for the best.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
this has to be easiest thought experiment
ever conceived, and thereby
experienced,
   all it takes, is?
    keep the drum beat of the song flight
by the band wooden shjips...
   point being? the drum beat is so monotonous
but at the same time: drone-hypnotic,
that after reading something in
a sunday newspaper (news review,
best part of legacy, legacy? they call it
legacy media these days?),
   and after a glass or two of kalimotxo...
sunglasses on, headphones on,
eyes closed...
     and catch yourself with the cognitive
lightning strike...
   it's not exactly a lightbulb moment,
    it's not something genius that might require
a patent...
    it comes in the form of losing rhythm...
your tapping (air drumming) produces
a glitch... seriously, if you can't
keep the rhythm of a song like flight?
well, that's when you experience a thought,
or at least a prologue to a thought,
not exactly a narrative, but a "cognitive hesitation",
sorry for the inverted commas on that
description, since it really is a hesitation
on many levels...
   but it's only revealed by the therapeutics
of drumming along to a beat...
   air guitar is plain silly...
i'm surprised that the japanese didn't conjure
it up as a p.s. to karaoke;
   luckily enough this sort of therapeutics
comes from africa, after all,
       africa is the mother of the drum,
as europe is mother to the woodwind...
asia the mother of the string(s)...
    and the rest i can't remember,
so i'll just call antarctica the mother of penguins.
true though, i'm not even playing truant
with regards to this observation,
just experienced it myself...
   every time you stop being synchronised
with wooden shjips' song flight,
you experience a "cognitive hesitation",
a spark, a prologue to what could have been
a string of necessary narration...
only being out of synch. with a beat,
while actually tapping your foot with your
hands, can reveal these "intrusions"
  of the ego... i won't bother with jean-paul
sartre's deviation into that unit clothed
with " "  either... might as well resort to
the spanish wheelchair enclosure: ¿ego?
hardly a sham, but i'm pretty much sure
it was me who noticed this titbit:
  hey, kant invented the dichotomy of
thesis contra antithesis (who ever tells
you it was hegel is a communists squat) -
   there's the classical cartesian res cogitans -
here's my antithesis canvas of the res vanus:
empty like a ******* oyster shell,
       after being served in harrods;
mind you... you really need one or two
kalimotxos to get to flex that monotonous beat
and then glitch it, when the ultimate
     distraction comes along, and catch it...
what? you think this ultimate distraction
will suddenly descend from on high,
   with either a bible, a quran or...
                 tolstoy's war & peace?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
really? the 502 bad gateway pass is this, this low?
title: itchy
body: fun bit(s).... well no wonder H'america
is becoming a... *******!


