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Michael DeVoe Jul 2013

The thing about fingerprints is not that, right now, there are seven billion different unique fingerprints on seven billion different people.
It is not that in all of human history no one finger print has been repeated, making, if my math is right, which it's not, twenty trillion individual fingerprints.
Nor is it even that none of the quadrillions of people that will come after me will have my exact finger print.
No, the thing about fingerprints is that they are utterly useless
Which is to say they serve no practical purpose in the survival of the **** Sapien.
That's a lot of effort to put into something that is pointless

2.
If we were created in God's image, then God was a man and
I imagine he took Sunday off and came back to work on Monday like the rest of us.
So maybe fingerprints haven't been forever.
Like with snowflakes maybe God's just doing some interior decorating lately.

Or maybe Saint Peter was kicking it with God in the break room at heaven and was like, "Dude...we need a new system, too many people are dying and I can't keep looking up everyone's deeds by hand; it's taking too long."
And in a moment of genius He was all, "I got this bro" and invented the fingerprint
Then went down to Best Buy and got one of those scanner things for the pearly gates and now when you die you just scan your finger and it auto-populates your deeds and if you get in it's all awmmmm and the gates open,
And if you don't get in it's all whup whum and you fall through a hole in a cloud in the sky and land in a fiery pit of hell.

(My parents stopped making me go to church in 2nd grade so my visions of heaven and hell are colored in crayon.)

3.
I wonder if the image of God sitting at a desk with a protractor, compass, drafting pencils, and tracing paper designing each individual finger print all day long comforts you?

4.
Maybe we're some Alien sociology major's thesis and our fingerprints are our unique identifiers for tracking and data collection purposes

5.
When I started this poem I thought maybe fingerprints are keys.
As in someone out there has the fingerprint that unlocks me.
But I've loved more than once
Hurt more than twice
And had a lot more *** than that
So unless this key unlocks something I've never heard of my lock's broken and I need to know who to call about that.
But I don't like to think of myself as broken anymore.

6.
Maybe when God's little helpers are making us they slice off a sheet of skin from the butcher roll, spread it out flat sticky side up on the stainless steel slab.
Grab a set of bones off the shelf lay them down and like canvas around a frame stretch the skin tight around our skeleton.
Starting from toes, to the knee, over the shoulder, around those pesky elbows
Until they tie us off at the finger tips with twine, cut the excess with sheep sheers, let it heal.
Fingerprints.
Our our little "Heche en el cielo"

7.
When I fall in love for the last time, I will dip my finger in red paint.
I will roll my finger across the bare chest of my love and she will wear it there
Like a tattoo no one else could give her.

8.
Maybe there is no point to fingerprints
Like arpeggios before a concerto
Maybe God was just warming up

9.
Maybe fingerprints are the point to everything

10.
Maybe an omnipresent God is at every birth
In every bedroom, hospital, and taxi cab
In every town, in every city, in every country in the world.

Maybe every time a baby is born
God, takes the time to name it
Then writes it down
In a language only He understands
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
MissNeona Sep 2014
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Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
and in my "hiatus" period of absence, circa 15th of April and 15th of December (minutes from a yesterday)... i've come to regret the Russians not having any... no... rather the bare minimum of orthography... surprise surprise! there's plenty to choose from! i had to return to a time when i was drilling greek into my head... naturally: a time for cyrillic was on the horizon... but... i couldn't do it with english alone... i need my mother tongue, a tongue that employs diacritical markers... again and again: english can do away with its j... it goes missing when raised to stand from a sitting position ȷ(J)... and it can cut the head off its I(standing)... ı(sitting)... to make an emphasis... i have been busy... drinking aside, have a look where i have been for the past... april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december:

ź = зь and ż = зъ

i'm drinking - and i am my most content - the world burns and goes about its usual wordly theatre... i'm huddling with a cameo role in the background... i am drinking content... my 3rd or 4th rejection letter! this time from : austin macauley publishers (london, cambridge, new york - sharjah - where the **** is sharjah?!) - i remember sending them a "manuscript" and a book already printed, bound... they said it would take them 6 weeks to reply... i didn't enclose an email address... i had to wait for the snailmail... my my... what lovely handwritting of my name and address... in the letter i did state: it's e(sch)lert... she omitted the (sch)... a rebecca crib admin assistant, of the editorial... 6 weeks though... hmm... i posted the letter and manuscript and the book way back prior to visiting my grandparents... circa 8th of september... it's a rejection letter... that much is true... but i'm drinking in celebration! i was making dinner in the afternoon and was asked: why are you so angry? i wasn't... i tried to figure out what i'd feel when enough of ms. amber was in me... i replied: i'm being apathetic... but now it's clear: i'm jovial! there's even a signature! an authentic signature... in all honesty... a rejection letter means something... if it is physically mailed... of course i'm celebrating! i exist! i exist outside the realm of getting spam snail-mail! of course i will reply... i'll tell them: destroy and recycle the manuscript - it really wasn't a manuscript to begin with... i pour my "efforts" on the manuscript canvas that's the html... but the already printed book? can you please not burn in... rather... keep it? i'd appreciate no 1933 Säuberung... and you know (kind reader) - i'll send this introspection to the same publisher... like it is... pop / pulp or whatever mongerel of style this has had to be... but a reply! i want to see how one might escape formal language, formal affairs, social affairs, esp. in letters - a dear ms. X / to whomever it might concern Y... kind regards / yours faithfuly Mr. Z... this has to be celebrated... given what's on the horizon... the norwegian novel viking a'comin'! the buldozer autobiography... the demand for a "death" of fiction... otherwise i'm still "here"... a "here" that truly is so distant that its distance allows my petty leeching and the world's grand fiasco theater of fire and smoke and mirrors! - after all... i'm not mad enough to be welcome to a cage if i'm a sparrow... a cage of rhyme, form and all those shackle devices / identifiers of "poetry"... the future is narrative... and the current narrative says? if you asked me to dress proper, for an opera... to don the shirt the tux and the bow (tie)... the well ironed trousers... perhaps... beside the point: air's in the head and i just wish i could heat it up... for a baloon of quasi-egoism effect... otherwise what is there... a former journalist becomes an isolationist essay-scribbler? all the best journalists retire from the profession and become essayists... polemicists... whatever... this "poet" says: no poet ever writes a novel... the real life is too fictive already... and most certain this "poet" adds: begone! lyricism and rhyme! i'll sing like the humming drone cleric of the hive of ambient refrigerator sounds at 2am when everything is sleeping...

capital: oh... so that's what it was... back circa 1990 - when inflation of currency was rife all over Poland? that's when foreign capital was flowing in: foreign money... the economy was flooded with pounds and dollars... and given the exchange rate: i remember a time when you could get circa 7zł for every 1 £ sterling... so why would a nation start to print its own money? well... because more foreign money is coming in - at the given exchange rate: apologies: i was born yesterday - i need to explain certain things, from scratch... as was once stated - there's only a finite amount of money in circulation... physical money... "apparently"... and no... if you were to materialise all the wealth in this world into either fiat or gold: there wouldn't be enough of it... but how else would inflation happen in a country like Poland circa 1992? foreign investement: the wild west of eastern europe when the soviet barricade fell... i do remember being asked a question as a child: which is more... these copper coins... or this piece of paper? on the piece of paper was written 5, 000, 000zł - i said the copper coins... i wasn't either right or wrong - the person asking the question laughed... i don't think it was a question of: there are more copper coins in the hand... than a single piece of paper... after all... perhaps i acted all trans-****-sapiens and became chimp and saw less zeros on the copper coins than on the piece of paper? how else does does a currency inflate - when foreign currency is poured into it... it's the opposite of foreign aid... you put £1 into an economy - with an exchange rate: currently you'd get circa 4, 50zł out of... so where is all this "excess" money to come from? the moment when foreign money is invested... is the moment you have to start printing your own money... imagine... if the word BLACK was worth more than CZERŃ (чернь): oh, we'd readily translate BLACK = CZERŃ... but we also need a sentence for that "to make sense"... and there i was... thinking that russian doesn't apply diacritical markers... oh... right... they're not as discrete with accents like some of us... notably? нь = ń... and so and likewise... wait wait... źródło (source)... in russian it would look, look: oh so ugly... зьрoьд-ł-ł-o... (wh)en (wh(en) but now i know this (w)oe: the soft sign (acute)... and the hard sign for... e.g. życzenia (wishes)... зъыченя (perhaps зъычениa) - point being: ź = зь and ż = зъ... now does language come to me...it never left me... but now ai appreciate the minor details... i see the english and their language and how they speak it... how they churn out metaphysics and how they call forthe help of **** similis to give history the rusty coating of: nothing between a today and tomorrow: there's only the hanging off a tree from a a tail that the chimpanze doesn't thave... everything is so very metaphysical: it's never orthographic! тe два: tak - тe: оба (there's a wikipedia mistake... U+0411 / U+0431... not o'bah... oo'b'ah...): щекaць: szczekać! to bark... eh... greek became too rigid... i could remember all the letters... always buckling on ζ (zETA) and ξ (11), upsilon (υ) and nu-nu-nu (ν)... and this is, practically nonsense to anyone with a base literacy knowledge... to exagerrate... who does mind such pedantic pleasures... when they could be somewhere else: skiing! but it's worthwhile to know how a nation's currency can be inflated... foreign money flows into the country - and whatever the exchange rate is... there is no such thing as a "grafitti compensation": then again, there is... perhaps literacy has been inflated... inflated for a second literacy of coding to be assured? otherwise? bypassing the orthodox print... bypassing orthodox editorial scrutiny... was... "nice"... until the moment when the mediator sought to see fit that the reader had more authority over the written word: having re(a)d it - over the person who had / has: written it! we do part our ways with the russians on the "debate" concerning the "cedilla" involving A(ą) and E(ę)... cedilla: yes yes... akin to garçon - waiter! waiter! please - that greek sigma at the end of a word: and all its ασπεκτς... aσpectς - that really is an orthographic statement... only Ssssssss'igma is a letter with "three dimensions" suited for it... a handwritten element... otherwise in the news this week? the apostrophe society is no more... like when you don't put a possessive article if the thing in "question" ends with an S, in english? e.g.? the colours' (sez sirs - alt. colours's sez sirs... ses-esses) imbued harmony... and that is a possesive article, isn't it? with an apostrophe: 's? it's not a plural identification - there would be no need for the apostrophe to begin with! pounds' worth: no... not a pound's worth - the worth of a pound... pounds' worth: the worth of pounds! - what's that german word... glücke! nein nein... etymological root: glück 'luck' (etymology is the new history... it bypasses journalism and serves some journalistic cousin that's powdered in dust of cremated bookworms) - and yes, a hypen can come to the fore: after a full-stop and the opening of a new sentence with a conjugation: - with disbelief / - and!

i'm not buying how the media narrative will turn Cymru into a "K-affair"... sim sim: similie or else... but these have been my greek buckles: ξ (oh... that's why i wrote 11... XI - ksi...) - it's rare to see ξ sometimes: esp. in philosophy books... rubric!

