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Steve Page Jun 2021
After the rain, just as the sun came,
after light years of planning and 9 months of travelling
- after the rain,
Herbie came

and landed fully formed, fully loved,
full of laughter, a master of light
a gifter of aromatic delight
- after that long night,
Herbie came.

He’d waited, biding his time,
timing his arrival beautifully
bang in the middle of the lunacy,
the happy family being built at Conolly,
(number six)
fitting right in, applying his tight grip
on the mum and dad who just don’t know when to quit.
Yes, Herbie befits this Butcher-family-mix.

After the rain
this Ray of grace,
this pilgrim,
this loving warrior from heaven
this beam of radiance came
and entered a place Herbie-shaped
in the heart of the Rob & Rachel space
with a seasoned, full of flavour Herbie taste
that will forever linger
here in the embrace of family Butcher.

Yes, after the rain, just as June flamed,
Herbie came.
Welcome Herbie Butcher.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i'm pretty sure that someone like Mozart, composed, in total silence, didn't hum out a tune, given that he had to micromanage symphony, or rather, the latter stage of polyphony - synchronization of all subsequent parts... whereby music was more optical in its genesis than people might like to believe... of course auditory in its exodus from the godhead, but... i'm pretty sure the composition process for classical music, would never amount to the sort of fun impromptu of jazz... must be a black privilege sort of, "thing" to have found jazz lying around...

how did the beatniks even believe that
a cross-generational mongrel of an art
form, fusing poetry with jazz could ever work?
robert pinsky still has the dream -
but it's a bit like:
      you think you can smoke marijuana
and listen to blues?
              not drink a drop of the devil liquor
and take blues seriously?
       just like sonny clark would have
said: 'if you don't shoot it,
     you don't smoke it'...
         given that... this is not stoner rock
type of wasp hive droning, humming,
heavily repeated rhythm...
              nothing wacky like
thievery corporation doing a live
rendition of the forgotten people
                                             live on KEXP...
what's that phrase?
    i feel monged -
   i.e. so ****** that you don't know
if it's a brain or a jelly,
         a stomach or krāng...
an 8th of an ounce could last me a week...
never mind...
   but how could they even suppose
that, somehow... jazz would dissolve
into acid jazz...
   that ****** variant you don't hear
in a jazz club...
   sure... the one up in Edinburgh was
jazz by name only...
       instead?
   one night i heard the cover
of neil young's song old man...
yeah... very ******* jazzy...
                what's next, a banjo quartet?
first jazz song i ever heard was
art blakey & the jazz messangers'
      opening track from the album
   of the same name - moanin'...
          SOLD...
           had to stash on some of the records...
but did i really want to speak over
the music?
             did i want to contaminate
the music and produce some ****** mash-up
akin to the beatnik experiment?
     *******... high on dope...
              never bothered to call jazz...
the black man's equivalent status of
what white man's classical music is...
     and where's jazz now?
joshua redman isn't exactly a lifejacket
when a boat with 20 is sinking...
jazz has been neglected...
    relegated as posh black boy music
heading off to Yale... wap... or wrap it up...
talk with a mouth but forget playing
the ******* horns, the sax...
              can't exactly see a revival...
   but would i really want to speak to this music?
feels a bit like talking over an opera...
made sense back then, makes little or no sense
now...
                    beside the point...
      there's still a heatwave in england...
every morning i wake up in a furnace -
    or as if attired in a metallurgy suit working
raw metals...
       and i always ask myself the question...
to rehydrate...
   would i rather eat half a watermelon,
or drink a big glass of water?
                         it's always the first.
B Woods Dec 2009
Uds. son muy tontos.
Les gusta cuando les doy los baños.
Les encantan mis padres porque por el desayuno,
Se lo doy cada día.
Les miro cuando juegan.
Louie, te gusta eschuchar
A música en mi hombro.
¿Lo escuchas, Louie?
Herbie Hancock y Louie Armstrong
Son tus favoritos.
you arrived midwinter
into the loving embrace
of young able parents
eager to nurture and
prepare you for a
hard edged world
filled with trepidation
and uncertainty

boasting citizenship
of two great nations
your honored presence
fearlessly extends
the lineage of proud  
ancient clans

you are a favorite son
hailing from two continents
and a beloved descendant
of two joyous families

your face is a monument,
perfectly chiseled,
expressing the
bold features of
resilient ancestors
rich in the history
of struggle, conquests,
sorrows and countless joys

your blue streaked
eyes reflect the
gleaming vistas
of timeless
ancestral journeys
guided by high ideals
and noble aspirations

your suckling lips
bespeak smiles
of happiness
born from the
achievement of
a successful birth
and the warm embrace
from the ***** of  
parental love

your blithe hair exudes
the fragrance of
melodious Irish poetry

your gifted hands
appear eager
to grasp the promise
of fine Bavarian
craftsmanship

your strong legs
limbered by
Scottish Highland trails
stand ready to conquer
the grandest Alpine peaks

your nose is filled
with the briny snort of
great expectations
European immigrants
inhaled during intrepid
Transatlantic passages
making a way to a New World
marking a family presence
that bestrides the expanse
of a great ocean

in your infant heart beats
with the possibilities
of our family’s
greatest aspirations
and fondest hope

within your DNA
stirs the passion of artists
the fortitude of workers
the faithfulness of farmers
the courage of warriors
the prayers of POWs
the casualties of war
survivors of great wars
reconstructors of
ravaged cities and
masters of industry

as you commence
your earthly walk
we pledge our
help, heart and hope
during your blessed sojourn

we offer up
holy hosannas
that your heart
may fill with a
thirst for truth,
beauty and love

may it overflow
with compassion
to serve humanity
and to stand firm
in the light of justice

may you always walk
as an upright man,
keen of vision,
eager to meet
challenges and seize
opportunity when it arises

may you create
a wholesome place
for yourself and others
by generously sharing
your presence and
the fruits of an
abundant life  

may your mind discern
the right course of action

may you find
reward for your labor
and honor a hard day's work

may your soul
seek to affirm
the Holy Spirit in
all that you do

may you champion love
through a lifelong commitment
to the things you love

may you find
trusted friendship
in the companionship
with animals

may you walk softly
upon the earth and
be a conscientious
steward of its
miraculous provision

may you appreciate the
beauty of art, experience the
freedom of dance,  be inspired
by the revelation of music,
find rejuvenation in athletics,
maintain physical health
and find a long active life
in clean living

may you attempt
difficult things
and be endowed with
intelligence, courage
and fortitude to
steadfastly meet
the challenges of life
and achieve
personal growth

may you receive solace
and garner strength from
a fathomless faith

may God’s
abiding grace
empower you to
perceive the
many miracles
each day richly
confers upon you

may you find
a soul mate
and trust in the
freedom and
beauty of love

may you too
be blessed
with children and
pass on the
good things you
were given by
your parents
and loved ones

may you experience
unconditional love
and unconditionally love

and please remember,
you are the miraculous
expression of a perfect love
may your perfection
light good pathways
throughout your life
as you find your way
in this imperfect world

with joy, reverence
love , hope  and
deep gratitude
we welcome you
our dearest
Theo