for once in my life: i don't feel like writing,
mein gott: it has been for almost forever since
i felt like this...
i know that i can't love like a teenage boy,
i know that i can't love like a older boy in his
20s... for a while now i've been surprised
when women in the supermarket or in the street
tell their children: mind the man... the MAN...
wow... well... isn't that a shocker...
i'm a man all of a sudden... "all of a sudden"...
all it took was fitting the proper frame
and growing a beard: it would seem...
i remember this one Egyptian fwend in high-school
boasting that he had ****** hair at the age of
16 while i had ***-fluff...
he would scrape his stubble against a piece
of paper with what i supposed to be a hard-on
he'd later have to relieve in the bathroom
when one girl would lift up her skirt and expose
a little bit too much thigh...
then again... he also boasted about getting wet
dreams... don't know... i was ******* from
the age of 8...
but i seriously don't feel it in me to write...
i just want to talk to Jemma...
for once, in a long while... today's the 10th...
the 14th of February...
i'm actually thinking about dropping her a Valentine's
card... and... no... no roses...
i was thinking of yellow tulips,
then i looked into the whole affair... a potted plant...
bit like looking into the "logic" astrology...
or the zodiac... what's the meaning of
giving someone an orchid?
   ****... there are different meanings behind
what colour the orchid is?
white... no... yellow, no... red... now...
    blue... a blue orchid... left in the middle
of the night merging the 13th with the 14th of
February, so she wakes up and leaves the house
and... hey presto! there's an orchid outside
of her front door...
as much as i boast of having a heart of stone...
i'm ******* mush...
yeah... she's a single mum... she has a psychotic
disorder... she apparently beat her previous
             paartner... circa 20 years her junior...
so she's a mad, cougar...
but she's one of those dark ginger types...
petite...
             and when it comes to love... beggars can't
be choosers...
**** me... the butterflies are back...
just merely thinking about her...
i was supposed to meet her today... we rescheduled
for tomorrow... i'm so eager to give her
a bottle of my homemade wine...
and a self-baked banana loaf with walnuts...
i messaged her today: well i have this backlog of
washing to do...
i need to change the bed-sheets too...
it has been 3 weeks and i feel like i'm ***** when
i get up in the morning...
     for the thirst... sorry... for the first time in my life
i don't really feel like going
to the brothel...
around her i'm as silent as a grave, although still
retaining a casual conversation authority...
i'm working for this security company now
and... the girls are at it...
all of them are jealous of her...
****'s sake... like high school all over again...
since i started dating the tallest and the most popular
girl in school... i can't even begin to imagine
what the back-stabbing was like back then...
she's a mad cougar ***** with a 11 year boy in tow...
what am i doing?
what anyone infatuated does: beggars can't be
choosers... it's ******* silly but my entire
abdomen is screaming while cramped up
with those ******* butterflies: yes! yes! yes!
i'm getting paranoid with her since i don't know
what my position in the company is going to look
like... after the fact that she tried to get me fired
for insinuating that i might be drunk
on the job... well i do drink... but on the job
i'm all 20:20 vision hawk-eyed...
                  merely associating with her could land
me in deep water...
but i can't stop being loved up...
only a few days ago i asked to be paired up with her
doing a shift: Fulham vs. Millwall...
it was a treat... Millwall fans? rowdy lads... sure...
i don't know how they were in the stadium
while watching the match... but outside?
perfectly sensible creatures...
     one... who attained grandfather-hood on
the day said to me: oi oi! Adolf ******* ******...
you're not walking, you're marching...
what's with you and your hands behind your back?!
well... because i do march...
best to give off a sense of authority and look
intimidating than look sheepish and get into
scruffy ******* over minor things with football fans...
plus i was with a girl...
so... even she started to worry at some point...
when a bunch of them were leaving the stadium
and chanting... 'you're alright?'...
sure... why do you ask?
'oh, i was worried, because there were 20 of them
and only 1 of you, i know they wouldn't
do anything to me...'
sure... maybe i should be out looking for
some pretty 19 year old... childless...
        but i'm thinking...
                      she's 4 years my senior...
i die at the age of 79... i'll give her at least the 4 years
down the line to follow me...
plus there's the colt to think about...
how could i pass on shrapnel pieces of my consciousness
onto him...
how i managed to force myself as little as much
i don't know...
i'm already moving the conversation in the direction
of psychology: which she expressed an interest in -
i've taken a picture of the time
i wanted to bring round a mango chicken curry
for her and her son, with stone-baked flat breads...
oh well: read the caption as i gulped the curry down...
a picture of a friendship i have with my cat...
my foot showing with him sitting on the windowsill,
a picture of my books... stacked on shelves
from the floor to the ceiling, telling her:
the Romford public library only surprised me
with a copy of Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus...
- of course she doesn't know she has met like for like...
obviously i haven't told her about my psychotic
breakdown when i was 21...
i mean, how do you say: and i went into a church
back in 2007... heard a choir singing hauntingly...
but no one was there, then i heard a great wind
disperse it?!
10 years down the line and i still haven't
recovered from the shock... that's why my 20s
are sort of... "missing"...
"lost" to philosophy books, to books on the topic
of psychiatry and being a recluse in general...
only come the age of 35 i rebounded finding
some hidden past of me...
being a people's person, extroverted to the best
of my ability... as a man...
- but my god, the girls have stagnated...