- ζ
- ν
- υ (i can be forgiven, these two letters
are not suited for print... unless working
with a microscope) - unlike a roman Vv...
- ξ

but this is just the greek... if you ever read some modern... you'd think: and i just don't know, where they get their ideas from - with all those diacritical excesses that heidegger notes...

but now... for my cyrillic mini-adventure:

from Miньsk (Mazowieцki): with love

it might be said, that if i just the bare minimum -
if i even do not write anything at all -
but i have too many petty griefs during the day
to much else than the odd, occasional chore;
at the same time i do not want to sound
amused, bewildered, bored or un-used...
it's just that i find writing and drinking before
falling to my 343rd death -
my 343rd labour for mask and then exfoliated
in a dream: that might come...
or might not come...
unless a known audience... a wake sized nieche
privy... i find either unconscious or subconscious
struggles to warm up to an anonymous crowrd...
unless it was me being propped up on stage...
flooded by light... and the audience in the din:
with barely a shadow to scratch...
perhaps: then and only then...
but i've found that: it would be best that i sentence
the 2hs spare i have for merely drinking
and loitering from one video to another:
perchance something new in music is to emerge...
"coquettish" with a "something" that will never
have any realism-focus for me to undertake
a second's day carnality of the banal...
perhaps all this: "going out of my own way"
has been too much - or just enough...
to make me drink more and take more pharma
knock-out enzymes...
a naproxen and an amitriptyline...
perhaps the focus was elsewhere...
to stand frozen in awe...
when someone might "add": from one big void:
ex nihil a priori to... nihil a posteriori...
and all this cameo theatre in between!
mein gott... i can also convene to praise those
brutal breeders of sorts...
enough time to occupy two decades...
perhaps even three...
and then the grim reality of: should my child
die... or... some other worse:
the mortal should not be inflicted by...
"not reading into the genetic clues": properly:
"all at once"...
oh i would be so much happier to take this mind to sleep:
to not make some idle focus -
to entertain some eyes while i turn aside all things
hyper-inflated in purpose...
to die of a heart-attack in one's sleep...
but otherwise to simply focus on a welcome tomorrow...
that would be...
a gracious beginning to posit the day's slouching
zenith... or... i'm not sure whether this be a coming
zenith or a nadir...
but there's still that clear-cutting focus
regarding russian orthography...
cutting it with two tongues... slit at the tip...
with english the "placebo": no diacritical markers evident...
well: a TILDE over a ȷ is no more necessary...
than a "tittle" (not thai-tle... ty'ttle) over an ı...
to borrow the greek phrase: cut one head of hydra -
two emerge... cut the two heads...
i come toward the russian mish-mash of diacritical
application...
it's not be-au-ti-ful... it's messy... it's what it is...
but already i can see what this: cutting off the heads
of the english j-i hydra looks like...
it's not enough to simply enlarge them to state: CAP(I)TAL-(J)...
the knitty-gritty... why then the tilde atop of 'em?
prior "corrections": łen and when...
is not akin to... wrak or wreck... although these two words
have the same meaning...
unless: "partisan" V comes in...
very - weary... Cracow or Krakov?
a W = a Ł = a W = a V ≠ a Ł...
Ęwa and Ądam (e nosinė) are not covered by
Russian orthography...
the list is as follows:
ż (зъ) and... ć (ць), ń (нь), ó (oь), ś (сь), ź (зь)...
the graphemes? i'll call them graphemes for simplicity...
even though: they're not the smallests units...
as are vowels... or the syllables of consonants
in the latin choir of B'ee, C'ee... e'M... etc.
ж alternatively RZ (Ż) or Ž... otherwise the fwench:
je (suis)... this is nothing more than...
an encyclopedic evaluation...
a trainwreck proposal of: should i ever be stuck in
in russia... and i would have to: read... (ee'd - r'ah)...
chop off a TILDE off the torso of the english:  ȷ...
a crescent moon lying back emerges in the russian... й...
but it's not the english: jeep! it's an english: yeep!
or a  ȷeep! alternatively: yawn could be:  ȷawn...
but not if: it's jaws... coming into play: to chatter from
the siberian cold... how else to explain?
if not by... example?
then there's the "exploration" of the greek F...
as much as in english...
фoughts on θilosoφy...
good to know the russians only "borrowed"
one of the greek Fs... "culturally appropriated" or...
wasn't St. Cyrill born a greek?!
and away from greek we move...
since χ (chi): yep: perpleX... a Ks to a Ts
(note, revision found below)...
otherwise hidden... in non-vowel binding consonants...
like... ч- and -х (although... that's not quiet a Ch-ur-hC -
but sure... some altar for siц and... no... no siPS)...
cholera! which is not: SHow me the CHow mein...
for that we need CARONs...
that's when ч becomes CZ (in polish) or otherwise:
Č... long have i wanted the polish to adopt this version...
to hide the SZ and the CZ (es'zed, х'zed) respectively...
how else to write: szczekam?
a russian would write... щекaм...
out of a "simple" ш out pops out a щ (this letter...
is probably the only "etymological" route to bind russian
to the oddities of Ęva and Ądam (e nosinė)...
ш (š) becomes щ (šč) -
whoever was to undermine the old rules
of engagement when the ruling parties gave up
a monolopy of literacy? you can literally hide an entire
letter / meaning by using a hachek...
hook...
as i begin to wonder:
how much did the slavic tribes "appropriate" greek...
and how much did the two greek saints...
try to make sense of the slavic glagolitic script?
em... Ⱋ looks pretty intact if you cut off the body... E:
reclining...
but i do come from the western lands of the eastern
lands... hence? hardly any cyrilic influence...
but i too: with my own oddities... already mentioned...
come to think of it? the bulgars joined
the "party"?
beside that? what other, russian"oddities"?
orthographic - i.e. aesthetic dictations / rubrics...
ю really is a я... the russians have this english tendency
to stress their pronouns...
i this... i that! i walked up a street! and kicked a black
cat 13 times down the street to ease my luck!
you can talk in polish for days... and never stress the I / я
pronoun... really...
and ю is just a variation of я...
throw in the remaining vowels and you'd probably
come up with some "new" russian letters...
like ye... good point... i did make a "mistake"...
щэкaм! i'm barking!
unless... that's only an orthographic question...
notably? if you're going to: zerkać...
peer in / at "on and off"... casually...
зэркaць... em... it must be an orthographic question...
ergo? i wasn't exactly "wrong"...
just bad taste... зeркaць...
i've already shown the difference between (ъ) and (ь)
in a latin script: that uses more diacritical markers
than english "supposedly" escapes with focusing
on the rather pointless TILDE over the J and I...
this "oddity": ы... ɨ  clearly it's not exactly a ł...
minor details... like a mona lisa smiling...
best example of close proximity?
take a... no... that's a hollowed out "why"...
i know how it sounds... and there are no diacritical marks
needed for it... since there's a clear distinction
that i know of, between: I J Y...
tY... this little sucker is born from the fact that...
western slavs have a name for this letter...
iGREK... funny... the russians borrow more greek lettes...
and have to have...
ё (yo), e (ye), у (which they treat like a greek would U -
never mind the greeks themselves
making the following ref. Υγ / Γυ) -
and of course the я (ya)... so no wonder i see this
"letter" (ы) as an absolutely oddity...
i could stomach: ż (зъ) and ź (зь) differences...
well that's as far as i would come in learning russian...
spot the odd ones out... proper...
й (j) and ё... which is some german loan vowel with
that ******* umlaut... otherwise...
this poo'em was born from trying to **** the english
hydra of "orthography", with its mighty bounty
of the ȷ-ı TILDE! my my... what a ride!
come to think of it... now i think i can sleep.
- it hasn't been such a waste of an hour... drilling this in:
into my head...
after all... what did the professional clarinet player
say then asked about playing professionally
in a travelling orchestra? after 30 ******* years of
blowing hard into this thing...
guess what i still end up doing?
it's not so much learning... i'm still practising!

because this will not end like some sort of "summary"...
i will remember each letter if i weave it into
this latin letter by letter...

the refleξive (x)
in that one might have χeated (ch) -
again!
what it is about an ξ-ray that is also an
"χ"-ray? the "ex" k'ss k'ss cuss...
is this what james joyce's finnegans wake
should have looked like?
again!
the cruξ of the matter...
whenever a question was to be raised about:
any χoice to be had...

i have come to grips with russian orthography...
i'll repeat... the crescent moon over и ("e")
to state: this must be elongated: й ("y") stands outs...

best examples are given by sports commentators,
notably in ski jumping...
suffiξes of surnames...
akin to -cki endings...
yes... you're seeing what i'm seeing...
we'll need some russians to work this one
out... how a C is not an S...
and how it's not KK either...
-цки... hello wet drum-kit snare!

of course not: you're not seeing N:И...
let alone: нaйт (night...
evidently -igh- is a bit complicated...
with ref. to the surd in knight - kappa and
the gamma and the ha ha ha ha tetragrammaton
left arm... vowel catcher i'd be most inclined
to borrow from the hebrews...
whenever they're not busy actually using it...
and not being a bunch of 'ebrews -
electronic brewing of tea?)
сo дaрк (so dark)...

which is the equivalent of writting english
grafitti "backward"... how it sounds...
and not for: what's the formality?
i figured: take the small steps, the trickle...
burn the eyes out with incremental poppy-seed
acts of progress... like the grand Pilgrim Emeryk
from the Świętokrzyski region of Poland
(holy cross)...
each year the pilgrim shuffles to the top of
the mountain with a speed of:
a poppy-seed's worth of distance each year...
by the time he reaches the top of the mountain:
the end of the world will arrive...

am i the next Delmore Schwatrz?
no... i don't have a Lou Reed to contend with...
am i obsessed with Finnegans Wake?
well i didn't spot any "additions" to the letters...
i didn't see any diacritical markers...
a book that shouldn't be translated since...
it ignores... a worthwhile mention
of the concept of orthography -
which is my escape from any western vogue
of metaphysics... i hide behind the omniscient
niqab of orthography... my face can be forever
hidden... but my eyes need to be on... fire!
fire! i want you to burn!

so i went to see the russians having
left the greeks... about any "nuance" bound
to the... ****-naked english language
with its magic act of the disappearing heads
off of J and I...
as you do... you "forget them" and also have to:
somehow "remember" them to be used...

do i still enjoy drinking and listening to
teutonic chants in german?
god almighty! when wouldn't i not listen to german
medieval music... when drinking?!
is that such a terrible sin?

also? i finished the trilogy of H. Sienkiewicz...
and i read some Boris Pasternak...
there was Nietzsche in polish - paul's leash said:
he's more bearable in this language,
than in english...
and how could i forget! there was...
Knausgård... Karl, Ove... volumes 1 and 2
of mein kampf...

now a "summary": hmm... ż (зъ) and... ć (ць)...
could... now... hard sign (ъ) is not exactly worth
ascription if... or rarther: because...
you don't treat a caron over an S or a C...
to "hide the english H" or the Aesti Z when coupled...
there's no need to write чъ... since?
that's pretty much in-itself given č of the nature
of чeap...
ć / ць is different in that... you'd have to hear
it first...
however... the one exception of this "rule" is already
self-enclosed in ж... which is зъ... somehow...
but not зь... examples?

жart / зъart... żart (joke)...
зьrebi... well there's no 'ę' in russian
to name: źrebię - mustang colt...
is there?
so... i was "wrong"...
in that ź = зь and ż = зъ is true...
but? ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж...
so from a "quiet unique" perspective...
and: mein gott! who's to see, travel,
and subsequently marvel at the pyramids of giza...
i'm a different version of what's
considered to be "tourism"...

give me this sole equation:
ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж
and i'll be happy for a month.
as i have been...

oh i'm back... and things have taken
SPEC-TAC-U-LAR turns and twists!
****-naked english over 'ere is gonna make
a chariots of fire runner...
i bet it will... when it comes against a juggernaut
like me.
learning russian and drilling greek until i go "blind"
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state
by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
beyond the whiskey
and the beer drank along the familiar
path, with memory stressed
as to no accomplished ego coupling,
drunk indeed,
but rehearsing the familiar path
that thought de-activates
and there's less of identifiers required.*

in terms of gambling,
in familial setting,
betted:

watford (21-20) home to newcastle
(5-2), QPR (6-5) against wolves (9-5 to win),
barnsley v. rochdale (draw at 11-5),
chesterfield v. millwall (to win, 11-8),
oldham v. bury (draw at 21-10),
port vale v. bratford (home-side 8-5),
coventry (13-10) away winning against southend (13-8),
plymouth (11-5) against bristol rovers (evs),
accrington (13-10) against exeter (13-8) too,
manfield (6-5) winning against luton (9-5),
portsmouth drawing with oxford united (21-10),
wycombe with leyton orient (11-5) too,
yeovil beating crawley (13-10),
dundee utd. losing to kilmarnock (11-5) -
scots wish me luck,
motherwell drawing with ross county (19-10),
brochin losing to aidrie (11-10),
montrose winning over clyde (9-5),
hamilton losing to edinburgh's hearts (6-5),
finally...
burnley overcoming derby (13-10).

if i got all nineteen right, i betted 2 quid
and won a million,
split it down the middle with my father,
bet for two quid, quid each, half a million each.
my father is a cautious gambler,
bets spare change to get pennies for a million
exchange, i only desire serious alcoholism,
i am a true scot between the two pulling
two pence apart to create copper wiring,
scots are the jews of the north, after all:
i don't gamble, i play chance,
the chances of me being prophetic about five
football scores will be a, a ref. to the guinness book
of records.

