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Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i tried to assimilate, oh wait, i did, and i speak better native sprechen than the actual natives, and for that? you get the boot, because some camel jockey egyptian mongrel mixed with iranian blood gets the better of you... i guess the "natives" were fans of the eastern european *******, but not the eastern european males, **** it, i'm coming for the ride; can just see the ****** shouting: ooh ooh! their male counterparts are a'coming! and next thing you know, i'll be asking you to play the ******* banjo, with a toothpick!*

and it was always going to be torrential rain,
suspended in a prelude crescendo
of soulfly's song prophecy...
oh all the hoes come from eastern europe,
just like all didlo moulds come from africa,
gotta perfect that "pleasing of the white
******* honey cougar in plastic too, yo, bro..."
black people don't speak the current
lexicon, they are hyper-evolutionary
with their slang impromptus,
gets annoying after a while,
when you stop keeping track of their
ghettosprechen...
      ******* could have said custard,
meant margarine, but i'd still think of
jungle...
                     ghetto *****, get-a-go!
next time you mention all women of
eastern europe as ******, i'll mention
you in my charcoal wish-yo-were-edible
roasts... **** me... i'd prefer eating a leg
of lamb than a ******; shank.
oh, the word offends you,
but doesn't offend you in a rap limerick?
i.e. ***** ***** bab bab *****?
black people invent too much slang,
too much degenerate use of language,
      i try to keep it straight and universal,
off the orangutans go, talking orange is
the new black...
           i still find it hard to fathom
darwinism, who would be mad to begin
in africa, and end up in the arctic circle,
and no china?! common origins *******...
  tried looking for an eskimo in china,
all i found was, a ******* icecube!
      post-existentialism does exists,
it exists in the form of anglo-existentialism,
i.e. a darwinistic blackmailing...
    21st century existentialism is blackmail,
plain dumb & simple...
   and yes, i have a girlfriend, i call her...
sophia...
       and nietzsche was right:
the ugliest of the ugliest? atheists,
intellectually speaking.
       and why would you ever consider
the pristine sophia / ****** mary if not considering
aspasia, phryne, rahab, theodora,
   to counter philosophy,
   why not craft a:
    philospasy, a philophryny,
       a philorahabu, a philothedorum?
guess what, of the most famous prostitutes,
the contestants are philorahabu,
                     and philothedorum,
and all are famous prostitutes;
then the pristine sophia, my "girlfriend";
philosophy has a deity, that although
deemed pristine, has been touched by
many hands, and many strangleholds of ego,
time to turn this princess into a *****;
and the ones that visited a *******,
will look at those that haven't with curious
eyes.
let's not forget the siamese twin prostitutes
safa & marwa, and the matriarch
and true founder of islam ha-gar -
      the concubine of abraham,
  that ******* mother of islam.... hagar...
you really think men invented the islamic
attire for women?
              who's at the chanel catwalk,
straight men, or gays and women?
       you blame anyone, you blame: hagar...
running between the mounts safa & marwa...
islam, that totalitarian reinvention of
"repentant" / "revised" mode of prostitution...
and as i once overheard an englishman speak,
the niqab? satan's postbox.
- the craft began with treating the world as
solely inanimate, to make it as inanimate as
possible, and interact in it,
   as the sole animate agent, obviously with
the obvious hurdles of animate expressions,
nonetheless, these expressions being
outside the vicinity of integrated animate
actors, working around in inanimate surroundings,
conclusively,
  the "supposed" animate expression regain
their inanimate stratum by a repeatedly
predictable observation of
a prior re similis ad infinitum
  (prior to, again, similar toward infinity).
the point was always to make the world
as inanimate as possible,
    collecting books is a starter,
  collecting cooking utensils another,
the point being, to surround yourself with as
much inanimate reality, as to prove yourself
the animate, the "actor"...
             or more expressively: the puppeteer...
it still bothers me, grinding two prefixes...
the penta-      vs.        the tetra-...
   why? well, we are embodied with five sense,
but there are only four elements...

    vision
audition
gustation                       yes, but there's only
  olfaction
     somatosensation

                    air, fire, earth, water...
      this is almost gagging a schematic,
  we can see fire, earth and water,
  we can hear fire, air, water and earth,
      we can taste...
      we can smell fire, air, water, earth,
we can touch fire, water, earth...

this, by the way is crude...
   and is limited by not adding particular
observations...
   but the ratio 5:4 is in place, akin to
the mad hatter's 10/6 = 0.666...
         and that missing one is: ad infinitum,
might as well call it the lazy eight with 4:5...
since the elements came prior to the senses.

i'm guessing the "fifth element" to compliment
the five senses is a far greater posit than
a sixth sense, in that, this "fifth element"
is a plagiarism of kierkegaard,
  i.e. the "changelessness of god",
namely the eternally immovable object,
an object of constantly perpetuated friction,
so stationary that it moves all things,
which also precipitates into an eternally
recurrent subject matter,
immovable, ergo, inexhaustible.