God’s Blessing
be always with you
godspeed

Theodore James McCallum
February 5, 2016
In Ardua Tendit

Music Selection:

Wane Shorter: Infant Eyes
Herbie Hancock: Speak Like a Child
Thad Jones: A Child is Born
Claude Debussy: Children's Corner

Pops
Oakland
2/9/16
a poem to commemorate the arrival of my first grandchild
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
******* wanna tango... hell... let's tango! we'll be heading to Argentina to bag us a few nazis and then cruise to Nuremberg... trying to forget that Buenos Aires hot-tilt night of adventure... i ******* love celibacy... you get to take the **** out of so many people that they thankfully never mattered in their bedrooms, as what was the best method to keep them entertained; could they never keep it to themselves? so i'm writing! there's no other reason to counter their need to share that frolicking! it's inverse *******... these people actually needed a ******!

there's a me in an alternative reality,
screaming... *i'd rather be a bus-driver!
...
  apparently that's how
capitalists translate the joke
about someone... listening to the amazing
atheist... and not getting paid for it!
wait wait, that's what? beggar gotta squael?
eek! piggy farming for ****'s sake;
comedy, it really should return to
that silent movie period where ambiguity
was allowed... too much effort slurping clean
a chicken bone... it's like you're about
to perform an orchestra...
i give it to herbie hancock though...
    but what of sonny clark? ******, orverdose,
played a piano like a ******, dead before
he's 30... the only tragedy being,
i dare to remember him...
watching too much of that crap...
the watermelon joke had me...
and then in started listening to herbie hancock...
the ****'s up with these watermelons?
      and what's with herb and cantaloupe?
i bought that double-disk in russia...
   now i'm thinking: triple distillation,
and double that for standard...
   i'm not going to speak this sort of crap
at a street corner anyway...
         just hollywood and thieves of shadows...
the scary part is:
there aren't any nazis knocking on doors
these days,
     so why am i asking for a me in an alternative /
"what if"              reality?
    asking a question tell a joke...
      isn't that what english is resembled as
across the Atlantic?
        counter that, i moved to Sicily and lived to be
a century old...
     'cos' i really gave a ****.
last time i checked, jazz had no script,
thelonious monk could be questioned
writing scripts on the side...
       but it would never be impromptu...
  it could never be: snapping your fingers....
or what the head of hector spoke when achilles
decapitated it...
             the **** am i here for?!
plus hector is a better sounding name...
    not that the gods really matter,
what matters is: why did this whole freak show
go on for so long?
   and god... it will go on for so much longer...
given how frisky and kink prone we're becoming...
    thus as rare as to cite macbeth...
   and say: from this, we are to feel?
    is this the only kindness toward stating a genuine
human heart? from this?!
        then indeed it is from this,
outside the biblical spectrum of constipated imagery...
  but ah... aren't the lucky ones telling us apart,
and providing us with a quasi-gravity impetus,
that rather than unifying us... drives us apart;
for thus: we fake or at least accept:
     a sense of contempt, that is thus a mode of faking
the fakeness of contentment...
   what is man in his faking? a magician?
a chauvanist? something this that or the other?
         man is man set against the elemental...
mas is parasite set against manhood...
           a man can't be if another man thinks
nothing of thought beyond the realm of freedom,
to only implement the exercise of thought
toward slavery... i really could find more abhorrent
things to eat, beside pork, beside crab...
i could take my ego-tongue, and tell it to eat by
the digestion that's thought: islam...
i'm just starving and i've been drinking and i've
been listening to herbie hancock and
i resent the notion of real-time and a "care" for
an "audience"... and all that ******* that is *******...
and how you eventually replicate the apathetic mood
of what you see around you when you begin
investing something in a project, or art...
         i'll watch the oscar ceremony tomorrow
and could begin with: the way people said i sounded
like... but won't...
                because i'll thankfully say:
the world's too big, to distinguish a seagull from a flock
of seagulls.
                      this world exists, only via
a tired god; it really was born from an argument reaching
an end... the tired god said: boom!
    and from his tiresome effort,
                never bothered to be given an argument to exist;
unless you argued some quasi 3G...
   and got all that dough and ***** and B.F.G.;
20 hours fasting can really make you think the oddest ****
when you actually, just want to eat a curry....
or really go through that experiment of adding sourcrout
to kebab meat... with all the toppings... pickled chillies...
raw cabbage... cucumbers... tomatoes...
   what would a kebab with sourcrout and pickled chillies
and all the toppings taste like?
       probably like that david bowie blackstar song...
heaven heaven; speak to me of heaven as if i were eleven.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.Roger Moore!
  what? Roger Moore!
the definite Mishter Bond...
yeah yeah...
Sean Connery -
the, "original"....
  but Roger Moore had
Duran Duran to back him up!


First Name: Matthew
Surname: Elert
Address 1: 294 Havering Road
Address 2 (Rise Park) /  left blank
Town / City: Romford
Postcode: RM1 4TH
Tel: (+44) 01708 766 994
Email: m.k.elert@gmail.com
Date of Birth: 15      05       1985
Gender: Male.

Is this the first time you have bought Henry Westons Vintage cider?
No.

Where did you buy this bottle of Henry Westons Vintage cider?
Other.

Where do you do your main shop?
CO-OP on days when Russian Standard is on offer, given that CO-OP has your cider on a constant 3 for £5 all the time, otherwise Tesco, 15 minute walk, but still CO-OP for your cider.

In a few words, what made you buy Henry Westons Vintage?
I feigned a desire to drink more Magners, or for what matter the Swedish ciders (Kopparberg, Rekorderlig, etc.) - it's actually genius how your cider, standing at a whopping 8.2% alcohol volume... can't be branded an alcoholic's wet-dream like Carlsberg's Export most assuredly could. What a pristine balance of combating the sugars, that, other ciders, don't allow... I mean, at surfacing just shy of 5% in the Swedish examples? Near suffocating over-sweetness, taking a dog for a walk that was adamant on pulling the leash and hanging itself in the horizontal canvas would be more enjoyable than, walking with a bottle of those ciders... not enough alcohol to equilobrate the sweetness of a cider, per se... simply perfecto! I've already made the same point  on https://tinyurl.com/y7eaweeg... so, suma summarum: nothing, exactly made me buy the cider, originally, perhaps the logo, or some plain boredom from the Magners' and Swedish standards... but on 2nd purchase? The ****** quality, that simply transcends this question, in terms of advertisement "concerns"; p.s. you don't need to expand into pear cider. Any chance of hearing some Sonny Clark or Herbie Hancock at the festival? What about Joshua Redman?

you never know...
i might have a chance of visiting America...
if i win the Westons' Cider lucky draw...
and head over to the New Orleans' Jazz festival...
i like jazz...
   more than classical music...
well... within the reasonable constraints
of ******* on Handel's conductor's wand...

    smoochy smoochy...
   a helium balloon...
   dipped in either honey
or vanilla extract...
        chasing it...
     while a baby in a tram,
by accident,
                       releases it.
Paul Gilhooley Jul 2017
We're all familiar with Dr Seuss,
Tho pronounced like voice, and not like Zeus,
One fish, two fish, the cat in the hat,
With fish exclaiming that mother "won't like that".