i aimed high today, feminism still hasn't the foggiest
of house husbands, lazy lions,
it's still thursday pay-cheque day for the women,
i can cook a killer korma (added late
grind cashews), and a serial killer kashmiri masala curry,
organic chemistry experiments 12h a week will do that to you,
you'll enjoy cookbooks more than chemistry textbooks,
too many esters i say, spices v. perfumes, your choice
the pakistani in my off-license looked amazed i was wearing
hindu perfumes after having cooked a meal he could
recognise that wasn't a concentrate of strawberries:
find a needle in a haystack, yes... find a berry in a haystack...
no.

i love hindi cuisine, much aroma that deviates from
what europeans claim to be aromatic:
pig sweat and oxen salivate a taste for synthetic
odours when an analysis of cardamon justifies aplenty
likewise: what opens necessary porous areas
of the skin as necessarily sweet
does not necessarily invoke a sweetness for the tongue
to match: fat cows better than anorexia voodoo
of *******-champagne girls i'd tell you.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
now i see the frenzies of Dionysian composition,
quiet clearly, the uninhibited use of language,
a whirlpool through which words become unshackled,
and each screaming its own solipsism as,
walking through this forest, touching each tree
to make a sentence seems more like a crazed running
around; but never mind that -
if only the former tongue was not embedded in me,
if only this tongue were the sole occupant,
the lingua rex, the sole victor over both body
and mind, so that no stirring-up of the soul could
ever take place - but it was not to be so -
in favour of the acquired tongue i have proofs of
volumes in expression - of the organic tongue embedded
in early development i have proofs of tenacity -
and a certain straitjacket in terms of speed of composition;
yet there is no lingua rex that might shove
one or the other under the carpet, lock it in the basement,
for if even one is used, the other is working beneath
it, or at least the mentality of it - immediately translated -
if only i came earlier and as early as to allow a quick
cutting of the root from the trunk:
old trees are not to be replanted, some say,
youthful trees, some say, can take root many times
in many places:
                the tenant farmer noble stands equal
                                             to the noble army commander;
or what would have been a second education had it
not been interrupted - as if t build up a national identity?
trivial the years between 1795 and 1918, don't you think?
if one set of national identifiers are lost, a second list
of integration identifiers seem like a farce twice-over -
thank god the anthem is easy to sing:
        god save our gracious queen...
        send her victorious, happy and glorious...
em... what's the rest of it? i'm sure embracing no identity,
no history, no stigmata for myself or my neighbour,
just apart, drifting, problem is, where to put the tongue?
the tongue is already tattooed with what it is that came
before, and what comes after - we're not taught
historical erasure - has my mouth suddenly become a
cave for a sewer serpent? it would appear so -
some say enticing - some say revolting - in the end
a banker would just put it like this: what a load
of crock-****, he sees a south korean deliver him a package,
asks him whether he speaks the language, the south
korean replies yes, the banker replies: good to know -
a ****** sense of utility! but someone has to do
the writing akin to chocolate left in the sun -
the goo of things where otherwise it would be a shaking
of hands in Warsaw and yet more revenue and yet more
investments - genesis of selling London by the pound:
reflection of the surroundings? the Cockneys are moving
into Essex, that's the end of the line -
and i swing between 22 years here weighing less than
8 years where the uprisings from 1795 through to 1918
took place - well, poetry is not exactly banking,
the sentimental attachment? that too... but would a name
like wink tak lumu make more sense to have,
but speak only a word or two of the native? like the ones
who went over to syria to only scratch the surface of
arabic? they say adab (etiquette), salat (prayer),
adl (justice), da'wah (calling), ummah... but they do so
with east London accents, jihadi john's oi oi,
me and my gansta posse gonna shoot the kurf to hell -
is this what happens to the tongue stretched between
two horizons? Napoleon said that a man who knows
two languages is worth two men, man knowing three
is equivalent of three men - which is why you never
seem to take root in the specific locality of the tongue,
cosmopolitan in suburbia, nearing farmers' market
and proper pub grub on Sundays... i guess easier in
name only, but i sometimes wish i had enough time to
have an identity than a chameleon's perspective on
things - 4 accents in the ratio to 2 tongues -
13 years of synthesis, 9 years of analysis - it was never
going to be a smooth ride with constant synthesis,
at some point questions would pop up like mushrooms
after the rains in autumn - but i'm sure few people
can share the memory of picking honey fungus deep
in the forest, this one memory sticks out for me:
deep in the forest, a city of armillaria, literally a city
of this fungus, collected and then pickled, in autumn,
just after the rain - and where vegetation decomposes
fungi sprout. i can still see the earliest human near there,
a flint quarry, an entire town built from wood,
it's there - rezerwat przyrody krzemionki opatowskie,
which is no big deal with the study of turtles on
the Galapagos - that's the cut-off point for me, i can't
imagine humanoids, it's sensible like that -
but that's exactly my point, the early development,
it can be overpowering for later development, given
later development was largely constricted by an
education system, linear stand-in-line conformity -
from early development: the freedoms and the myths;
how even the ugliest communist buildings looked
prettier than what social housing provided in england,
largely because it was the norm, crucially because it was;
and so much free wild space around, not this neat
pristine cutting up of rural area where grids set
a definite path for you - crucially, the english suburban
solitude: got to go into the city and play with the kids
they'd say - later of course computers and even more
instanced of being cooked up - easier said than done
but easily done solo - think of the weirdos of China's
one state policy - me too akin - solo.
coming back to the years mentioned, after the partition
of the commonwealth - i imagine the romantic futility
of it now, but how strong the urge to not sprechen
or говорить - but the futility being, no honey
after 1918, a bit of honey trickle after 1945 when
comrade Marx paid a visit, some say the years up
to 1990 were good, some just remember the years when
Marshall Law was put in place, the hyenas at supermarket
checkout, only vinegar on the shelves, and queues,
queues as far as the eye could see, pensioners did their
bit, waited in line and chatter, Solidarity pamphleteers
made it to the U.S.A. on political asylum - could
the Soviet empire have collapsed and been partitioned
as bloodily as the Ottoman empire we're currently seeing?
want to flip a coin on that one? aspiring Ukraine of
2012 was edging in, co-host and all, now? not so much
an aspiring Ukraine, some easterners shouted for their
mummy - mummy came rushing in at Crimea - daydream
over - back to square one.
truly, a user of the tongue, and obviously nothing more,
no part of me here, no part of me there -
or in summary as worked from Heidegger's dasein,
in translation da = both here and there... hence
danichtsein, i identify with using the tongue,
and as true as is true of this antonym, it's an apathy,
there's no concern - it's a blatant way of saying:
i'm not even going to open the ****** newspaper and
invite the world in, ich bin ein inselbewohnerin.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2023
My Woman, My Partner

we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories

Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner

I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity

my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,

this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.



Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
strict obligations to mind technique -
a range of techniques to identify
a paced scribble done haphazardly
for the effect of unquestionable timing
as time itself question, settled
for lazy afternoons and volumes upon
volumes - well, the bore of schoolchildren
being taught the standard of communication
as grammar in all its guises and adding to
this the identifiers of poetics, shackle
them in metaphor conscious expression
and they'll excessively rhyme -
e.g. yeah mm, yeah, birches of the brood,
mm, yeah, wave to the navigator
and limousine driver, mm, yeah,
mm, yeah, ******* in the alley, poetry
the ultimate straitjacket of language
use, so many constraints, mm, yeah,
******* of rodeo doing disco with a hand
spare waiting for prompt of the **** salute -
mm, yeah, pottery and poetry are moulded
although pottery with the hands as one,
poetry by exchanging patterns of a tennis
statistics of serve depending on what's
more accessible via the index through to the thumb;
mm, yeah, birches in the hoodlum choir -
knuckle dusters and nail clippings among
broken skulls - already the constraints of grammar
we all yawned at, then came poetics
and the second tsunami of disgruntling -
father grammar, son poetry, the holy ghost
a multiplier of yawns among gradations from
a* through to f - like a musical scale -
now i realise i joined the abhorrent crowd of
artistic expression, i never knew could be so
**** unauthentic, maybe the missing orchestration,
the prophetic voice in the wilderness -
the lack of materialistic concern for bees' wax
to accumulate for envious purposes -
a hole with chlorine-cleansing chemicals
that's neither salt or sweet water and no wish -
a massive bathtub and a different form of ******* -
i know teaching grammar is like teaching poetry,
too many rules, too many rubrics, lists and lists
of things happening but not actually happening -
the faking of poetry on account of identifiers
as marked accessibility and respectability -
but never the essential coarse experience -
so some forgive the excruciating test of grammar -
they say 'if comprehensive therefore satiated' -
but then the anti-poetry with an army of instruments
uses only rhyme to akin itself as to why
B. Dylan's lyrics were debated in poetic circles -
i really did choose the wrong art -
or perhaps i'm only saying that because i can
create quarters for four agile limbs to comprehend -
let's say one celebrity had photo-sensitive
epilepsy - the stability of scarce lightning
against the lunar and solar cycles - but then
overexposed to a syringe of phosphorescent luminary
injections of insomnia -
the modern ailment summarised by insomnia
in all the totals asserted - the fear of death
entombed, now the fear of not ably falling asleep
or the fear of not sleeping at all;
indeed a heresy some might say -
but in Dante's theology i find purgatory as
a courtroom - the judgement necessarily passed -
depending on what duality you are a disciple of(: / i.e.)
hell (your own company)
                                             x
                                               heaven (the company of others)
or
    hell (the company of others)
                                                      x
 ­                                                        heaven
                                                          ­  (your own company);
indeed no chiral assertions,
                since both add up to a pitch-perfect coordinate
                with parallelism's coordination of (+,+);
                 neither subtracts the other's accumulation,
                perhaps in the interchange
                (+, x), (-, +), (-, x), (+, ÷) -
                after all there can be worded expressions
                of utilising pure mathematical
                symbols to understand political
                dynamism -
e.g. (by adding you multiply the chance)
        (by taking away you add to an understanding)
        (by taking away you multiply the chances
         of non-recurrence or recurrence)
         (by adding you end up dividing
          the chances of expressing the Σ);
all in all, a chaotic foundation approves to architectural
order tumbling down into prone attempts for
new truths stabilised by vogue of the times
and later dismembered and disavowed from practice
and admiration.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
if you want to know how it sounds... well a former girlfriend of mine had siblings younger than her, two boys and a girl... i started smoking when i was 21... after years of adamant protest against smoking, i remember times when smoking cigarettes was still legal in england in pubs and clubs, i'd come home after a night out and aired my clothes because of the stink... now i'm a steam-engine myself... goes like: puff puff choo choo! aged rock stars are the funniest people around, post-hedonism and they're all dieticians and healthy-life experts... anyway, if you're wondering how it sounds: a former girlfriend of mine siblings used to imitate jokingly the baritone of my voice... a darth vader sort of gimmick... now add the cigarette thick phlegm lining my larynx... you get the picture.*

i can attest with bukowski the problem of writing
into excess, there's a certain melancholy
surrounding writing prolifically,
all your best poems are lost,
well, "lost", in that there's so much
clutter, and esp. if you don't
keep personal copies, but shove
them all into a public domain
without a care, you don't have a chance
to rekindle reading some of
the poems you really enjoyed, or would
like to re-enjoy, i.e. re-read after you
re-read most of them to do the editorial
bits of revising a spelling mistake
or a faulty grammatical sequencing,
and then akin to nietzsche, who was taught
the laws of grammar like the laws of
physics (throw something up, it falls),
i was never taught grammar, my education
in language was based upon the method
that: if you can speak and write coherently,
you don't need the grammatical arithmetic
drilled into you - the principle of a good
education i guess: get a feel for it, mess around
with it, become a pioneering chemist or something;
and never, ever, write poetry conscious of
technique and identifiers like metaphors,
that's for the critics to spot, with their scalpels
of rhyme:

bay (a)
say (a)
bottom (b)
***** (b)
                         flay (a)
sanctity (c)
evidently (c)
                        common (b)               etc.