all this stereotypical talk about how girls are mature
than boys and that they mature much earlier...
BULL... ****...
utter and complete: *******...
no they don't, they just get worse!
they're ******* in that respect...
   maybe, just maybe... when they reach the age
of being considered grandmas... but even
then: i don't believe it...
they're backstabbing bickering *******!
   they all think they're in a ******* harem or something...
hey! Solomon! which one you're having
tonight?!
you know what i mean? which of the 1001 are going
to do lesbian **** flicks and use the *****
why the queen of Sheba gets your warm pulsating
**** up her oyster *****?!
i can't believe it... it's a ******* headache...
i didn't see / hear so much of this female-on-female
action in high-school... lucky me:
i was a chubby kid up to the age of 16
but then i lost a lot of weight and grew my hair long
and put it in a French braid from time to time
and still ignored the girls: until the most popular
one approached me...
what did i miss? oh... not much...
now, come to think of it: i'd wish i was a recluse
one more... seeing how female politics works...
i don't want to see it... prized ******* bull...
well yeah: "lucky me"... being a Taurus and all...
the single mums just: LINING UP to have a go...
cut my testicles off and call me Cindy
for all i care... since... these girls are past
their reproductive prime...
i'm not risking impregnating them to later
have to deal with a child with birth defects...
there's enough misery in this world for me to *******
add to it...
- what did i do today? the washing... changed the bed
sheets... drank a little... no wonder i'm feeling groovy...
and... watched: the Rise of the Planet of the Apes...
whether it's a remake or not... whatever...
the story of Caesar...
when he says: NO! and stops using sign language...
i ate an apple and a whole packet of grapes
while thinking about: the lost benefits of
being an ape, of having ape strength...
seems rather pointless...
after all... King Kong could beat the living **** out
of Godzilla...
eh? why did we evolve?
to make music? bird songs not enough?
     pay taxes?
            build roads in order to pointlessly commute
to pointless jobs?
well... security... crowd control...
i admit... you don't need a high score IQ...
to do... you just need to be able to read a crowd...
i call it "work" but after doing roofing...
after studying chemistry... it's work it's loitering it's
"work"... period...
if being polite and telling people good afternoon,
good evening have a safe journey home is work...
then i could be a porter at ******* Harrods...
sure... there are some gems in this profession...
skin-heads that giggle and shine like Down Syndrome
   constellations when seeing violence...
but then there's me...
ooh... juicy... i can use that: to write about it...
i don't mind crowd control...
i don't even mind the hooligans...
i am yet to receive ill treatment for being a...
the Millwall fans... what did they say?
traffic-cone... being a... ditto...
- that shift we done though.... finally! a girl that
likes rummaging with dates in
graveyards... she might be mad...
but like i told her, a quote from Charles Bukovski...
'some people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...'
it was like a first date, i bought her coffee...
she got an extra free burger...
we sat on the bench... the moon was nigh...
a pristine night...
           i hope i can pull this off for as long as i can:
not revelling in my life-story...
but i already know that one of our coworkers
is an alcoholic - self-professed,
another self-harms: because she's a ****
and men look at her and think she's a man
while she sits in the car and fakes off
having a cold while in actual fact she's sad as hell
for being treated like a man and not a woman...
snotty girl... sure... **** her up and she'd almost
remind me of one of my exes...
the plight of women mis-gendering themselves
on purpose... to "fit in with the lads"...
but beneath all that veneer... a scared deer....
you sort of stop and wonder...
when will you stop?
well, if you won't stop...
i can already do all the things a housewife ought
to be capable of doing...
what now? do i cut your arms and legs off...
blind you... leave you as a reproductive torso
and a head like in that horror movie:
Bone Tomahawk?
what use, are the women, to men.... right now?
if i can cook a ******* curry...
what's tomorrow? Friday... fish day...
Pescetarian Day... well... i'm thinking of mushroom
noodles with salmon steaks... teriyaki style...
if i can clean the house by myself?
why would i need saber-tooth nails and a body
that i might only utilise to ****?!
that... most probably would be fickle about
the ******* bit?! pleazzzze.... snooze... endear me:
illuminate me! what's the point of a woman?!
well, i sort of know...
the presuppositions, the precursors,
the pre-emptive(s)... everything pre- pre- pre-, pre-:
before it even happens... the anticipation
dynamic ...there's never an "in it" modus operandi...
i'm only feeling what i'm feeling because
i'm anticipating something that... is being stalled...
point being... at some point she's going to stop
stalling, and i'll be like:
and now you've come to a realisation
that, i'm "somehow" worth it?
by then i'll be saying: o.k.: bye, buddy bye bye, bye...
that's how reality checks work...
they don't magically bounce away from debit
towards credit... it's either there: or it ain't...
now i know what it feels to be called by a woman
telling her child: mind the MAN...
so this is, what it feels like...
i can get used to this...
for the next 20 years being still in my prime...
i'm not waiting for something worse thn
death... i.e. old age...
i'm ******* off when the nearest and dearest
left to me are gone... i'm not waiting...
i'm ******* off this ******* carousel...
       i want to die when i still feel significant ...
given... no one bothers old people for wisdom these days...
what am i going to do?
spend the last days of my life
eroding my memory cinema with daytime
television quiz shows?!
    sure... sure... and if i enlarge one of my eyes
by dilating the size of it with my index
asking you: do you see a ******* tram going your way?!
will you say, yes?!
it's a free-for-all... no?