Eccentric strange names, bizzarely named towns,
Unusual creatures, his imagination abounds,
There's mean Mr Grinch, where evil's his art,
And poor Herbie Hart, taking his Thromdimbulator apart.

We remember most fondly Horton hearing a who,
And the cat in the hat releasing Thing One and Thing Two,
How lucky you are, with dear Mr Potter,
And his monotonous job as T-Crosser, I-Dotter.

The things that we saw on Mulberry Street,
With so many stories, and people to meet,
Not forgetting the Lorax, or the places you'll go,
Or me singing high with my Ying that sings low.

I read them each night with my dear gentle Ben,
Stories we enjoy, both time and again,
The stories we read, are always his choice,
From the magical worlds of the one Dr Seuss.*

Cinco Espiritus Creation
2017
sowa Nov 2021
Tajemnicze torebki bogów  sprzed 12 tysięcy lat

FO PANDEMIA PSYCHOZY ZR


klucz - otwiera bramę, klucze w herbie Watykanu
umożliwia przepływ informacji cynk, otrzymanie

przeniesienie - w czasie i przestrzeni, działanie
sprawcze, prokreacyjne, kulturowe, cywilizacyjne      

przedmiot - szyszka pinii z nasieniami, narzędzie
funkcja - bezpośrednie poznanie, zdrowy rozsądek

tajemnicze torebki bogów, przekazanie świadomego
dospermowanie swojego z tarczy covid Morawieckiego


https://sowamagazyn.blogspot.com/2021/11/tajemnicze-torebki-bogow-sprzed-12.html

sowafee.jimdofree.com/2021/11/05/tajemnicze-torebki-bogów-sprzed-12-tysięcy-lat-zech-von-stefan-ko­siewski-ssetkh-po-myśli-jarosława-kaczyńskiego-fo-pp-zr/
You already know about
                       everything
                    I know about

and because you do I get
                                 to get
lost without my long running
friend: that urge
to explain/destroy      my own machinery
(I mean intrinsic mechanism)
or I mean
               something else and betterer and more accurate and  
                    
                   Who am I without
the ceaseless explaining?

Who are you to come so
fully loaded
            (like Herbie the ******* Love Bug)
?

(Ah) comes the balm of genuine curiosity.
I have been so long falsely
expert.

I am just beginning.  Stupid
and frankly new.
a poet friend and I are writing bad poems back and forth to each other because we are both just entering the phase of "I think I'm in love" and this is a very good time to write shamelessly into the tremor
Listening to Dave Grusin,
"Mountain Dance," vintage 1979.
The thought strikes:
"Why is it that only the
Early Jazz Giants are deified?
Of course, we need Chet Baker and
Miles Davis in our pantheon, &
Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker
Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales:
"Smack. I told you not to mention that!")
Coltrane or Stan Getz.
And yet, we're all getting long teeth and
there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come,
Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or
George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and
What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton?
Let's not forget Spyro Gira &
The Daves: Benoit and Koz.
And we would be remiss
To miss Chris, young Chris,
Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti.
But I digress.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i don't why, but it just happens sometimes,
one minute you're listening to Ryan Adams'
self-titled album with that pillar of
rock stay with me reading the Sunday Times
style magazine after having digested
the culture magazine and the Sunday Times
magazine, bobbing along to an article about
the singer Ariana Grande, seeing her almost
kissing a pooch on a skyscraper (*****,
that tongue's been up my ***, so said the pooch)
and you don't get Ryan Adams,
****'s a gridlock, a traffic jam, it doesn't
have a care for Pearl Jam and the wilderness of
Canada... so you switch listening material
to Herbie Hancock's cantaloupe island,
and suddenly you're in Philip Larkin territory...
it's funny to say that slavery of the africans
by the english to colonise the American continent
gave us fewer princes bored by Mozart
stating 'too many notes' - well jazz has enough
too many, notes, because there's this whole impromptu
going on; in my collection of the genre?
a decent list: sonny clark's complete works,
sonny clark's cool struttin',
cannonball aderley's somethin' else,
cedric 'im' brooks united africa,
booker t & the m.g.'s green onions (~jazz),
thelonious monk's monk's blues,
thelonious monk's criss-cross,
egberto gismonti's solo, eric dolphy's out to lunch,
donald byrd's royal flush, duke ellington's soul call,
terry callier's occasional rain, guru's jazzmatazz vol. 1,
miles davis' ******* brew / sketches of spain /
kind of blue / porgy and bess / the complete birth of the cool,
hurbie hancock's takin' off / my point of view,
steve kuhn trio's wisteria, joshua redman's back east,
freddie hubbard's hub-tones, john coltraine's blue train /
a love supreme, nina simone's nina simone at the village gate,
bobby mcferrin's spontaneous innovations,
chet baker's my funny valentine, dexter gordon's go!,
us3's hand on the torch, sonny rollins' ballads,
freddie hubbard's ready for freddie,
art blakey's moanin', kenny burrell's midnight blue,
chick corea's now he sings now he sobs,
mccoy tyner's the real mccoy, dianne reeve's i remember,
duke ellington's money jungle, horace silver's song
for my father, jimmy smith's back at the chicken shack,
wayne shorter's ju lu...
so with this mind, from bukowski the baton was
passed, don't get me wrong, i appreciate classical
music, but jazz is too much poetry,
not really the makings of coupling the two like
the Beats... just that they originate with a sentiment
best stated: 'what the **** was that?'
reverse aerodynamics: actually, no, proper
aerodynamics: you see the plane and then get the score
sheet... those European composers must have
been literally mad, so many instruments encoded,
pitches, larks, stresses of a violin's specific accenting
that wouldn't never sound like a nail scratching
blackboard... i know it's horrid to compliment
slavery... but hell... without it no jazz,
just stuck in a rut with classical whitey boys...
and no jazz no blues... no future rock or pop...
if there's anything to redeem the trade it's this music,
and, let me tell you, jazz is urbanity a soul of
frank o'hara's new york, it's amplified in
a suburban environment, never did suburbia
bordering on countryside feel so cosmopolitan,
but i'm adding this amplification to have been
aided by the number of birds i can spot, lazily
from my window...
and god, i love the fact that in jazz you can
have a specific bloom for each instrument used,
you can have a horn, a sax, a drum a bass solo
all in one go, so it's not as monochromatic as in
rock music (primarily occupied with
lead guitar solos, in the 1970s the drum solos
of john bonham) - all in one go i.e.
the tactful representation of each instrument,
the sort of football match analogy where every
player gets a touch of the ball / limelight.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.
the
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
herbie hancock - watermelon man / us3, or also herbie, and also a melon... cateloupe... down the isle... na'h... too meaty, not enough water... watermelon man... translation into slavic of watermelon? probably arabic: arbuz (r-*****)... my distant cousins had the surname: saraçen (sarah's dream) - otherwise, the same worth of gob's cent to a penny for a thought for freud - sarah-ćen(t): not for polish speakers... i'm trying to translate ç (french) into ć (anti-polish pronunciation), into english, to avoid the s... tse- tse-, sarah-tsen... wet jazzy snare.