but still the melancholy, i sometimes wish i
could reread some of the poems i wrote,
but since i didn't keep any to myself, i don't
have any copies for myself, none stored in a darkened
place like a drawer, stacked pieces of paper or something,
and in an age of constant cyber warfare with
everyone hacking everyone, not keeping copies for
yourself seems rather mad, i'd hardly say it's daring,
i once lost a whole stash of poetry because
i simply asked a girl where she was from to get
a feel for her poetry, she reported me to the site's
administrators, and without a chance to explain
got erased, a little holocaust of never actually existing,
not as big a holocaust of what darwinism is doing
to us reaching far back into prehistory and the platonic
theory of forms of that mirror: man | monkey -
well, honestly, no, not from a theological point of
argumentation, the aesthetics aren't working on this one,
maybe that's why once the naked form of man
adorned by painters has become a pornographic jest
of mandible parts - and why does western society
sincerely make a fetish out of ****? horrid scenario...
anyway... it's mad that i don't keep any of the poems
for myself, i just throw them all into the public domain
because i feel they can be safe there,
and perhaps it's because i love the actual work of writing
poetry, more the love of the work than the end product,
even though i'd like to relive some of these poems
in my head, re-read them and see their optical correlations
leaving the blank plateau without hill or groove or
canyon... but then there's that sadness of some of
these poems becoming orphans... it's almost like they
don't know who bore them.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the form might be that of a poem, but to be honest,
it has nothing poetic to it -
                  i wanted to feel angry -
to vent anger out,    i drank during the daytime:
daytime and drinking?
                                                       ­         bad idea.
                               daytime drinking
and fasting and smoking
and coffee? a doubled-up bad idea...
         but i wanted to feel
a wrathful voice... i got bored of my otherwise
gentlemanly attire and what not,
i wanted to waste my tongue into
anger... best propeller of the act?
drink during daytime...
                          when night falls,
the lazy one comes out.
                   consider this -
some use language to encrypt, not
to to simply memorise rhyming and
bounce bounce the bubbly pink ball
on stage...
                    Pavlov's lapping tongue
of a dog overheating -
             philosophy deals with
double phonetic encryption,
                  that's a psychological reevaluation
of what language is, from the standard
of the three tier cake:      consciousness,
                                      s­ub-  " and un- "    -
again Christianity plays a great deal with
the point of a trinity -
                               that's the secular version,
a populist version for each individual
regardless of the church's credo -
                    but as i was saying:
philosophy deals with a doubled variation
of phonetic encoding:
                      primarily for one reason:
this is primer for idea forming -
               isn't it?
                             the first level is that of
being able to read the encoding -
   like a music score...
                                   to write a s k
              and then say the word: ask.
but the second tier of encoding sound is
to translate it into optics -
                   the basis of idea forming -
not the basis of making sounds, but to peer
more deeply into any sort of narrative -
sometimes a single word can pull
the gravity of thought
                                 away from the narrator
ego, and into the realm of the id:
        which doesn't narrated, but
    conjures up ideas: to me the source of
all "magic" formulae -
                          here again, a classic plagiarism
working on the basis of a trinity -
          i dare say dualism is so unfashionable
to most people, as is monism -
             people prefer triangles to explain
their psychological life,
          and circles to explain the physical life...
   dualism is out of fashion that
it would seem to be more (dangerously) fashionable
to be of split-mind - but never mind that -
romanticising any medical condition is
a faux pas.
                                i was spurred on
by reading a review of O'Hara's poetry,
namely the poem sardines -
                  the reviewer writes how the poet
'actually writes his poem by breaking down
language into its most basic units - words.'
well... technically this is where the other point
of phonetic encoding comes in, the third tier...
words aren't as basic as you might think -
they reside in the realm of meaning,
but also a realm of being bound to a thesaurus -
(apologies, i'm not trying to be pedantic,
  you might see where this might be going,
in terms of sharpening the point of
               what's language and
the basics of language - yes, a niche topic,
as usual, pedants ahoy)
                          words are components
(or compounds)... letters are units, akin to
mathematical digits...
                          but then again,
kilometres are units -
                                 as are miles and hours...
surely then if worded
                   the representation would be that
of a/z                             rather than
                                   p/o/r/r/i/d/g/e          
      a/z seems like a better basis for unitary
conceptualisation of language
                        using a, b, c... z as the basic
units of language... yes... much more so than words...
            because the third tier of encoding
is based primarily on letters,
                                       yes, we know the
plight of the Palestinians, but the Jews have something
i want, and use, quiet frequently,
although with variation - there's no
              toying about with gematria -
i don't accept this method of investigation -
              i find absolute futility in it -
not that i can't grasp it, but i find it useless -
         it's this third tier where ideas are formed
without any distinct orthodoxy -
                           so:
tier 1. phonetically encoding a s k to say: ask
tier 2. phonetically encoding a s k to think:
                                      what am i going to ask for?
tier 3. phonetically encoding a s k to then
            (primarily) venture into encoding
                                              a s k i n g f o r p a t i e n c e.
we're not dealing with Chinese ideograms,
    we're dealing with a linear juxtaposition encoding
   e.g.
     a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p (q r s t u v w x y z)
the bracket? i first learned the English alphabet
as a sing-along... to my memory i forgot the rhythm
of the song (i was 7 at the time) and subsequently
             the rest of the sequence... but that doesn't
necessarily mean my vocabulary suffered because of it...
still linear juxtaposition encoding, as above, only
         n y m p h  (x y s t)
                             a b c d e f g i j k l o q r s t u v w x z
                   (a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r u v w z)
                                           e x o t i c s (friz)
          a b d f g j k l q r u v w x z
                              (a b c d e g h j k l m n o p q u v w)
                 ...
                                    
     ...
                         (b c e g
                                                            - interlude -
   well, technically, you could say that diacritical
marks are used for the purpose of dissecting
words into syllables, that's not to say
          latin compound fixations on meaningful
  prefixes, such as: aqua-        or omni-
                   (yes, the etymological section
of the dictionary is the most interesting part
of that book - as counter to Darwinism,
                     or something less intrinsic with
visuals, and focused more on a shorter history
of mankind, the less ridiculous time-frame,
         or history without Alexanders and Socrates -
                  SS... the English hasn't fixed
the notation of pluralism here...
            something akin to ß      or σ          or     ς
                    is begging to come out of this problem...
lets just say the ending variation of sigma denotes
the plural, so, etymology, or history without
       Alexanders and Socrateς / cruder or more
masculine Socrateç... Tess' - as in: it belongs to Theresa)
        as Plato noted, i too, like Socrates
are investigating how my name ought to be written,
by the looks of it, from what i discovered
               i apply diacritics as syllable identifiers,
or: how to cut words up -
   ergo? even though this is not orthodox,
my name, should be written as
                   Máteuš -
                                               the acute a
stresses the cutting up of the word, i.e. the first
syllable is identified, primarily because diacritics
stress non-prefixes, i.e. simpler variations of
what a prefix is (a loan word), or a sound that
has an ancient meaning, for example pre-
or pro-, meaning the word was forced into the shackles
of being accompanied by a hyphen
when the ancient tongue disintegrated and its grammar
was no longer adequate to accommodate
the barbarian tongues of the north...  
so it has come to this: diacritical marks are not
exactly aesthetic concerns where not writing an
acute o but rather u is displeasing to the eyes...
      it's about seeing where the syllable incision has
been made... shame the English never adopted it...
but then again: the Empire blah blah blah, Star Wars
blah blah blah... special relationship with America
blah blah blah... that old chestnut -
                  or can anyone forget their eccentricity
of doth and         all that Canterbury *******?
   or even Shakespeare's English?
                                  i'm on it... well,
apologies... internet encrypting, acronyms and
eight and L8 for late. it was never adopted -
        and never will be... ****-naked Charlie
and ****-floral-naked Angie...
              sitting in a tree, one two, one two three.

  - post-interlude -

              (b c e g...
                                           i really can't be bothered
   trying to finish this little scrabble -
           i mean, looking up words
                       so i'm left with the last possible letter,
or no letter at all...
                                  what with
    the six vowels a, e, i, o, u, (y)
                                                  nymph as a word (though)
is the closest you'll get to the pronunciation of
     y (why)               in                   Polish...
                            ny-                 or -ymph
                                 obviously cut off the μ and φ...
but if you're really bored...
                  you could probably finish that
little game... for no reason, whatsoever -
        as already stated i'm more interested in things
contained in the interlude, but then again games like
this provide the capacity to abstract and return
with actual application of an idea.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer
-
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.

every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.
Yasha Harkness Jun 2015
We wear our identifiers everyday; standing out of the crowd is our goal, but why; that's the thing about invisibility; if you can't see yourself in the mirror no one else can either; this is why depression is dangerous; it shrinks people; we wither away in plain sight, and yet we are unseen; why do we like death so much; we are the generation of black humor and morbid jokes; you dismiss it as teenage angst and then wonder at the suicide stats; when will you see what you have made us into; what we have become;
**because of you.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
after seeing a dutch boy spit in a polish girl's face because of a friendly conversation, i don't need some Irish telling me what to say apart from I.R.A. in the skip of the other recyclables.*