  euthanasia my ******* ***... i never heard so much
crock-of-**** in... well... maybe i'm reincarnated...
besides the point! i'm not hearing it here,
i'm not hearing it now...

    time's a sort of a public that doesn't
have the capacity to spend.
Yenson Jul 2023
If you're on your way
to dad's villa in Barbados Mallorca or the Maldives
If you've got your bags packed
ready for that gap year travelling to broaden your minds
If you've got the acceptance mail
and its Oxford or Cambridge in September awaiting
If you've got the straight As
and dad's promised Mercedes and City Finance beckons
If Charlotte India or Lucinda
have promised a summer of fun
in Granny's beaucoup hide-away in France Spain or Penzance
If Harrods and Asprey have delivered
all the fineries and tons of invites to Summer ***** are in hands
But oh how we know
these can never be you your lives or your world
for if it is
It will never
It simply will not be in your minds
much less your radiant positive enriching orbits
to have the time
much less the inclinations not to mention the wherewithal
to spend your time
sitting dearily composing dirge fantasies
festering toxicity from ****** polluted anodyned minds
thinking you're getting at someone
who's done nothing to you
In charmless madness all you can do
is squim in your angsts luxuriate in hate envy and jealousy
and fixate  maddeningly on those
whose lives are beyond your grubby miserable reaches
For you know painfully your inadequacies
and how you are without merits
Its really as simple as that
so you might as well continue to do as expected
Hate on, Shout, sprout bile, project, poison and write
whatever whenever however
We know you all too well......
Yenson Aug 2022
No, you don't see him
in jeans and jumper
he swaggers in designer clobbers
gold chain and expensive watch
smelling like Harrods

No, you don't see him
in the pubs
nor with mates downing pints
he rolls around in a limousine
with glowing cheeks

No, you don't see him
hanging with us
he talks posh and think he's 'it'
with a pretty wife dainty and slim
perched in louboutin

No you don't see him
on the rob
he's a prince don't you know
with a mind and scholastic laurels
and promises to go far