i once said i never ever had hangovers
from drinking,
       just tobacco, or *cottonmouth
,
as some people suddenly get while
smoking ****...
                       but on the next day,
when you wake up...
but ****! it's the 10th of june...
                  and the sun is ****** my body
with the heat...
         i woke up early, clearly dehydrated...
and instead of my usual two glasses of water...
   i must have been dreaming about
this...
           cure for a hangover?
       quarter of a watermelon...
                         god, felt better than eating
out a woman's genitals...
         and a big ******* he was...
twice the size of a football...
        a ravenous vegeterian wolf, i did become,
half an hour, prior to noon.
(I wrote this light hearted communique years ago when thy youngest of deux darling demure offspring found more enjoyment then she would as a soon tubby celebrating nineteen orbitz round mister Sun).
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------
Just my luck on a freaky Friday, while living in another world unfettered from the parent trap that a life-size machete conveniently available to fend off mean girls racing in their life-size love bug christened “Herbie fully loaded” while cranking up the song “ultimate” somehow found me to get a clue that raven-symone a prairie home companion.

Please pardon this bard of Belmont hills for brazenly barging into your life – without even so much as a gold plated invitation. The nerve of this nattering nabob of Narberth to perform a google search in an effort to pay homage to such smart as a whip wealthy woman, whom maintains lustrous beauty even whence approaching the half century longevity chronological benchmark.

A whim to scribble stream of consciousness thoughts about the mother of one constantly caught in the infamous cross hairs of media blitz krieg must induce chronic ferocity against this plague of tabloid locusts.

Such scrutiny seems to be the price one (and/or her/his kith and/or kin) must unfairly pay to be in the limelight of fame and fortune.

As one absolutely anonymous any man ambling along the boulevard of broken dreams, I envy luxurious lifestyle of the rich and famous as all my children (two teenage daughters) freely scamper away from dark shadows indicating the edge of night as the world turns.

Also, no great expectation (by dickens) goads me (an ordinary mister mom manning the ongoing – nearly infinite – needs and wants of thy fourteen and twelve year old lasses, whom contribute immensely to a more purposely driven life no matter they present untenable wishes.

Back in the day when this papa could afford plethora of fios cable channels, but mainly thru the subtle influence of thine younger offspring (who will celebrate her thirteenth anniversary of existence on this temporal plane or rather oblate spheroid in space), I chanced to watch television programs with Lindsay Lohan as one (if not) the leading actress(es) and found the characters she portrayed quite entertaining to escape the cares and concerns of an uncertain global state of affairs.

These days, aol headline pages incessantly splash with minor infraction(s) that inevitably lands your lovely Lindsay incarcerated for mere misdemeanors no doubt stoking the fires of fervid frenzy within your being.

Only heartfelt commiseration found me to tap out this missive (while a golden opportunity existed to co-opt our only macbook – while the spouse soundly sleeps and thy progeny preoccupied with interpersonal connections) to express said sentiment of compassion and adulation for a most superlative maternal role well done.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
so she write this article, this amanda
foreman,
   a historian and with four girls
and one boy that's almost the fifth and
i'm wondering:
god, where has this headache come from
where is the man?
                life's too perfect to seem
to rhyme, or worth wasting your time
remembering some obscure Versailles verse
worth a shining ****'s worth of
a crown readied for a one-night stand...
**** me, a five+ female household,
i hope these muslim martyrs wishes what
they got themselves into...
   the true martyrs have three entry
points...
           mouth, vaginal, ****...
            if you can't spot the true martyrs
i'll tell you about asking the watermelon man,
or herbie hancocks, or in comparison
by ol' joe...
      treating his quasi-alzheimer stories
like your favourite jazz standards...
herr bitebonbon, dresden, auschwitz,
and some other memories:
  a drowning man will cling to a razor blade
to stay afloat, like any old man:
what bugs him now is not being sad,
but being foregetful...
he replays the rubric every day:
he says:
sure, i'm dead already:
but i want to remember myself dying!
   old people and their jazz standards of memory,
i am old, i feel old,
   oh ma'h feel'ah rob'eh m'on...
   patois or 'alf the pitied peshawar mamí son...
lumberjack my *** were 'ere bootleg
a stump of wood mamí sis...
  ya rite?
           *** we boss the 9,2,3,oh,5...
and call that a freq.,
  man that boy to a prrrrrristine:
shakin' m'ah timbers floating a-high...
man, sum tim' the talk ain't talk
it's called: scare-alley-cat-talk
feelin' a gush of **** talk-ji
  of an incubus toying with ya
little mums' crisp clear elijah of buttock
say in: **** as smooth as
a mouth slicking a rota of a hooplah...
talk cool: play the dumb infant...
next time you know:
   yo be talkin' to mama bear an
pleading for her Mississippi pancakes...
**** you not...
             she a one woman with
a five daughter brothel...
good lucky lucky luke if there's any
eager...
                last time i checked:
neither word, nor piano nor horn earned
****...
        just a nice ref. to: ooze...
  like washington's monologue in
fences didn't earned him oscar:
but a director's role none the less...
lady guesses to choose...
and her choice is always wrong
while her guess is always good...
          my, why a mighty site these days:
a man that stays at home becomes
a better cook than a woman,
who isn't all too eager to enter the outside world...
there's always the idea of a death by
a grizzly bear and i think of entering
a bear enclosure in the danzig zoo...
  and the little bear that ate my cardigan button...
and the bear mama...
      god, i love that memeory,
because it's so unreal that it's real because
it happened and my mind became
a ******* ******* trickster thinking
that my faculty of memory didn't dig
that far back...
         the child always remains with the man
that the child always was,
   but the child never became,
and the man who always imagined the child
becoming the man he is,
never said to the man un-becoming the child:
you were never this until "i" became you,
and "you" un-became me.
30+ hours wide awake and i'm still
trying to succumb to falling asleep
to fidgeting...
                        sure, nice trick, juggle three
oranges... then more into the iron league
of juggling three watermelons my
dear, common man.
         classical music acted upon the same
jerking off technique
     that excess rock did to solo guitarists...
chopin was a ****** on guitar...
he had no rhythm man...
            why do i know this?
the japanese, those wannabe white-ohs
pretend to be chopin...
they ******* ski-jump to boot!
                    chopin had no style because
he had no rhythm...
actually liszt ****** off the most,
smoked the most cigars and prematurely
******* with the most number of lovers...
    i really feel for that poet who cried himself
to sleep seeing him "perform"...
           you can solo the ******* want,
but the only rhythm on piano came with jazz...
i hate ******* for their lack of appreciation
of jazz... i hate to be a white guy telling them:
hey... jazz over class every day...
  you people, yes: YOU PEOPLE
ABANDONED JAZZ IN A MATTER OF
AN AMNESIAC TRYING TO REMEMBER
A DISTINGUISHING ASPECT BETWEEN
A T-REX AND MARC BOLAN!
how can you just give up rhythm piano,
the democratic soloing of each instrument
in a band in a matter of what,
20, 30, 40 years?
     LOSERS!
      rhapsody of the nincompoop...
hit the trends you ******, with your
nike airs and your shaaq attaq?
  canary in a colemine?
how 'bout a ****** smiling at me?
how about: pearly whites in a colemine?
talk kit-kat chunky pale white boy:
i start talking ivory...
                     hey: if the black guy ain't
the canvas of what i'm about to x-ray
i don't know why he shouldn't find his
root in the skin in the tongue in Swahili
so we can keep it neutral and not so,
******* lazy: english, keeping up with
post-colonialism Kardashians' shenanigans...
come on... they left sonny trashed nodding
at the piano: just one more note,
just one more note...
          boom... crescendo and the death's head
gravity pulled the gracious ***** down.
it's just a shame that they gave up
on jazz so quickly,
                   and turned to white *****
gloryhole ******* - which must imply:
Ethiopians in Japan...
              hey... you tell me:
last time i heard i heard the whale was
mammal, and that there was the Eskimo...
pop doesn't really bother me right now;
you left sonny clark nodding to his death
thinking he was falling asleep at the piano!
NOW... ******... BLEACH ME...
I ******* DARE YOU!
robert johnson didn't meet his fate
at the crossroads through a jealous middle
class white girl either...
given the times, being a white guy:
i guess that's also my fault...
oh look... there flies the cuckoo:
and here's the nest.
Commuter Poet Nov 2019
A mistake is made
And then it is repeated
Treated like an experiment