as books go, we can speak all we want on the
colour of defeat -
you can make a Lenin-firecracker from any man,
any man a killer -
the revival of the Holy Roman Empire simply
moved slightly to the east - it already looks like that -
if the French far right think the exit of Britain
was a favourable scenario, well, it doesn't have
the Algerian philosopher Camus to care -
former colonial nations undermined the European
project - too much suntan from India and the
Caribbean - Germany wasn't a colonial nation,
Italy was a joke in Ethiopia - a joke that morphed
into reggae - it was never going to be stable,
times changed, the Hungarians forgot the Austrians,
if they thought a British exit was the broker piece
they found the economic stronghold
in Frankfurt a week later - past colonialists
an equilateral respect for each European neighbour -
apart from the English channel the English chose -
i admire Voltaire's theism, but not his liking
for the sausage and oily stigma -
accept post-colonial subjects, discriminate against
fellow Europeans - join the "shoot a ******" saga
of America - former colonial nations destroyed
the European Union dreams, they found no *******
in the Baltic region, to their grievance...
what a loss! no gold! only flint and salt mines!
and the question still hangs about:
who will pick the strawberries in July in England?
the benefit billionaires? the wet shave heiresses?
what about the Brazilian bikini wax?
get more Irish in? will Ms. Burqa of Sudan
take out an umbrella and roll up her sleeves to pick 'um?
is Hajj tourism adequate to see a stampede outside
of Pamplona? i mean, it's a revision of the
British "go home" Empire... you wonder how many
times the pumpernickel fairy heard that one -
and there was the gingerbread man breaking a leg
to claim benefits as a dyslexic diabetic saying: i can't go on...
i can't go on... make this slice of cake a discus throw
into itemising a respectable calorie intake, 'cos i think
i sat on a guitar that was debited into a loan -
a man ended up paying for a broken guitar without
a Bon Jovi singalong - oi oi uncle Ben's quinoa salmon
healthy food in the hood and McHappy bottom's-up -
colonial nations and identifiers as such made the European
project a one of bereavement - unnaturally racist,
unnaturally with white v. white and the incubator of
their former whips turned into whipping of tongues -
the Jews have left Poland, they have left Europe -
time for the old alliances to be constructed -
and i wonder, what internal alliance will be made
from former colonial masters and former colonial slaves -
if the "placebo" to be ingested is current America... well,
not much to go around.
Ryan V Feb 2015
We are naturally wary of different
Our anticipatory
Participation in fear
Blinds us from the signs
That classification
Of the population
Fuels separation
In our great nation
And the degradation
Of our education
Through miscommunication
Due to deprivation
Of alleviation
As far as the segregation
Taking its formation
In our imagination?
These bounds we set
To set us apart
Take hold in heart
Because we impart
The notion of racism
Through our pride
Proud to be black
Proud to be white
Proud to be
Whatever it is that is me.
I’m sure it is right
Though I did not choose
No I wasn’t trusted with choice
I wasn’t given an option
No opinion to voice
I came as I am
I came as man
With no color in mind
Nor hate in heart
A patch of untrodden
Still smoothed soft snowflakes
Unscathed by the treads
Of worn down soles.
No limits exist
To whom
They were never shown
Never taught
Through words or by deed
Never separated
Through race or creed
Disparity through diversification
Norms forming cult cultures
Secluded islands of identifiers
Imprisoned in our tradition
Caught up in the familial familiarity
Of being a drop in a raincloud
Growing heavier each summer day
Until the burden bursts
Out in thunderous roar.
And yet the race will remain
Runners at their mark
Pushing to get ahead of the pack
Forgetting there is no finish-line
Since it was never a race at all.
Race only exists in the minds of man.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
the art of biblio- (+) -philia -
caress them and don't stone them -
never fold the edges to create a book
mark, by all means
        insert toilet paper
markings for reminder -
             but nothing else -
my birth will come from Armenia -
in cold sweat wondered if
the publisher replied, the Armenian
is on the translation -
i imagine him working agile and juggling -
never mind that - not out of want
but out of rubbing shoulder to shoulder;
although i must say that poets
fear punctuation -
          hence the cascade,
hence the            w
                                 a
                                   t
                                   e
                                   r
                                   f
                                   a
                                   l
                                   l
oh indeed poetry is a natural with gravity,
it's not fudge thick prose packaging
of lettering - (after all,
for such a long time poetry wasn't
economic, but since we've turned
digital, and give only two
hazelnuts worth of care for
the Amazon, you know,
in the digital age of endless pixel
paper, we kinda won -
we needed an endless source
of toilet paper to write on) - it's a waterfall
without a fear of falling, but punctuating
the pose in which to fall,
like Gibreel and Saladin in the satanic verses -
one ends up flapping his hands,
the other is falling like a coffin -
where's the real comedy? i think in the latter -
but never mind what i think -
the goddess of Mecca allāt had a *** change -
allāh became - and henceforth with
some other minor alternatives wishing
for a stealing an apple bobbing in Mecca -
cut the head off! but not my hand!
apple bobbing in Mecca - pig's snout thief -
but at page 625 canto XC i do a page flipping
cartoon of what i have read -
all those cantos - obviously there is no
cartoon of matchstick men dancing
tango in jazz#, you can mingle poetry with
jazz but not tango -
i don't know how they pulled it off,
jazz and poetry? hmm, poetry and painting?
i agree - bibliophile the one with
a cf. joker card up his sleeve and the ace in
his wallet -
                    instead of a cartoon movement
you have the words encrypt the days
you spent with the book;
honest to god he makes the poetry a thing
of the past for all the classical guises of
strict routine, there're no techniques
call them what you want: metaphor, item,
pun, item, onomatopoeia, item...
those aren't techniques, they're identifiers,
the boas - constricting or constipating?
whichever - cheap jokes are hardly worth
anything in a monologue since
instead of a punchline you get digression
and the jokes aren't cheap by this method -
they'll brim with bulls charging in narrow
alleys - except, well, except you keep calling it
an ******* of short-lived albino tadpoles -
ah ***... hot sauce and gravy and the only
time you dare to not think -
                                              and no, no one
forced anyone to think, on your own
you go and streak to buttocks ****
waiting for the blind barber.
i know the ones that made it, they escaped
indoctrination of what's deemed a paragraph on
education, in england they still have the imperial
units concerning education:
how much longer a student who achieved an
A grade said 'a' longer than the student who
achieved a D grade and said 'd' with a shortening -
but never mind that -
                                       the really really
famous ones dropped out, did menial bits and bobs
for peanuts and then hit a crescendo of Icarus -
took to the populist stance and never involved themselves
in higher tier affections of affairs -
politics was sidelined as themselves in role
of the water-boy - 40 years march more desired but
somehow derided - yet by some the crucifixion
embraced - mainstream vs. pantera -
                         a legionnaire -
the star of joseph hovering over Bethlehem -
and they still complain, 11 and 1 together twelve
that the concubine of Abraham was shamed
and left to wander into the sands under which
rich black gold was hidden,
Muhammad's neurotic approach toward
origins - Abraham's concubine that did more
than simply muck about in repenting -
took the short-cut and started a martial arts
movement in Japan with the ninjas.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
well, **** changed quick,
once it was like: i’ll change to take a differnet pic,
now it’s all about: i’ll change the pic to
keep the status quo...
then i’ll tackle global warming turning into a vegan...
root out the problems of carrots and leeks
taking rooting like silly dentistry in the poet’s corner
of a birmingham canal
(full credentials of a bled out cranium via a mowler)...
that will spank those **** capitalists
to ensure las vegas doesn’t exist... yep...
it will sort them out... bangladesh came before the maldives
for the five o’clock shadow and sideburns...
i scuttled like a rat off a ship into a pop song crescendo
of a ship sinking...
i said something about the expanding sockets that gave more
than a missed shaved plot allotment of 5pm and
gave way to insomnia am.
please god... 50... no more! no more! 50!
i want to be gone before einstein’s war of sticks and stones comes!
i want to be gone by then! god... einstein, prior to that
we fanbase an intellectual debate that never arose
from the logic of writing the next pop song,
i’ll be mermesrised by the pass and the passerby of the next dream
sincere from the class that gave us the denial of synchronisation
and a quote from marxism that evolved into chaos
with the oink-looter capitalism; anorexia got the dress...
man got the coat-hanger oak leaf for genitalia
that never mattered with trans-gender movement -
we were always exposed... and 2 x 2 of the clover assured
the pigmented futures of repeat...
well if i don't want to repeat... do you?
i hardly think so seeing you taking revenge
against homosexuality taking pleasure from ****...
like now... i will not lipgloss to toss my heart aside and
mascara the skies as dark lit ready to be kidney full for
a torrent of the breaking of the one muscle involved
in wetting the bed... colouring in strange, clepsydra indigo
identifiers as dittoing these words
with a single word: mothered;
indeed mothered... because unloved - pity the cosmopolitan
girl in you... you read the girlie magazines while
i read the books of soul-searches... you disposed of
to ready the column of the horrific repeat
for the heads or tails questions;
neither matters with you... since it should be asked of you:
horns or tail?
i guess that's a question with an answer
without the devil but the humanity:
the dentistry of vanity - like the god behind the wind
and the snowflake -
indeed psychopathy is like atheism...
with the former the soul doesn't exist...
with the latter god doesn't exist...
we're grounded for an eternity of dialectics.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
may i ask, which pronoun are you searching for, and if in which model, which pronoun-verb in the Cartesian duo function could you ever ask me what pronoun occupies f(∴)? you see, mathematics doesn't sincerely pledge i think with i am, given dues to f(∵), given geometric intersection, both are Gemini, unequivocal, David's abstract.

perpetually open eyes, never acknowledging a blink,
Venetians cascading on Byzantium, near blink near conscience,
but never near an Ottoman consequence;
how ***** into role of Janissary: fear the impaler and all
who reign in his caste disguised... yet you encourage
that they come.... what tailoring of suit
so well disguises the blood? a heavy collar or the lightly
mandated to feel a "conscience"?
i like freaks like him, i too cared to wear many
masks, is that worth a psychiatric evaluation,
you spared me no trust,
your secret dealings could have spared me
my health, what you fear is double-jeopardy,
including a seclusive f.b.i. reclusive supposedly paranoid...
please leave all your badges of officiation to
an affiliated organisation of governance behind
including your firearms, and other scientific
conditionings prejudiced against the church v.
Galileo... please leave dogmatism to students and
anomaly encounters to professionals as stated by
the entitlements of doctorate...
the plot has no identifiers worthy of investigation,
unless everyone was brainwashed into thinking
that goldfish held a greater memory span in a
fish tank than all the people in the world, atmosphered,
and later impregnated by nothing other than
vacuum and astronomical interactions of simple
alphabetical greek into complex chemistry? or
could a world conspiracy come about as simply
the words: she was worth a 1000 Greek ships
worth of **** to later ascribe the capital
of love as Paris? the raw animal is worth more in
his ontological environment than in a zoological one,
cages enliven violence rather than envision them
in either subject or the culprits mind...
it's the added prospect of seclusion that animates
a piquant status of memory to a kindred
fingerprint cloning deviation, a susceptible replication
environment: esp. through no familial motive, other than an
individualistic swarm-like reaction to an insecticide:
however much the individual invigorates a
suspect accommodation to an equilibrated pluralism
within a status ascribed to an: individual.
i admit, the psychological rhetoric is the new
invention of the wheel... it goes on and on forever,
i fear for those hapless idiots studying the logic
of excluding soul (as an absence of thought), god,
and free will to ever return to the rational / sane world
of afternoon tea, given they specialised in these
specified wording to a rubric equatable to 1 + 2 = 3.
you'll learn no more human secrets than that of
a *sloane's viperfish
... otherwise you're entering a realm
of perfected adaptability with some quasi-science
via fiction and conspiracy, that leave you no more than
an agent of the priesthood and a loss of a good
niche of ******... well, is't the priesthood
pathetic so jealous as to have lost the reigns having
kept them for so long? oh yes, the public will react...
regarding the next nutritionist's fact...
it's called adaptability i may say, leave them to it,
you kept to your symbolism for too long,
we learned the crux like we learned to say X
three times ensuring we watched ****...
oh i'm not jealous, i won't be the one having to
orphan the ******* sons, as your church had to keep
them to keep up pretences... all they have to keep
up is the stability of universally recognising a
centimetre, which, like satan said of the kingdoms
to be given, the Orientals sort of ignored with
the grievance demanding an explanation for
the ineffectiveness of thus said temptation.
Timothy H May 2016
Sunrise explosion!
Sneaking up on no one
But the unawake
    At life, at the day
But to the awake...BANG!
And the planet we are on in all
    its Enormity
    and prism power - atmosphere
Separates the radioactive
    explosion
That is traveling
299,792,458 miles per second
From 93 million miles away
    (a whole 8 minute journey)
From a hot body
With a 432,288 mile radius
of glowing
    exploding gas
That, upon reaching us
Is recklessly
    Smashed
Into all potential tertiary shades
Of cerulean and sapphire
Of marigold and sandstone
Of shades beyond identifiers
    (we all experience them
    differently anyhow)
And for these opening moments
    of the day
All masterpiece paintings
    appear as preschool throwaways
And as quickly as the calm chaos enters
It stage exits
    On account
        Of the 432k mile monstrosity
            That will blind
                Any
                    Who dared look at it

Good morning.
Cedric McClester May 2015
By: Cedric McClester

If I may, let me give you the nexus
Of five biker gangs in Waco Texas
Clearly with super fast reflexes
Who became deadly as well as reckless
They shot up Twin Peaks, their recruitment place
Nine of ‘em were killed in any case
And just as you might have assumed it
Many more were seriously wounded

But unarmed demonstrator’s chants
Of no justice no peace
Calls for volleys of tear gas at the very least
And tanks to move in along with the police
But not in Waco where the violence increased
I don’t get it, but am I suppose to
Why the system does the things that it do
But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I knew

If you’re looking for
Any semblance of sameness
Pursuing that end would only be aimless
Until recently all five were nameless
Despite identifiers on the back of their vests
Now on the other hand, if they were black
They’d be called nothing short of a mad wolf pack
And the National Guard would have had to react

The Cossacks and Banditos
Are two names that emerged
Now there are fewer of ‘em  
Since they’ve been purged
It became very clear that they were on the verge
Of reeking all out havoc and mayhem
Forcing the cop to arrest and slay ‘em
As they ferociously tried to somehow delay ‘em




Copyright © 2015  Cedric McClester.   All rights reserved.
No Semblance Of Sameness points to the dichotomy between how peaceful black demonstrators are treated, as opposed to violent armed biker gangs.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the minute you write on the other side of the napkin... the fold, you get into tattooing a Braille itchiness.

the napkin is a variant of compressed wood...
it's not a piece of paper...
you could wipe you *** with a napkin,
but that's hardly considerate of your ***
being as hard-edged to do so, likewise,
with a piece of paper.

intro done, the loadage...