- and i will die believing that anglo-existentialism
is an argument from the perspective
of blackmail, esp. since it's overtly-repetitive
and unoriginal,
  and if the english found continental
existentialism boring, a continental european
like myself, will find some hidden interest
in this "boring" artefact of time,
   but nothing can redeem repetition,
not even a boring artefact of writing,
   since when reading a boring "effort" of
writing, you can actually wake up,
and yawn...
  but when the same "effort" is repetitive,
you never get a chance to yawn,
you're still asleep, "apparently" enthralled.

- and to give a conclusion...
if an irishman thinks you write akin to
the psychiatric slang of "word salad",
ask him if he has read any james joyce,
if the answer is no, and he replies that he prefers
video game narratives, and has ambitions of
writing a book citing the cliche moonlight sonata
of beethoven... it's one of those times
you can't even laugh, internally, or externally.

- eventuality vs. actuality -
whereby actuality is a reactionary stance
that drags past events into present and future
events...
   whereby eventuality is a liberal stance
that drags past events into a wall,
   the present into a status quo,
  and the future into a snooze button phase
of a clockwork orange.

- no, i don't like this darwinistic blackmail of
continental existentialism,
  this monochromatic monolith...

- better start calling philosophy by its proper name,
philorahabu / philothedorum
(were not underlined on the pixel canvas,
thereby bypassing the oxford dictionary panel
for nuo-verbum acceptance) -
      keep that ****** of yours sophia
in a cage, because your thinking,
like your body, will become contaminated;
but one thing is for sure,
that concubine hagar running between
safa & marwa looking for water...
    can't imagine any other grander matriarch...
a reformed *** slave, who gave birth
to the niqab...
            i really can't imagine jannah
that way... i think it looks like:
1 man + 72 prostitutes,
              and 1 woman + 3 holes stuffed.
Styles May 2014
Wish me luck - like a speech for me to read before I play. I am going to print it out and keep it with me., when I am at the final table, and it's televised, right before I win. The last hand, before I make the call of a lifetime - clock ticking, $35k first place prize money; I am going to take it out, look at it. Then call, Like a Boss. Black tinted classes, headphones looking like speakers, Yankees cap tipped to the side, Charles dickens on my lap. Sipping on some water shipped in from Vergeze. Cool as an icecube, rocking a tight Tee. Blue jeans, tim boots, Blasting ice -Tea; dudes ain't worried about cards, until the check me. I'm nice with calls, I'm like Jordan when he first started wearing the two-three. Sticking my tongue out at dudes that try and bluff me; the lack luster in comparison to me. I'm seeing their tells, like sign language. They try and force my hand, I do maximum carnage. My shine don't tarnish.
rough draft
REL Feb 2013
i'm not your lover or your friend.
i'm your crutch: your time machine
to tenth grade and dragons but
no dungeons, they didn't let the girls play

i knew our skins would absorb one another
and i never touched in fear for colors
dashed and blinding, killed.
i want to die an icecube, still