Wait a minute
This is not a mistake

It is a gift
So let it repeat

Let’s hear it again
And again

Give it energy until it becomes an engine

An engine that drives back the boundaries
Of what has ever been created before

And bring on the drums
Let them beat wildly as the new creation emerges
Experience the whole thing as it builds to an incredible peak
And then is surmounted by an even higher peak

Sounds and rhythms
Never even dreamed of
Are being played
And experienced
For the first time ever

And we are here witnessing it
Drawing it out of the musicians
By being open and willing to its creation
And somehow
Quite naturally

Anything becomes possible
Barbican Theatre, London
Herbie Hancock performs with:  James Genus on bass, guitarist Lionel Loueke, drummer Justin Tyson and flutist and vocalist Elena Pinderhughes
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
if a headache could be composed into
a toothpick...
           oh so much more:
          this toothpick - as a headache...
better still... a toothpick is a headache
but becomes a splinter...
                and a splinter becomes...
an irritating pain on the gums
lodged between the teeth...
                 a bothersome thread of beef...
somehow lodged under your tooth
putting pressure for what's
naturally some variation of "empty space"...
otherwise a headache
          is a toothpick is a splinter...
                 a splinder lodged just beneath
the skin... on the tip of your index finger...
and such a beautiful day...
some per se... but i'm far from a per se:
suitcase and postcard ready...
to "move on" to some "elsewhere"...
     a george oppen poem...
                 a kathleen fraser poem...
an alice oswald poem...
             an anne carson poem -
notably the poem book of isaiah, part i:
right now... in my garden...
a cricket is playing a transcedence
of violin -
          because when the cricket plays...
there's always a transcendence of violin...
right now... a violin is like the sound
of glass shattering...
        if i were to shave my beard
and wait a day for some stubble
and... rub-rub... no 'uckin' music!
       shard - shrapnel and sharpening sand!
     - so there's the ol' jeremy
   and i know that there's a frog in the garden...
although no gurgling burps
             of gargantua...
            it's that comparison of
an anne carson poem: isaiah and birdsongs...

it's the 14 watermelons being
eaten in a desert...
that leads you to the proof
of an oasis of soul...
                  some unbelievable wow
was supposed to ensue!
but no... this was never going to be...
a herbie hancock moment
when listening to him -
revised... in st. petersburg (russia, proper)
one of those... glad awful tidings
of youth, hormones...
         the opposite ***...
   and... a 2007 "hiatus" from the TODAY
fudge and custard pie of
propping-up! the big GHANDA...

         surds! stealth letters in english!
                       in the glee of.. pulling out...
a magic tentacle:                         ęgliš...

i'm (also) so far behind...
keeping up with european football season
as i am behind: i.e. never having
hexed myself to use up my time
on 4chan forums...

       a litany of googlewhacks:
4chan killjoy blunders - 5,670 results...
suptg iop - 841 results
    tamara chergoleishvili giga bokeria - 1,870 results

i'm currently reading two books...
charles dickens' the pickwick papers
and milan kundera's "essay"...

      capsid ******* clicket - 6,870 results
having to compound...
    limboseeker - 262 results...
       limboseeker south multiple - 9 results
limboseeker south multiple naproxenlobster - 8 results
modlishka korczyk - 4 results...
           no sooner...
modlishka korczyk per - 2 results...

                 the old thrill is gone... though...
modlishka korczyk peq - 1 result...
a googlewhack...

   but... "once upon a time"
there was no ******* worth of a disclaimer
"as if" you were making an error....

no... "verbatim" -
/ it looks like there aren't any great matches
for your search / tip try using words that might
appear on the page that you’re looking for. /
for example, 'cake recipes' instead
                 of 'how to make a cake'.
/ need help? /t ake a look at other tips
                                 for searching on google./


such that the soul fizzles away
and there's only a wording vanue:
some variation of a rabbithole
and a cul de sac (rabbitcole cul de sac - 8 results)...
then onto syllables:

       lo red шake khan (9 results) -
"oops": шake чa (╩) another googlewhack...
шake чa (╩)...
                                 ghip╩╢ⰍⰍⰍ (3 results)...

ghip systems networking...
            and... the
global health interprofessional education ...
                                   ghipecp.org

how's this...
                                 faceⰪ - 1 result...
"try" my alt. searches
ǥuđán
אֵת                                      mr. panasonic....  