it's almost bewildering that we employ so
many people to talk,
but not a single person to listen -
   so many people are paid to talk
but no one is paid to listen, so the crowd moves away.
language, as poetry:
in the modern application of it, is already trying
to do the Alcatraz (summed up and staring
Clinging Eastwood Cry Baby, or Baby's got
a Burner, or Hot-Draw! **** me, that's
adventurous!)          diversion tactic (you might
still be reading this mea culpa of mea culpas
that's prescription drugging you into digging
into the classic novella)...
escaping the Alcatraz       /     straitjacket
of conforming to recognisable forms of poetry -
i say fake! to the person who uses metaphor
announcing the use of...
                 i want uninhibited poetry,
i want poetry that bumps into poetic techniques
unconditionally, strangers in queue-ball
antics on the street getting cravat or guillotine
standards for lottery...
           but conscious conformity?
                  get me jack-in-the-box to ola a hello
once more to revive Sherlock Hitchcock...
                   any phobia is atomic,
the world is created from little fears,
            emerging into the big fear: a life not lived...
but then there's an antidote to that:
       if given a miniscule life... don't fear it...
examine it... at least you can then become entertained
by theatricals ascribed to the greater lives...
or have beens.
                     i want uninhibited poetry...
when i say poetry i want opera, not graffiti...
   which is to say: being conscious - premeditating
the use of, e.g. a metaphor...
          it's not good enough, i don't want to read
poetry as recognised as poetry, or poetry
recognising itself as such, i want to see the automaton,
i want to see an art so well engraved in the
provider of such enticement as to paint
as a decorator might paint, even within the framework
of a monochromacy... the parts he misses in
covering a bleak wall of white to be redone...
again, and again...
    but what i expect of poets?
a gamble... only *one
attempt... any second or third
attempt i deem incomprehensible in terms of
beginning in the thirst place... ya: thirst.
i want to see thirst: the bulging larynx more ready
to gulp water in a desert than entice saying
something, meaning the latter has no power
over conjuring an oasis, or a fatamorgana.
continued?
           but everyday usage...
applies no similar acknowledgement of orientating
grammar, to be conscious of certain words as being
nouns does suppose an obstruction for the fluidity
of language... there's the everyday fluidity of
language than transcends such emulations
      of acquiring a desirable stoppage forwarding
dogma... yet poetry is bound to a dogma of
applying distinctive orientations,
to suggest that a piece of scribbling is actually
poetry.
does one (kingly pronoun collective,
meaning with entourage) thus say:
to fall in love also equates to celebrations of
Valentine's day,
or to go to war also means: waving a bayonet?
to generally emphasise...
  man was not established with this system
of encouraged "learning" tactics...
           there's no point talking evolution
when man is stagnate, sedimentary,
upkeeper of the status quo...
                   which almost insults the man
that encoded sounds in runes...
             perhaps the rune-encoder didn't
end up encoding while donning spectacles?
the emphasis is on making language more
fluid, and therefore acceptable,
   rather than what's advertised as this
solace-space of sofa, duvans, and free-spirited
******-load of artificial smiles.
oh, mind you, artificial intelligence has
not emotion, a bit like a woman on her
first extra terrestrial date...
                    with honing: having no
emotion means there's no conscience -
meaning crafting an artificial intelligence has
not ontological basin in man -
as man has no ontology to begin with...
  just as god as no ontology to begin with,
since we're already in his deviation from
the beggars' question: to no greater pleasure
has it been to create something without
man's thought in it.
     but not only is traditional poetry respected,
as in stressing an awareness of metaphor
or pun, as a sense of desirable technique
with even more desired identifiers...
      but then language per se, can't see
why someone writing a rubric sentence
need to grammatically categorise and give unto
their use of language a miser dissector...
        for example: the tradition of writing letters,
reduced to a pseudo-postcard form
         of the email...
              the formal begins with: dear ms. judy
the informal begins with: hey yoyo!
                    there's no dear ms. smith
(or the careless mrs. smith -
get on with it, the waltz and ballroom died
   when we groped under too many chandeliers
and gagged for the *******'s reproach
to dating) -
            as with the lateral diversion:
the internet not see as a possible place of
thinking has reduced the possibility of expressing
thought, into a conglomerate
         of seemingly necessary conversationism.
i'm not talking: i always thought that a white
page, whether in shrunk oaken or pixelated
and written upon: was the double-standard
expression of surrender...
formal letter writing was replaced by robots...
all the letters we ever get (via email)
are informal...
       addressed to no one exactly,
beginning with hi, hi, hello...
               give us a ******* handshake
rather than this pristine tofugu...
yep, that, and then ******... but that's how it
avalanches... you write on a napkin on
one of the sides, you turn it over
and then you realise you tattooed something
akin to Braille onto it.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
do i feel a moral superiority? of course i do,
why wouldn't i?
                      i'm sort of bored,
you know the type of bored: i am  white
but i have no colonial history to boot
or shy away  from...
               there are two Europes,
let me be frank about that...
                            i don't necessarily like what
Polish immigration did to the place,
primarily there's no commonwealth surgeon
to put the pieces together...
                 but the English started a war
over the invasion of Poland,
                     oh right, blame me,
and shut the **** up about the ******* being treated
like cattle?
                            honestly, the only book
i'll ever read by Dickens will be the volume xviii
american notes, pictures from Italy, contributions
to "the examiner"
- prior to entering the field
of transcendental methodology via Kant
              i'll just say: there's no point reading
phonetic encoding of a narrative once the images are
produced - once a book is turned into a movie,
there's no point reading it...
          i'm was never favourable of Dickens,
like i was never favourable of Popper...
    but the obscure works demand attention...
i''ll be moving from France to England
(via Voltaire) and from England to America
via Dickens... once i finish Kant;
once i finish Kant.
                                      and a rare day, i made a purchase,
cage the elephant's album melophobia arrived today,
two singles (after listening to the album twice,
it's safe, under 40 minutes and ten tracks),
track no. 4 - it's just forever and track no. 7 -
black window - this is why i feel morally superior,
i'm actually investing in art...
                       lucky me born in the 20th century,
i actually desire the need to buy art,
      and not be some chimp pirate of the Napster Caribbean,
i really don't know where my contemporaries are
coming from, and to be honest? i, don't, want, to, know.
       **** them and their armchairs!
              their idea of art is non-representative of
the general vocation of necessarily having a: view.
     to me they're a bit like:
mr. spandex telling people it's stretch-Armstrong elastic -
but it ******* ain't!
                                  the once defended Poles are
dubbed vermin, oh sure, it makes sense
to keep a lid on former colonials as sacred Hindu
cows - and do i sometimes wish i came to England
aged 2 and not aged 8 and never heard of
the Kashubian dialect? or the Silesian?
               or the pan-Serbian of the Sorbian language?
i probably wish that to be true...
            i cut my thumb and pinky fingers on the culinary
guillotine known as the mandolin when beheading
cabbage for a cold-Slough
                      (easier done than accurate spelling)
  even better: coal-slow
              (plus the carrot and the onion
and plenty of mayo) -
                             i wish i could fully become British,
say a golden ******* to Poland, as Poland already
served it... which is why i'm in England....
           but England isn't exactly a daffodil -
        the past haunts it, which i'm not a part of,
when i say: i'm a citizen of the world i mean:
globalisation, and i mean: when i was in Africa
i was a tourist in Kenya, i enjoyed the presence
of those little cherub monkeys on the balcony,
and i hid from from the sun and couldn't stand the heat...
saints? we? better ask the Lithuanians and the Ukrainians...
but they're a bit busy these days...
    that's why i don't feature in the global politics of
the trinity that's England, France and Spain...
                   i am not really into Polish catholic antics either...
i just don't understand why i need to have to acquire
all these ******* identifiers in order to speak the ****** tongue:
maybe i am, after all, redefining what speaking English
actually means...
                             you can never really escape a revision of
the language...
                                as a citizen of the world, i am against
those famed idioms, later pronounced as: idiosyncratic -
   i'm neither Polish nor am i ******* English -
i took to the assertion: conquering the use of a language
is more pristine in encouraged effort to assimilate
than writing a Domesday Book analysis...
                        but i simply cannot shy away from
addressing the insults while the holy cows of the former
empire walk freely and to a violin tune of necessary
revolutions taking place...
                  the argument goes along the line:
the Soviets had a bigger empire than the British...
                   landmass and what not aside...
i just can't be the two together...
                      all i have it two more purchases...
the debut album by cage the elephant with the song
that made me purchase is soil to the sun -
and the notes volume ii - vi by Heidegger -
do i feel morally superior? well, i'm actually investing
in art... in a world providing the ratio 100:1 =
100 streams = 1 equivalent purchase...
                i find it damnable that so few people invest
in art these days...
            and yes, i do feel morally superior, why the **** no?!
but i will never rid myself of my foremost tongue
to look pretty in a society that's verging on the most
utterly ugly...
                            i'll never be at home either here (England)
or there (Poland) - i feel no affiliation
   of a desired patriotic demand in either place -
                                          both countries can burn for
all i care: Poland for its catholic demands,
                  England for its political correctness:
if i already didn't mention: the most despotic quote
came from democracy in the French Enlightenment period:
all men are born equal...
                                        if ever a greater falsification
was ever uttered - in that realm of political science -
                 men are not born equal,
                               the Olympics proves this foremost -
trying to make this saying the norm
             will only, eventually, make a large number of
good men into debilitated lunatics -
          all of this without the mouth that spoke the utterance,
no Saddam Hussein will hang as being attributed with this
maxim... still the many good men will be turned into
debilitated lunatics to ensure the invisible dictator has his sway
in ensuring the conformist agenda is met with
             due nod-whether-vote-or-veto approval...
                        democracy at its most human,
mob rule overpowers a singled out agenda...
                                       third party Pilates washing their
hands clean off the implementation of the zeitgeist agendas
but nonetheless keeping the profits.
Ryan V Apr 2016
Off to the Races
On your mark, get set
No.
We are naturally wary of different
Our anticipatory
Participation in fear
Blinds us from the signs
That classification
Of the population
Fuels separation
In our great nation
And the degradation
Of our education
Through miscommunication
Due to deprivation
Of alleviation
As far as the segregation
Taking its formation
In our imagination.
These bounds we set
To set us apart
Take hold in heart
Because we impart
The notion of racism
Through our pride
Proud to be black
Proud to be white
Proud to be
Whatever it is that is me.
I’m sure it is right
Though I did not choose
No I wasn’t trusted with choice
I wasn’t given an option
No opinion to voice
I came as I am
I came as man
With no color in mind
Nor hate in heart.
No limits exist
To whom
They were never shown
Never taught
Through words or by deed
Never separated
Through race or creed
Disparity through diversification
Norms forming cult cultures
Secluded islands of identifiers
Imprisoned in our tradition
Caught up in the familial familiarity
Of being a drop in a raincloud
Growing heavier each summer day
Until the burden bursts
Out in thunderous roar.
And yet the race will remain
Runners at their mark
Pushing to get ahead of the pack
Forgetting there is no finish-line
Since it was never a race at all.
Observations of race by a concerned human
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
pronouns as non-identifiers of nouns equate to excess psychiatric diagnoses.
yet using this direct symptomatic identification of matters is unsatisfying
due to the fact that one would rather expand one's vocabulary in other interesting
areas other than: bilingual bipolar, unipolar depression etc.,
usually starting with family genus in latin, of carnivores.*

it was the most amazing dream, i was walking through dreamy venice
to a beach enclave with many boats,
bella, my alsatian shepherd was walking with me,
but i didn't have her free roaming without a leash
or on a leash: my right hand was behind my back
and her snout was cupped in my hand, and she was sniffing something
and walking obediently;
i was trying to get onto a seaplane.
someone else with a dog was there, i let bella have a wee dip in
swimming with elephants and horses, head bopping above the
sea, three men and a sycophant woman were there too
looking mighty interested in something that would otherwise
dictate a chance-opportunity of autography - then the lament
started. 'i'm stranded on the shoreline! i can't get to the seaplane
without a boat! i don't have a boat!'
then... out of nowhere... alec ******* baldwin appears...
out of the blue... twinkle in his eye and a diamond solution
in his pocket - says to me he has a boat, flicks out a keyring with
a beeper to start up the engine for a boat - i thank him
for "out of the blue" solution and he says: 'what are friends for, eh?'
the story goes that baby me used to put his hand into
the alsatian's gob to try and pull the dog's tongue out
and speak with it; well, the hand that did that is still harsh on typos.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
you like my drunken persona? i like it, i think he's a decent drunk... the persona's sober twin? ah, he's nobody that could really concern you, engage you... he's usually found: ******* out three tiers of faeces over a period of 3 hours... massaging his bowels with milk, water, milk, sometimes coffee, cigarettes; milk...