have you ever had a young love grow old?
your words are archaic and covered in mold
there's a hint of affection, still
i'm afraid that this time i'll ****.
021113
Alpha Wolf Feb 2014
Drunk man walkin down a rainy street,
A wood floor and new socks on your bare feet,
Ya look down and suddenly your lookin up, woops I slipped and fell in love.
Bald tire runnin on an icy road, steep hill underneith a foot of snow, a greased pig fallin off a pick up truck, woops I slipped and fell in love.
I hope that your feelin the way that I feel, its just like flyin but your standin still, the birds and the bees are sure powerful stuff, woops i slipped and fell in love.
An icecube hidin on your kitchen floor, S back step leadin up ta your back door. Now howd I wind up on my ****?
Woops i slipped and fell in love. I hope that your feelin the way that i feel its just like flyin but your standin still, the birds and the bees are sure powerful stuff, woops i slipped and fell in love.
i hope that your feelin the way that i feel, its just like flyin but your standin stilk. The birds and the bees are sure powerful stuff. woops i slipped and fell in love. Help ive fallen and cant get up. woops ive slipped and fell in love.
For the love of my life. she knows who she is and she knows i love her.
Jake muler Jul 2015
The day is hot today as the cool breeze is like a icecube today
AM Jan 2016
can I have
just a day of our time
maybe a walk in the park
or a coffee with heavy talk
just a moment of us
watching comedy on YouTube
laughing until we choke an icecube
just a ceremony for you or me
when I exchange vows with him
or when your son turned three
just one
just one more
of you,
brother
Dark Smile Jun 2014
Today was the first time that I cut four tiny parallel lines on my wrist. I didn't use a blade or a razor. I used the sharp end of a compass. I don't know why I did it. But it felt good. All I know was that the pain inside was too much to bear and I needed to breathe. My demons were suffocating me. After that I ran to the kitchen and took an icecube and rubbed it along those four lines. I hadn't drawn much blood but the lines were there. Now, five minutes later, I can still feel the sting; a dull, numb pain.
Kate Jun 2019
Why do I look to the birds
for a message from you?

The quiet portrait I took of you
in a Wellington hotel room
was stolen for the
front page news

Don't cry.

My therapist asks
'What do you miss about your friend?'
So I write this for you
And pretend you can hear me

Here I say -
I can't and I won't
eat another Japanese pancake
Without you
Without your smile

I can't and I won't
Watch Totoro
Or drink gin with a round icecube
Without you
Without your kindness

I can't and I won't
Listen to Bon Iver
Without your hurt
Without your hurt on my mind

This writing and mourning
has nothing
on the day you died

All our laughter
Adventures
Secret conversations
And promises
Are now gathering dust
in the 5 years it took
To realise
You are gone.
The Broken Poet Sep 2015
I spend all my days in a jumble of letters
Words rambling on
They are tangled at the tip of my tongue
They are thought with my heart like a blood rose
I am the rain
I say everything at once
Slowly and rapidly with no avail, lightning interlacing
Or I don't say much of anything
A drought drying my wordless throat
I've learned that the only words we regret
Are the ones that our lips have yet to form
The ones that have not been voiced
But thought at the back of our minds
Melting and freezing like an icecube
The ones that we struggle to string along
The words that haunt us late at night
The ones we wish to scream till our lungs collapse
We say all that our heart's feels
Through a simple poem
But we are still struck with the loss of words
Have we said all that we are feeling?
Have we still some feelings left to be said?
makeloveandtea Aug 2017
And what happens to the teacups after we've left?
Clinking, clanging at the table;
carried, catapulted, cleaned.
Do they know of our lips that tasted of each other,
or things said, unsaid?
Where do eight years go?
Just, ****!!
― gone.
Or still occurring
in folds between our conscious blinks, our separate times midst now and then.
Do you and I exist again?
and again, and again?
Crossing the street again;
in the grass, under the blanket,
at the park again?
Are we kissing
again?
The lights and the people,
brown irides and darker pupils of this stranger,
and I,
round and round on this merry-go-round
― it's déjà vu.
Am I in the 'Again'?
Maybe déjà vu is Again, after all.
I'm at the beach once more;
they've built new houses.
You must've changed as well;
built new houses.
But I only remember old handwriting,
legs on legs, eating at 5am, icecube dragged across my skin;
I remember you in Agains.
Clinking, clanging at the table,
our teacups.
carried, catapulted, cleaned,
brought again ―
Maybe they
have seen ghosts of us
over again.
AJ Farruco Oct 2019
My wife doesn't know/
Can't turn it off/
She’s a broken record/
I’m rusty pins & needles in her arms/
She wants rehabilitation/
Pushing too hard to pull me out/
But I'm a grenade pin/
Blow up in your face/
Blunt force trauma/
She said "*******"/
I punched a hole in the bathroom door/
One day, I'm gonna get arrested/
But until then.../
I'll tread this frozen water/
Tried to be funny, cracked a Dad-joke/
Like a whip; you didn't even laugh/
Whatever, left me mad cold/
My heart is an icecube/
Crushed, inside a cocktail/
Molotov flying like a drunk pig on fire/
Crash & burn the pity party alive/
This is the realest **** I ever wrote/
My wife doesn't know/
Can't turn it off/
She's a broken record/
I scratch into oblivion/
But that's my science friction/
Mousetrapreplica./
© + ® A.J. Farruco, 12/10/2019.

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