ⰑⰎ soyur - 1 result...
              best end of a fickle welcome
that's a blister that's a tomorrow.
recurrent suicidal thoughts vain
     gloriously wend
     (o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
     yanking zeal

becalming this crash test dummy rolling
     stone temple pilot inxs
     of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging

     slow as adam and the ants,
     thru fifty shades of gray's
     anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),

     beatle browed, beastie boy,
     outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
     mailer daemons inhabit
     cavernous fist size vastness steel

via Herbie Hancock (Hermans Hermits)  
     cheesy Munster trap doors that steal,
deep purple swiftly tailored
     culture club members squeal

hosted by mega death pack rat boston for real
venue at Tokyo hotel, via en grave invitation
     signed by Alice in Chains poison huss kiss
     sing, which will spellbind

     once contents unveiled, an instant app peal
immediately choking off air supply
     then Alice Cooper egging bad company
     to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal

supplanting raw primal scream from spinal tap
     acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
     creed dance clearwater revival

     dark shadows would demand one
     (to take a knee) and kneel
before sacrificing oneself at the beck and call
     of evanescent nirvana

     experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
     off phish hull heart shaped coffin
     ample room enough for blind

     melon collie 10,000 maniacs, their heal
ling powers profusely emanating
     via m&m shaped talking heads
methinks averring obeisance

     to judas priest and ******* with coldplay feel
ling of eternal sleep, where quiet ***** riot
     joins carpenters, whose underground
     sepulchral crowded house indicative

  cynthesis iz a done dizzy Gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
     (absent myself - a skeptic),
     whose karma with long deceased will anele!
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
/the late 20th century scorn of art as: ars pro se - for itself... thank god celebrity culture took off, the vanguard too to the trenches... remained in the trenches... and died from a wound inflicted by their own shadow touching their bodies... imagine Narcissus talking to his reflection... post-scriptum of the selfie... fame and celebrity as a perpetuating implosion of parasitical exhaustion... the parasite of the parasite: atomised vogue whims and the five winds... at least ars pro se is a depiction of movement, an inheritance abbreviation... thanks to celebrity "culture" / membrane... we can at least fathom, the complete picture, of an imploding cube geometry... happenstance, or hypered-instance? to vote Michael Faraday as the modern Prometheus, who stole the lightning bolt from, Olypmus? up in the air, like you just don't care, etc.

post-colonial inheritance
tax... or, legacy...
                when the pride
was being infringed upon,
one *******
was nibbling at the Ottoman
postscriptum
   not exactly bothered
by Helga the Valkrye's
                           chastity
            investment bouncing
payroll guarantee...
              once you hear a Bulgarian
******* giggle...
    you hear a giddy schoolgirl,
giggle...
             and the rest rests,
all eternally, sealed inconclusively
upon an: amen.
           no Holocaust has happened
and still I find myself lodged
in a language without
a contemporary to talk crass
bullshitting with extra skid marks'
worth of carcass whipping:
       American Beauty is,
beyond a film, the summary of the 20th,
harbinger of the 21st century,
a take on Tora! Tora! Tora!
                    suddenly 10 years
within a century elongate
beyond the confines of
a century within a millenium...
          and there, really is,
enough time crafted in the vain
hope importune unearthing:
to feel less obliged to stress
a comfort, in a body that might
resemble a well-worn sofa
    ****-stink...
                    yet I still don't know
what I'm not supposed to align myself
to when some ****** will
not even bother to cite me
Herbie Hancock...
                rap took to the clothing
line, and dried,
     like some obscurity of youth,
and the once savvy toolkit
of slang, lost, reminiscent,
                  bothered by acronyms
that never and would not catch on...
funny, talking to WHITE...
  immune to a colonial past...
              a bit like talking to a Russian,
or a Beethoven in his prime...
   comes in 'un 'ere,
  'n' 'uickly leaves via the ò'very...
    baba watunga, neß pàs?

widely or rather wildly exaggerated:
post-colonial stress disorder,
conscripted? anyone who isn't or can't
be, veteran material...
    counter-thesis of growing mushrooms...
namely pulverised,
by excesses of information...
namely?
    21st propaganda is not exactly
the content, of, said, detergent advertisement...
but... pulverising non-(s)top...
      insomniac mushrooms...

modern Japan and F. D. Roosevelt's America
are synonyms...
Mongolia never makes it into
the conglomerate mafiosos' newsreel...
     sleeping people are
compensated by not engaging
in this... game that only leads
into a pit, of farcical exhaustion....
               each year, that supposed
"holy" land,
     becomes a variant of the same
pile of rubble...
           the odd olive, and the odd
lemon tree...
          and then an attempt to
rekindle the concept of the fireplace,
with the already static
     fringe buzz of t.v.,

Americans and their ******* acronyms...
romeo alpha mammoth Sistine
       elephant: and a cherub in a *******
pantry...

           how glad I am,
able to tell the diffrence between
a Nigerian and a Kenyan...
              perhaps...
the opportune moment will come...
hell...
   by then I'll be far gone,
entrenched in a thought labyrinth
spanning the hearth of Siberia...

    the mind: simultaneously
a prison, and an escape plan.
James Daniel Feb 16
Bio
One of my first jobs was as a waiter in a Thai Restaurant
Run by a scary Malaysian who'd taken a liking to me
We went to a rave once
And he gave me 400 AUD for Chinese New Year
Bless him

But one night a tall Singaporean guy called Sunny came in
He was a musician too
He played in a rock and roll band
The Suns

Sunny lasted one night
But he told me about an open mic run by a girl called Michelle
And we stayed in contact
----

Gom was in the year above me at school
Gom was the only African at our school, he and his brother
Goyte also went to our school, he was in Gom's year. At school I was smart and cool, played bass and was friends with everybody. School was sometimes an escape from home life.

Marcus took me to Gom's place once where he lived with his girlfriend Nikki
I took my guitar and Gom and I jammed in the bedroom
A singer and a rapper
----

The first time I ever played live was at a place called Yah man Rastaraunt
It was a Caribbean Restaurant on Hoddle Street, South Yarra, Melbourne
It had that black feeling, of warmth and mystery. Or maybe that was youth and ****.
But I played, and some of the girls were crying
I'd found my thing
I went back the next week and froze up
----

There was a place called Pure on Smith Street. This was where Sunny said the open mic was run by Michelle. In those years, Smith street had a sacred vibe. Maybe it was the presence of an Aboriginal community or the fact that gentrification hadn't yet taken hold. But things were elemental, exaggerated by the warmth of summer nights.
I loved these open mics, the people I've met. I'd invite my work crew and friends. Sometimes I'd pack that venue out, for 3 songs!
----

Gom and I started a band
Melbourne was hip-hop, music, life and Fitzroy was Mecca
On Monday nights you could go to a place called the Laundry and see B-boys doing backflips on dancefloors!
Open mics, Latin Culture, losing my virginity
I was living and working as a waiter in beautiful Carlton, Melbourne's Italy. I love the parks there.