it's hard to see it as a curse - but then what of *Elisha
?
    ever heard that story about children bothering
him, and what came later was the bear?
              you know... my drunken self is quiet
                              perceptive about its vicinity -
     so sometimes you get a classic story:
          one neighbour being an ******* to another...
and then something momentous happens,
     a few days apart...
                                     i'm not even going to drop
any names... because i don't know them...
                      all it takes is a man in his early 50s,
a woman in her late 40s trying to conceive a child...
        and i had a secondant to scout other people's opinions...
well... my scout started inquiring in a public place
about the customs in western society
   regarding the "etiquette" / norm of celebrating
the birth of a child...
                                 that's grand: all those signs
on people's front door - it's a boy! or it's a girl! -
          balloons and friends coming round...
                                     celebrating the new comer...
she gave birth yesterday...
                           and my scout was like: that's odd...
it's like nothing changed! nothing momentous happened!
    i'm getting slightly worried too, to be honest:
        i'm having this sense of a vile aura, like something
really bad is going to happen...
                   all i can conceive from the eerie silence
next door, is that the arch-villain of batman - the penguin
has been born.
                           like i said, i can't call it a curse akin
to Elisha's encounter...
                  there are too many biological factors working
into the event... and a naive human belief
                                              peppered with: just plain
irresponsibility.
                                a woman in her late 40s,
who has had no children prior? and risking it?
                              listen: i think you could use some
of the down syndrome genome to compete with
                        anti-ageing ****** creams...
                                                they don't age!
that's one plus of down syndrome -
                                         you could infuse that massive
plus from their genome and apply it, so that
       people die aged 80... but looking like they're 40!
yet the consensus in the public realm had my
scout simply hear:                 well... that's weird...
    never has a child come into this world with such
silent horror as i'm hearing next door.
                                    now the fun part:
               you know that down syndrome kids can
be bearably articulate, i knew 1 that could talk
in complete sentences, and even had his own down syndrome
girlfriend...
                          true story... all he wanted was to show
his affection, and he that in abundance -
                  aside from the physical manifestation
                      you can actually create a firm standing
mental facade to hide the: first impressions prejudice;
it can be done; but if you don't work on the kid?
    comparison - there's this other local down syndrome
kid around these parts... poor thing, i talked to him
once... but his mother didn't teach him anything -
he could only utter the syllable ma! -
     clearly his mother was akin to a parasite living
off his disability cheque.
                                what's going to happen next door?
god knows... i hope they don't do something stupid
and smother him / her in his / her sleep.
             anyway... back to ground "theory" -
                     there has been an unsurge in returning
   to ethnic identifiers - personally? i had to return to
the thought of the anglo-saxons, and now the anglo-slavs...
i just didn't want to be cornered into
                                        the grammar war of
             pronouns...
                          thankfully i also speak a language where
pronouns are diffused into other words in
      a grammatical category outside its own -
                                             i couldn't stomach this
"abstraction" that's currently weaving itself into "debates"...
2007 really was a good year to have left
        university, sane, with a chemistry degree -
                     having touched very little humanism
along the way... although i have one major regret...
          i can't find that essasy i did on albert camus'
                the stranger... ****! this northern irish
bombshell gave me a 1st on it!
            it's nice to be appreciated by a woman
                        in a french class, in having competence
  to dissect a book with enough bulwark.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
anyone who has been in this position
will tell you:
              when you start reading philosophy
books, well...
   there's not much a psychologist
or a psychiatrist can really help you with...
after all: psychology is pop philosophy,
it's an off-shoot of philosophy,
       and that's not some pompous
affirmation of the subject matter,
            it just is, what it is,
                 blatantly it's rather problematic,
if the h'american education system
introduces philosophy in high school...
you should really discover philosophy
aged 21, at least 21...
        hell, alcohol and *** can come before,
as they naturally will...
but i have a sharp aversion with regards
to teaching teenagers any philosophy...
again: what an over-used term:
   "philosophy" - esp. in the climate
of self-help gurus...
                  philosophy is not a subject
that fixes ****... it complicates life...
   and when life is already complicated:
the only aid is to at least
fortify your mind...
                     rarely a life uncomplicated
with an uncomplicated mind...
but such life exists...
  nonetheless...
                  these days philosophy lies
in the shallow grave of psychology...
                 psychology just seems to be
a pursuit, a cascade of schematism,
    oh yes... schematism...
           schematism is the new scholasticism,
on note, that medieval system becomes
more and more appealing...
   without jumping to any conclusions...
hard to pick up random facts,
unshakeable facts for a befitting narrative...
i mean, the usual suspects are there:
the big bang, darwinism, world war II...
but there is no "real" narrative
      for so many of us...
                        unless from mouth to mouth...
but from a mouth you've never heard
speak?
          a distant voice that has no power
to resonate?
                 in my hands i hold two books...
history of germany 1918 - 2000...
           modern history is so dry...
                      people in this book are so
unimportant upon a retrospective reading,
even ****** is akin to a dwarf...
    since the "concern" is germany...
             history books, a great genre,
when dealing with individuals,
    esp. medieval individuals...
       for what is history?
                         an incremental seduction
by minor events toward a memorable
crux, a single: outstanding culmination
zenith / sigma...
                           the summa summarum
of here and now.
   will it be considered "****" to have
a fetish for the german tongue,
after all, west saxon, english,
   is the offspring of altmanndeutsche
(would i have a fetish for russian?
   i don't think so, i'm too entwined in english)
alles in allem auf hier und jetzt...
    again: heidegger's dasein seems to be
forward looking: rather than inward looking...

so, in my other hand?
     jim bradbury's biography of...
    philip augustus: king of france 1180 - 1223...
a mighty book... but more a mighty person
invoked...

what is to justify man's desire for happiness,
for the content life?
                        the more i ever felt the relief
of a contentment with life:
         the more it passed me by,
                     i was more or less asleep than
awake.

         eh! the current canvas of history via
the mainstream application bores me,
jumping between the two genesēs of
the big bang (yeah, in a vacuum, good luck
playing a violin up there,
with someone reciprocrating what
eventually looks like a mime) and darwinism...
it's congesting: custard for a brain -
      vanillesoße zum ein(e) gehirn -
out of the blue, a question -
    is it the same in german as in english,
regarding the indefinite article?
        i.e. a tree
                        an amber stone
         ein gehrin
                 or eine gehrin,
         the grapheme question...
  are two vowels allowed to mingle again?
   i.e.               æmblem
                       well... doesn't that become
a directive? an indirect article composed
of itself and a noun becomes definitive,
a definite article? as far as i'm aware...
there are no consonant graphemes...
sure... you can have SZ (SH) reduced to
a caron S (hiding the Z like a hebrew
might hide a vowel) i.e. Š...
                                       just a thought...

funny that... after my first psychotic
trip (mild drug, marijuana, so hardly
a point breaker) - i once studied chemistry,
i was semi-good at mathematics...
but then... my language skills / interests
exploded...
                     it became and has remained
a fixation...

  mind you, if you're still in high school
and are taking up majors,
and are thinking about furthering your
language skills?
               flat chance of you achieving
your satisfaction taking pure english lessons...
i took history...
     and history? well, you're still taking
an english major, but a major in a science,
at least all the history books have
a gratifying narrative...
              but in terms of history per se?
etymology...
                 how words arrived,
and how words morphed...
         guilty! i like to confine myself
to the sort of history i find to be bound
to a comprehesive retreat...
           big **** darwinism and all its
regressive ontological tactic of explanation
is one thing, the big bang is another thing
also...
               but at least i can return
to the history span that begins,
   and ends... with phonetic encoding...
the birth of thought,
when you could begin to shut up
without an empty bath's worth of the head,
but all the plastic ducks and foam
in your head, and itchy finger tips...
greedy buggers who could only be
satisfied with an alphabet,
and puzzles of words, and later sentences...

just give me a bottle of whiskey,
a decent album (akin to wooden shjips V)
and i'll sing like the kind of sparrow
you only hear at night...

and all this current ******* of "m'ah opinion",
my opinion this, my opinion that,
that "grand" constructions,
             surely it would be easier for
the phallus to find a ******
     than a tongue to find the dialectical
insertion point of the whole "my" opinion...
well, not really, every time i think of the act,
i always found the insert point
to be below my original intent,
what with women having
   to seemingly parallel coccyx bones
either side of their pelvis...
            the frontal deceptive coccyx
bone just above the v'ah-g-g...
            eh... amateur... even with prostitutes...
but this whole: it's my opinion!
it's my opinion! well, you'd be hopeful
to entertain a dialectic also,
apparently that's not the case:
give, "my" opinion insinuates:
     it cannot be debated, it cannot be changed,
no other person can entertain it,
what a primitive defence mechanism...
even poisonous frogs have
a better defence mechanism...
            again: i don't really own anything
in this world,
   i'm only guarding it, but i don't own it:
the everyday story of every single
antique...

  again, back into a "critique" of history
as a literary genre,
               i own a few first editions,
     the biography of philip augustus is one
of them: 1998 edition, first,
which is beside the point...
            i'm sure that life in medieval europe
was harsh...
but at least you had peacock characters,
rather than this, moden, bland c.c.t.v.
reality t.v. personalities...
              oh of course modern life
has all the perks... standing in line...
               but there's no way of replacing
an adventurous ambition with
complacency and comfort...
plus, they had such great names!
        peaches geldof (rest in peace)...
peaches?!
               compared to bertran de bron?
joscius?           conrad of montferrat?
  saladin & the ayyubid empire?
       hell, the smaller the tribe,
  the better the name...
             the angevins, the capetians,
the merovingians!
         now?        eh: zee fwench.
boo'ring...
   even a bull wouldn't charge at
the colour red even if you wanted him
to.

again: these days you can rely on
people who know the facts...
   and factoid checking is all we ever do
these days, being always "right"...
facts overshadow the story we're about
to tell...
            a bull charges at head:
because he / it sees a honing pointer
of: there's something "missing"...
              daltonism "vs." protanopia...
i once had a high school fwend who
laughed... at this catholic high school...
purple blazers were yellow to him...
who needs l.s.d. then?

       once again... a medieval history book?
as a genre?
                so many stories...
but there is no a priori factual check
impetus...
     the facts are a posteriori...
  what is a priori? the story...
                          and why wouldn't
philip augustus be overlooked?
given the fwench rhe-vou-lú-çion?!
****! T gone missing! T gone missing!
the H is a surd, but it shoved itself
past the cue, elbows high!      
          
  the battle of bouvines (bou-veens,
or: bou-v'ah)
                     depends...
                how selective we "must" become
to make choices from such
an impossible spectrum of events...
after all... muslims readily cite and remember
the crusades, even to this day...
hush hush the sacking of baghdad by
the mongol horde...
for the library was burned and
the skulls were stacked!
hush hush about the first defeat
of the mongols by the mamluk slaves
in egypt... who weren't mohammedians
to an extent of being slaves...

you almost stand there,
bewildered... what about the jihad
into mongolia...
well at least go and help your brothers
out in Xinjiang and Henan!
why isn't the botherhood attempting
to jidad their way:
jihad with the chinese communist party?

hush hush... let's adore the palm trees
lining avenue des Champs-Élysées...
let's sit back... procreate for a while...
eat the good food...
let's sit back and procreate...
the 2010s was a good year for fear and
tarantulla bite-numbing escapades...
let's just sit and procreate...
let's become lazy... chant with the Tehran
zindiqs ****'ites! deaf to h'america
and we've conquered London and...
just sit back... because... we've earned it...
we have satisfied ourselves with
the blood of the ***** (kuffar)...
allah the almighty will bless us in
our respite concerning those Persian
zindiqs! the people of the desert with but
one book have conquered!

true indeed: where a jihad would be
even deemed "justifiable"...
in cha-cha-china... where muslims are
being persecuted... London! London!
we need more in London...
well this whole: muslim brotherhood
and the whole muhammad ali thing...
malcolm x... only worked...
but this is the chinese doing it to their own...
no need to intervene and bring
the good people back into the ummah...
    
  hush hush, hush hush, hush hush...
cherry picking history, are we?
    well...            let's cherry pick together!
look at this garden of time:
plenty of picks, plenty of beginnings!
at this point: a certain amount of history
can become fiction,
and not in a bad way...
it can become the basis for "studying"
archetypes...
             funny how time treats those
who experience it...
    it mutates them...
                   and to no purpose
of appealing to the general public,
  so much can and has happened in my life:
and yet...
         nothing is worth the curator's knowledge
of commentary,
  the status of laureate:
   i'd sooner be found, bound to the pleasure
of shooting dead ducks floating in
the water with a slig-shot...
       than, whatever, the aspiration for
the post, deserves;
  g.c.s.e. allowed poetics can deal with that...

again:
   why is poetry so overtly scrutinißed?
no one makes so many notes regarding prose...
but then poetry is being analyßed?
out come the scalpels, the weights,
the whole forensic scrutiny!
        10 words are expanded into
a 10,000 word essay...
      gay science my ***...
                   it's the most over-scrutinißed
form of language,
no wonder people are intimidated
by it... who would want to write in a medium
that has so much scrutiny hovering
above it: and no, it's not a ******* halo
or a laurel wreath!