No, you don't see him anymore
we got out the conspirators
who slandered and demonized him
us underground racists bucked him
in modern enterprising fashion
No fine N---er allowed
Checkmate


https://youtu.be/MWigLcAkZCI
Yenson May 2021
A file appeared from somewhere
showing sites of Mass Weapons of Destruction
lies, smears, misinformation and fabrications are pouring
from red lips

a Scientific Officer disappears and met a mysterious death
a scapegoat with a golden gun was in cross-hairs smoking a cigar
millions are facing doom and displacements and millions say no war

a red rose man
has engineered his grandiosity as international statesman
a leader of the free world with millions of pawns to move as he says
we are in solidarity with our friends across the pond and will give all

the red mist has descended
high stakes duplicity and octane fuelled chicanery are flying
and once again innocent mothers start weeping for lost children
and its always the poor the disadvantaged and the workers who pay

yes the blood ran red
brave men spilled red in foreign dust as towns crumble
there were no weapons of mass destruction but we razed their oil
we killed the man with the golden gun and got contracts in trillions

the red rose man is now worth fifty millions
he's a common man of the people and shops at Harrods
he was head of a Party for ordinary working people he sent to war
he didn't fight but he got medals of Honour and various high awards

He wants you to vote for his cronies
he wants his mayor in power once again because they care
care to keep us commoners in our place and use us as they like
yes they like red for it reminds them of the blood of the workers
they gladly fool and control and send out to do their nice ***** work
Yenson May 2022
So I'm richer than you

Yeah, but you didn't rule a whole Nation
and anyway I'm also a multi-millionaire

But Dad, aren't you a Socialist

Shush sonny, don't even go there
do I look like some envy-ridden
under-achieving, psychopathic
semi-illiterate blinded idiot to you

but Dad I could swear you said you are

No, no, no I am a centrist, you know
the sensible ones, the Realist, we drink champagne
and shop at Harrods and make wealth, and yes we
do tax the rich but also show them how to avoid
paying too much, we are not politicians for nothing

hey Dad, what about all those millions of poor people
thought you are working class and have these peoples
backs

Listen sonny, I am nothing of the sort, how dare you
I am middle-class, went to Oxford, practised Law,
worked hard, aspired, have great leadership qualities
and I amcharming and personable, working class my Rolex  

Listen, let me tell you, those mugs are cannon fodders, they
beg to be led and told what to do, they cannot think for themselves
its a sad fact of life but true. They actually enjoy being mediocre
and blaming everybody else for their self destructive lives.
If your mother and I had let you grow amongst them you wouldn't
be the millionaire you are today.

Dad, do you think they will start harassing me and giving me grief
everywhere, calling me posh and intimidating me.

No son. they wouldn't dare, they are all cowards and really easy
to brainwash and manipulate. I've done that for years, they never wise up. Just make sure you buy your rounds at the pub and call them mate.

Dad, I don't go to the pub, I go to Nobu or The Ivy!







It’s an unfortunate fact of birth, forever being referred to as the son of former Prime Minister Tony Blair.

But perhaps Euan Blair’s latest achievement rather takes the edge off: by ignoring his famous father’s education policy, the 38-year-old is now not only three times richer than his dad, with an estimated fortune of £160m compared to his father’s reported £44m, but now also owns a grander house. By quite a way.

According to reports, the Yale graduate and former Morgan Stanley banker has just bought and moved into a £22m, five-storey townhouse in west London, featuring an “iceberg basement” with a swimming pool, 50-foot reception room and a lift for his fleet of expensive cars. The palatial seven-bedroom pad is reportedly more than double the value of his father’s £10m London pad.
In his maiden speech in the House of Commons on 6 July 1983, Blair stated, "I am a socialist not through reading a textbook that has caught my intellectual fancy, nor through unthinking tradition, but because I believe that, at its best, socialism corresponds most closely to an existence that is both rational and moral ...
Yenson Dec 2020
Quality is heavy, man
what good is quality when even
the doorman at Harrods will turn you away
and dresses better than you and your mother and father
Yenson Apr 2020
In the markets of doubts, doubters go
I prefer shopping at Harrods
you get guaranteed quality there
they can deliver at your convenience
and you do business with a better class of people
there's nothing doubtful about them
and they scorn all that is doubtful
but I do understand
different mentality - different realities

— The End —