I flew interstate to study jazz
To smoke more ****
Then less ****
To wander like the wind, to bend like the rain, but always circling music and its hubs

I moved to London in 2015
I worked in a cafe and met a guy called Stefan from Austria. He is still one of the coolest and nicest people you can meet. I'll have to link up with him in Berlin one day soon.
He introduced me to Stefano from Italy who played the drums
We set up a band and had a few gigs
We had Hakan on Trombone and Bahadir on bass
Stefano had all these connections to the Turkish musical community
Because of the fact he plays in the Oddbeats, a psychedelic Turkish Band, one of the long standing hippie bands round these parts

I worked in a cafe called Music and Beans on Green Lanes, London's Istanbul. It was run by a musician who played amazing violin and also ran a music school. I lived in a tiny room above the school for a bit. On Green lanes there was a place called Jam in a Jar where you could see all kinds of music, from Mediterranean to Irish folk. It had a festival feel to it.
----

I go to open mics and jams like I did back in Melbourne,
It's very jazzy and jammy in this city. I like going to blues jams sometimes.
But I do like to remember those first gigs and musical experiences I had back in Melbourne
The meditation and wonder of it

I see Lloyle Carner at the swimming pool sometimes
He comes in with his daughter and wife
There I work as a lifeguard
On the days when I'm not working, I'll be working on my music, playing guitar, piano, writing, listening, learning, humming, singing, reading...
Stefano and I set up a house removed from the noise of traffic, replaced by the sounds of birds. There are trees everywhere and a lake nearby.
I've dedicated myself to being able to sing that great song in great condition, so that keeps the number of joints, beers and cigarettes down and the number of kilometers run and minutes meditated up.


I would cite Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, Aston “Familyman” Barret, Jimi Hendrix, Nina Simone, Miles Davis, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Flea, Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, James Jamerson, Donny Hathaway, Lauryn Hill, Sam Cooke, Bill Withers, Frank Sinatra, John Coltrane, Salman Rushdie, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carole King, James Taylor, Norah Jones, Nick Drake, Bjork, Portishead, Radiohead, Aphex Twin, Squarepusher, Burial, Flying Lotus, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Aphrodite, Charlie Parker, Chopin, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave, Paul Kelly, Jeff Buckley, Jaco Pastorius, Eric Dolphy, David Bowie, Charles Mingus, Herbie Hancock, J Dilla, Tupac, Juicy the song, Nirvana, Crowded House, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Prince, Parliament, D'Angelo's 3 Albums to date, Blackstar, The Roots, Adele, Beyonce, Aretha Franklin, Eryka Badu, Hiatus Kaiyote, Nai Palm, Muddy Waters, BB King, Ben Harper, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Mavis Staples, The Beatles and tapestries more as inspirations and influences
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
it's not so much, a point of being
that demands a need for the other's
sight...
           rather:
     a "paradox" to mind:
   it's worth pretending to be unseen...
        a carpenter can: be,
    a roofer can be...
              the rest results
in a: taming of a game that provokes
a society to exist...
          see, with my neigbour buck,
who is raised by a single mother
who's father left him in nearing
a regression toward infancy?
               i "have" to "pretend"
to "be" invisible...
                 existentialism?
            something that's overtly-nuanced...
"air" quoting... pontius pilate
style of: passing on the "blame"...
   or just gagging for diacritical
markers...
                    having started drinking
mid-day... really has a
bewildering effect on having
to adjust to the rigour of: a day...
         thankfully there's the
intermediate of petting cats...
               it's almost worth being
reminded of: herbie hancock?
   no, no?
               wait, it'll come to me...
  burt ******* reynolds...
              MOP R U with that
September broom...
                     how many times i've had
to resort to be "deemed": unseen...
                   it's what horror movies
are made from...
             the giggling is great but
the giggling aside...
               said a sloth to a Dicken's novel...
oh ****, that made a hell load of sense:
he cursed and also made it
into a correct spelling category...
         must be a skiing type.
          i eat a ******* boiled egg
a radish, and some ultra-braun-brot
for breakfast, does that constitute
me being worth an abba biography?
you better be squeezing m'ah lemons
         if y'ah gonna ask that
                     ******* question.
Recurrent suicidal thoughts
vaingloriously wend along winding road
within windmills of my mind
(o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
yakking, yanking, and yawking zeal
becalming this crash test dummy rolling
stone temple pilot inxs
of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging
slow as adam and the ants,
thru fifty shades of gray's

anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),
beatles browed, beastie boy,
foo fighters kickstart new edition
quickening reo speedwagon treadwheel
outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
mailer daemons inhabit
cavernous fist size vastness steel
via herbie hancock (hermans hermits)
cheesy munster trap doors that steal,

deep purple swiftly tailored
culture club members squeal
hosted by megadeath
pack rat boston for real
venue at tokyo hotel,
via en grave invitation
signed by alice in chains poison huss kiss
sing, which will spellbind
once contents unveiled,
an instant jane's addiction peal

immediately choking off air supply
then alice cooper egging bad company
to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal
supplanting raw
primal scream from spinal tap
acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
creedence clearwater revival
dark shadows would demand one
(to take a knee) and kneel

before sacrificing oneself
at the beck and call
of evanescent nirvana
experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
off phish hull heart shaped coffin
ample room enough for blind
melon collie 10,000 maniacs,
their healing powers profusely emanating
via m&m shaped talking heads

methinks averring obeisance
to judas priest and *******
with coldplay feel
ling of eternal sleep,
where quiet ***** riot
joins carpenters, whose underground
bunker with golden arches
resembles empyreal
heavenly vault wreathed
with electric light orchestra

sepulchral crowded house indicative
cynthesis iz a done
dizzy gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme,
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
(absent myself - a skeptic),
whose karma credit Suisse
with long deceased meatloaf
with soul asylum and heart to anele!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
what do women call them? mombods?
frenzied... ever frenzied by reality:
a reality with a doubled-up emphasis:
a reemphasis... i love reality:
cubism in its simple term of:
"awkward" bodies...
           i should know a little about that...
i was fat... then thin... then fat again:
now i'm a bullish bulk of a man in his prime...
i will not do any torso work except for
press-ups... i like my lamb-stomach pouch...
plus... body-hair doesn't look good
on a six-pack... plus a hairy chest:
i sometimes go to work with an unbuttoned
shirt... ooh... people noticed i have a hairy
chest: like someone sprinkled pepper on it...
yeah: two legs too and a beard...
one of the guys started cracking jokes that
i'm a lookalike to some actors from the 1980s...
***** or film?
but a hairy torso doesn't go well with
a six-pack... i'd have to shave...
i saw one br'uh on the train the other day:
i seriously distrust men who's bicep girth
is either similar to their calves...
biceps triceps... whatever...
   i distrust the look of men when their arms
are larger than their legs...
absolute ******* posers...
they must be pumping some sort of juice...
some variation of steroids...
but my god... a plump woman:
i don't mean a single mum sort of beached whale
i mean: ****** plump plum of a woman...
i lose my mind...
              it's truly a hot summer if i'm
thinking about *** all the time...
i just can't stop... it's like a second quest for
rediscovering gravity...
and all the glory of a "cis-hetero-normative":
ah ha ha "*******" that comes with the ancient
whisper from Ovid...
i just discovered this trend on twitter...
i don't know whether they're scam accounts
or whether they're authentic...
oh man... these women are thirsty...
about time to play...
(a) watermelon man - Herbie Hancock
(b) backdoor man - Howlin' Wolf...