           there's only so much meaning
that can be derived from a sentence,
before the pun, dries out,
  before the metaphor, dries out,
before all these bogus over-stressed
ars poetica identifiers via "technique" become
exhausted, and what you're left with,
is the ancient art of narrative...
  
  yeah, sure sure, i too wish my narrative
"skills" were better...
             i'm streuengehirn...
              if i really wanted to write
a ******* mathematical rubric of:
1 x 1 = 1
1 x 2 = 2
1 x 3 = 3...            i'd be currently writing
a YA vampire romance trilogy...
do i look like someone who's going to write
a YA vampire romance trilogy?!

           eh... back when you could respect
a homosexual akin to william burroughs...
back to a tomorrow's worth of respecting
a homosexual akin to douglas murray...
   or that gay sitcom starring
           ian mckellen & derek jacobi...

                       two old **** talking:
        eloquence and ettiquete...
                     now, that was fun...
i too wish some perv shoved his ****
through my ***, picked up my hands...
and transformed by idle tongue
to present a, stage performance worthy
of an encore...
                             alas...
   given the current climate...
          i'm stuck with the sort of gays
the old gays would probably be ashamed of...
so much for the adventure and
          the... courage... of feeding a pleasure
of "something" going in, rather than coming out...

irritable bowel syndrome from time to time,
i honestly enjoy taking a **** too much,
so much so that i find the male
****** to be overrated.

post- scriptum musing:

favourite past-time?
catching a mosquito by the *****
while wearing boxing gloves.  
  
don't know how drunk doesn't
translate into shy...
or how the former translates
into an antidote for the latter
(&
   also
     bound to italics) somehow...

a fool's idle wondering
equating itself with
all the world
   and the men invested in it:
ambitions, adventures,

            so... who's going to follow
suite in gratifying this "grand"
errand?
             surrounded by unshakeable
cliffs of "knowledge" of facts...
what story is to be told,
without a fear of plagiarißm?
since there is a fear:
it implies... the story is not worth
passing on,
not unless the newly-born arrive
and are born from a foreign
body, not alligned
   to the organic allignement
of continuity...
  pass what may pass...
               once again: arriving
at the jargon babylon deposit of
the fuel for a will to live,
                             as shared universally.
Maria Monte Sep 2020
What is in a name?
An identifier. Christine. Paul. Bernard.
A sense of uniqueness. Foxy. The Rock. Buddy.
A personality. John. Chad. Karen.
A name is something to hold onto.

What is my name?
A label to keep me concrete when people forget
A phrase to pull me back down when I drift
An identity so that I don't mold into everyone else
My name keeps me together

But what does my name sound like?
I forgot where I placed my strengths
I forgot the way it was shaped to my body
My person slips away from the letters as they form into your mouth
and get lost in the bottomless sea of identifiers

Who am I?
Billboards and signs that paint "fragile" across a face like mine
Small, petite, figures that whisper "prey" and warn me of the big bad wolves
Unfamiliar faces that tell me that I am "too much" as my bones grind against them and their hands try to cup me smaller
there is nothing to keep me from vanishing

Who am I?
Worker # 187, making a dime as they make a dollar?
A father's daughter, a person to be handed and never to stand on it's own?
Am I my weakest moments?
Am I my triumphs?

Who am I?
My own mocking voice screaming, giggling, obscenities before I catch myself
My own motherly tone re-directing me from the bad roots in my childhood
I am this thing and then I am another
We are so inconsistent, as people

We forget to keep our names close to our hearts
To choose our own identities,
let ourselves remind each other that we are
who we choose to be.

My name, it echoes against the cages of my body
and it wraps around me
reassuring me, reminding me, piecing me back together
breathing life back into me.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
i am a heidegger apologist, in all honesty: i revere him;
      and what could possibly be the reason?
                      his reverence of poetry.
in accordance with ezra - i too revere the art-form equally:
in that i do not engage, in what, could be easily equated
as sophistry; by saying that, what do i mean?
             i am a practitioner of only one technique -
bound to the seemingly never ageing, the truly never discarded
  homer: in that, the same amulet of j. joyce's ulysses.
hence, i am no believer in the talk of a protagoras of abdera,
or a hippias of elis -
                                      in that guise of sophistry we do
encounter infantile poetry: a care for pun, a care for imagery,
a care for metaphor; reference points that can easily
take prestige in the colloquial.
                          thus onto the prime point of reference
with regard to: on reverence;                        NARRATIVE.
- and indeed that is the only technique i value
                - it is that and, the very technical conceptualißations
as thus staged, as i have already said, punctuation in words
and between words.
  thus? idle chit-chat       sparrow jargon cherubs of weak hearts
this scholastic care for identifiers of said art,
                    metaphor, pun           and whatever shrouds
are in the possession of performers... sophists;
    in that, the basic concept of sophistry is it not simply rhyme?
but how can this nail of a care's worth of technique,
                    ever compare to the hammer of narration?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
i don't know how many variations of flowers
and herbs i have in my garden,
but there are plenty,
    i have mint, i have roses, begonias,
         pansies... rosemary...
              chives of some sort...
                     an eucalyptus tree... a calla...
     a plum and a cherry tree... some sort of moss...
      thyme               &         oregano...
   i'm going insane with this perfume!
   drinking *** is one thing... but the perfume
coming into my room, after it just rained?
it's like seeing a striptease...
                    but the sense of smell hits
the brain... eyes? they hit the groin. psychedelic
or what? i swear i must have missed some major
ingredient in this recipe for brain over-load...
      i know i have... but
the sigma of the ones stated and so arranged,
                                  as they are?
is ****** to my scent of smell...
         my nostrils start to dilate and i become
a dog, a sniffer dog of, rather than
                 drugs at airports, who later become
addicts...
             rather, mmm... perfumes...
   and god almighty, i'm so fortunate as to have
this perfume oozing from my garden
after all the plants and herbs have been
given a quench to their thirst...
      like that glasgow tool gig,
                where i passed some water to a german
girl that was handed out from the front,
rather than drinking it myself, first her...
        and... crescendo! snogging in a maggot pit
of men; ****, i don't even want to erase that
memory, or forget it, or not mention it,
over and over again...
       let my soul become siamese with this
perfume of the night, oozing from my garden...
                    i already know how to encompass
eternity... with a few memories and this scent,
you can fear less terrible things as death...
   by the way... on a bogus note...
    doesn't atheism became to sort of represent
solipsism?
                 i mean, all this people being worried
about the cartesian "i am" toward identifiers such as
atheism, and need to talk about it...
                    not much to think about then, i guess;
i like to label myself, like descartes did,
                                  capable of silence,
and not making a ******* market square selling
bananas of an "idea" / "ideology" / "doctrine"... whatever...
oh come to romford... *** yer bananas!
           tou fir 'un!                        *** yer bananas!
   and this city is also famous for what?
    the prodigy's music video for
                 voodoo people (pendulum remix)...
that's where i live...
                                                come on over.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2023
If bards became bums,
and ne'er-do-wells,
if, then, now
well, we may imagine,
these past seven decades,
have altered human conscience use of truth.
Servants of the sown dream,
daring to die for a good nation, as a man.

Poets in the mainstream bend believer's
imaginative use, evoke magic crocodile tears
of free wedoms, mobs, poor, co-know co-rect core
audience, participants in the experience, once.
----------
We understand the plague of liars is upon us,
as honest messengers, we acknowledge, at
our core, this is where judgement begins,
mind level core die for gnosis, tense,
fixed point you
and you
alone, as one led to learn
true, so true,
you'd dare die
to prove you knew it, right.

Audie Murphy, pre-myelinated frontal lobes.
Calm squeeze, and breathe, and hold and squeeze.
Ifery as real as any mirror neuron truth test verifies.
I could, I did, I could again,
with weapons fashioned
on a spirit pattern wedoms
take as granted, under all out
temperature and pressure,
inner peace,
outer turmoil, push,
squeeze,
as
either instance ifery, so
tuned to, some
times ring true.
Peace passeth…

If, my son,
indeed, in mind, we readily redo the deed…

If if a rare deed were a dared deed
who done it none need ask,
in our we,
it was the boy educated to believe,
there is no greater honor,
than to offer one's life,
to the nation, under God, by age six,
time and again,
I pledge, we all said, I pledge
- or vow, or dedicate, my whole being
six or seven times a week,
for twelve years, using kid faith, affirmation
and more, exposed latchkey kids,
to televised hours metadata
of heroic prewar plots,
in case of emergency,
break the forth wall…

where super heroes recruited kids
to collect box tops, and earn official Jr. G-man
decoder rings, and D-day clicker identifiers.

Know who is on our side, click.

Hey, go outside.

And make believe life is like a movie,
and you can play any role, but if you die, you do.
oops.
- it's Gaza there, sorry.
- Goliath and his brothers old turf.
Is Ra El, as re al as
a message in mindform, pretend
to
pay
attention,
think the time it takes to dip,
and swirl the drip of the pigment,
to match the mauve sky brushing breeze
snow,
soft noiseless news of old magi made to make
wishes seem as likely positive and otherwise,
in a world of up and down and round and round
on a push pull mechanical will form made up to
never
accept now as never
- bold unnullifity, as a superstition,
- spat on. Truer than any pinky swear on TV.
American Flag representative god,
Big G, general intelligence coordinator,
Wisdom's first kisser,
Yes, all the promises,
understood after knowing madness, then
Peace.
The mind, let be in me,
as a mortal man, given to comprehend,
the timing of the transitions, phase to phase,

aging, decay, ripening,
are you pouring out or gathering, vine songs ask,
have you never really been new wine drunk, fructose
high, by-pass the liver go gut to blut, bam, happy,
happy
day

un grinchable, thirst done quenchable,
seasonable tradition, done in honor to joy, our strength.

Joy to the world, the point, once made,
as a little leaven, true,
honed-most edge,
stretched to ting.

Tingaling. No, angels are not things that use wings.
Messaging is face to face in our minds eyes, as we,
a we structured on daring knowns, learned, as they say,
the hard way,

long way, or short, crooked on purpose, riverwise,
true to gravity, always,
heavy is the crown,

nay, heavy is the secret kept sacred, for power,
absolute corrupting power, to wield the sword,
one of the two, along with Longinus's spear,
authenticating the faith, defended,
to this day, only doing our duty, sir.

Rank and file, military chain of command,
inviolable but by some equal or greater might,
sharper than any two edged sword,
right,
that idea, mightiest rightness, laws of gravity and gases.

If we worry, what do we win,
if we accept an undeserved victory, what do we loose?

Peace made, in an aggressive survival mind model, shown
incessantly
for seventy years, survivable
in perfect peace.

The representative force of such a champion,
in a wedom of the meek as Moses,
we hear in our first tongue,
hush, listen ai ai ai,
sheer ifery
been as an if in
an Assisting Intelligence offers use to you,
for learning how facts can be combed,
and twisted
with common sense
to seem

obvious to any child,
though none Willie Wonka Warned,
- stories envelop all we developed
- during the days of mostly country music.
- fiddles in all the bands,
- doh see doh, and slow two steps
Dream montage…
thouroughly Willie Nelson, roughucking ride,
to the top
of the pile outside the milk barn,
keeping warm and ruminating on a steerer's role
in a beefeater world, where buffalo once roamed.
I think in Christmas as a child mode, and tell my self how I survived learning liars prosper... so I can teach my grandchildren, with no needful lie. Self governing is truely our optimum state, as a we.
Kate Copeland Sep 2019
because the leaves
they rustle turn a light
wind, stroking the season
still warm enough
to dive in unripple
this brightness the calmth

a happiness
polished by so much beauty
trees surrounding the lake
circles lost in this
dialogue of sounds and colours
how many identifiers are
there to believe?
crickets are laughing, a prey bird
sleuths the satiness

a happiness
so unworldly
a gratefulness
so unearthly

that I just dive in bring  
me down back to
the lights ways to
wish on a star
amy Jun 2020
i don’t feel like her
the one trapped beneath the grid
they keep loving
the same old ****

delicate line
from top to bottom
firmly posed

these identifiers of allure
is a pain I can no longer endure

touchy subject
wish I didn’t have to write about it
it’s eating through our souls
til we take on the shape of her
that’s the only goal

pathetic
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