   and you're telling me? you're telling me?!
the African man not exposed to the English
language and "slavery": coal-miners?!
i thought the Polacks were the industrial "*******"...
working coalmines and the metallurgy...
you're telling me? you're telling me?
the African man could have conjured up jazz
in Africa?! the African man could have conjured
up the blues?! in Africa?!
you're telling me the African man:
and oh! oh the misery! could have conjured up
these fiendish: liberating arts with his African
speech?!

well... if the Hebrews received reparations from
the Germans for the Holocaust...
i still wonder... who the **** is going to pay "us"?
the Germans won't own up...
the Russians won't own up...
are we asking for free money?
   no, oh no no... we're asking for more strife!
that's how you live: proper: you strive...
if a lazy body: then an agitated mind...
if a lazy mind: then an agitated body...

that's how life: works...
look at me... i've returned to listening to the blues
because i'm thinking about ***...
i can't stop myself thinking about tomorrow's
shift and what will follow...
i figured it out... keep agitating that dangling "thing"
several days prior without climaxing...
then after the shift drink 75cl of apple cider...
wander around the brothel...
then buy some whiskey, take a sip... walk in...
and? perform...

         oh to hell with chemical additives... ****** my ***...
there need to be: plans in place to perform
on a whim... with someone you never slept with
before... oh... but there's one honey in my eye...
that one from a ******* i had...
the one i wanted to do solo...

my god: listening to the blues and thinking about ***...
it's almost as good as drinking ms. amber
or eating self-made mint chocolate-chip ice-cream...
blah blah: n'ah n'ah... moaning about a past...
always with the past...
if it weren't for the Africans exposed to
the English language we'd have nothing worth
of modernity...
these weaklings moaning and groaning
walking on nuggets of what ought to be feet!

if it weren't for the Africans exposed to
the English tongue: complete strangled by it...
why didn't they try a Canadian taste of bilingualism?
or the Swiss try at triangulating Italian,
French and German?
like Napoleon said:
a man who knows two tongues is worth
the worth of two men...

by now i'd be stuck with the ******* moths of
history still pretending to like Mozart...
or Bach...
             but listening to the blues
and thinking about ***... and drinking...
and then going cycling...
i just want to gear up to some lazy motorist
who might tell me i'm a terrible cyclist...
i just want to heave out a terrible mouth:
an ill wind of breath: i want to vent out anger
for anger's sake...

while cleaning the house: dearest Mary...
you like cleaning the house? my mother asked...
no, dearest mother...
i hate cleaning the house...
but what do i love? i love a clean home...
i abhor sloths... i abhor people with no self-awareness...
i abhor people with no self-hygiene standards...
but i also love flies... isn't that a pretty picture...
wrap me up in a fleece of flies
and tell me to run into a morphed spider-web
with a black widow sitting at the centre
all pretty: feminist...
borrowed themes from the insects:
the modern woman as the Mantis and the Black Widow...
sure as **** nothing mammalian about her...
well... beside the prostitutes...

i hardly think i ever paid for lies...
it's a sure good sign if they're moaning
and groaning with their mouths already full...
now all i have to do
it pretend to play the violin while stroking my beard...
i can't escape it: the blues and thoughts erotica...
peaches and cream...
mint and chocolate-chip ice-cream...
pork and thyme... beef and rosemary in
a Turkish Lavash dish, wrap...

*** and tiredness... nicotine is better than
caffeine...
                  plump plum *** of a woman...
pigeon voyeurism...
it's not like you'll ever see crows mating...
in the open...
but pigeons do: ***** *******:
of the 100 rejections you see...
there's about 2 that make it with all that flurry
of flapping wings trying a ballerina's balance
of doggy-pigeon style *******...

oh... oh: i feel so liberated with all these women
feeling so liberated...
    i can have multiple ****** encounters
and feel no shame... none... zilch... nada...
thank you: woman...
i don't need to be your wage-slave-labourer...
i'm just going to cycle to the Chadwell Heath
bicycle shop to inquire about the cost
of fixing up my £500 TREK mountain bicycle...
i'm getting tired of the road-bike...
i need to get off the grid... Havering County
Park is beckoning...

i'm freed! thank you, woman!
you have you little ****-boys and i have my serious
women who like *******, proper...
there's the money on the table:
no dinner dates... no cinema dates...
thank you!
  thank you thank you thrice thank you!
no commitment...
let me just tap into this thirst pool of single
yummy-mummies... these
yummy-sloppies...
                  hell: i might even get some **** for free!

i need to watch this twitter trend...
i mean: if i simply exposed myself like they expose
themselves... it's infuriating:
not impossible to deal with: just ****** infuriating...
here comes the donkey:
and here comes the stick and carrot...
  it's like that with these doubtful women...
already coupled... probably married...
mums: definitely children on that Titanic of a
sinking woman... yet she wants more: more: more...
validation points... more validation points...
is she still ****-able: question:
is she still able-to-****?

                       do we really need to explore
the dimensions of latex gimp suits?!
i don't think so...
                        wholesome... porridge style *******...
starve a little... then blow your head out with
a shotgun of slobbering on a dozen oysters
that compose her one pretty little ****...
floral patterns and spring in her eyes and mouth...

one more ******* "******" starts telling me
he's the victim of some white *******...
i'll tell him: you little dip-****...
the African man would have never enriched
humanity with the blues and with the jazz
if he wasn't exposed to the English tongue!
it's not like these people worked the coal-mines!
my god... oh! bemoan the labours of cotton-picking!
my god! each cotton bug probably weighed
the worth of gold back then!
it's not like people are not in the fields these
days plucking up cabbages!
waste of breath / space sort of people argumentation
practices: always ******* awry...
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
unlike a texan:
                        with my acquired english
sensibility:
        clear blue skies?
                in july?
not the best idea...
                  
    i worked through three different
rehydration
      procedures
                   accompanied by
drinking heavily in the night...

1. water, and squash, water...
   2. 30 strawberries
   followed up with 2 glasses of milk
(pristine **** followed
  on the throne of thrones)
3. watermelon, herbie hancock,
  squash, water...

what the hell is so good
about a pristine blue sky hanging
over you, with a suffocating
impetus?

    do i look like an arab?
or a kenyan?

                           but sure, sure...
she... she can bask in it,
   come copper skin...
                          then there's that other
pristine porcelain, vampiric example
of i'm only happy when it rains...

that: sweet, aromatic kitchen
                                of autumnal rot,
        that very particular aphrodísiac,
only replicated
   to the same standard,
in deep continental hearth -
               in a pine forest....
                         looking for
                                  honey fungus.

— The End —