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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ
:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -
Max Neumann Dec 2019
"hell yeah?" the burglar asked the pusher.

(the burglar: wirily, ambitious. plain appearance, dressed in black.
the pusher: wealthy, strong and well-conditioned. sumptuous leather jacket.)

"hell yeah", the pusher answered. "now i got what i like and you got what you need."

both grinned. after a day of extensive work, they relaxed in a hellish pub. it was visited by diplomatic creatures whose faces were recognizable like shadows.
this pub was called babylon 8.

the burglar and the pusher touched glasses to celebrate their deal. they drank.

"nothing to be written down",
the pusher added. burglar nodded. voices of the diplomatic creatures surrounding them; satanic sighs; bold laughter; their sentences sounded like orders that are dictated by judges.
  
snakes and rats. gravelpitbulls and red cats. creatures with excellent memory. guys who swallow their plans after they had learned them by heart.

a while later, a lady entered the pub: adorable like a man's fantasy; imitable like a woman's strategy. her hair color was your desire; her skin color the color of your dreams.
her name was fantasy girl.

suddenly, the lights went out; suddenly, a lightblue sun illuminated the room. no one noticed. everyone so busy hiding something that nothing was hid.
the creatures of babylon 8 therefore didn't perceive the light.

fantasy girl ordered a drink. she told the bartender: "i need freedom. that's what i want from you, the people of babylon 8."

the bartender a giant with a face full of shining scars; his right ear missing; flashy shirt; an ancient first name; speaker of all world languages combined: the omerta.

fantasy girl took a sip from a silver brew which had been served to her by the bartender. she took out a single match and there was no box; a long cigarette between her unknown lips.

bartender looked at fantasy girl. without saying a word, he turned his stubble cheek into her direction. fantasy girl lighted the match.
lightblue fire. inhaling. smoke. iceblue cloud.

the burglar and the pusher had been looking at fantasy girl all the time.
fantasy girl held a white fountain pen and took a black sheet out of a green handbag. she began to write.
To be continued. BABYLON 8
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
               utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
                                    anti-
                                            qua-      
                                                         -so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
                                Marxist-
liberal-
                                         Hegelian-
             whatnot...
                                                they don't
use abstract prefixes,
                                          their prefixes
are concrete,
                        they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
                                      the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
                                      con-
has to be conservative
                                                  pro-
has to be socialist
                                     you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
             ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
             *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.


it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.

   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.


- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
if god is dead,
then poetry is nought: but suicide.

could it be the evermore question, a year from now
the same autumn will rinse the lands of once budding colour,
and stretch, as the eye can see, the witry skeletons,
where once the birds nested their young in bulbs of harvested
twigs  bundled up? for what if the wintry tree, if not
the last remnants of the airs of spring,
a lizardly womb of flight...
   so the paupers of Rome argue
about the benefits of monogamy,
as they might about monotheism...
and they say monogamy is not "natural",
but what is? why take the burden of
a widower swan, why extract monogamy from
swans and later find the harem of monkeys?
and then simply say: it be unnatural... why?
we were never gracious enough to mirror
swans, hence the brothers Grimm and the
ugly duckling mistook...
        oh wagers of the translated Graeae
of Scotland, where it Hamlet on the couch,
or where it Macbeth?
what matters is how populist media makes
a franchise of a form of athletics that cannot bed
a guised look of despondency -
      puritan saxon conference on sexuality
that gone beyond the ******* use:
***** therefore thinking,
            flaccid therefore not thinking...
you can utilise language to a point where mathematical
certainty is given, as is the missing blemish of
woad... no wonder the Saxon maidens
    retain their virginity at home,
but treat themselves for a nibble of the Magdalene
on the isle of Malaga... puritanism disintegrates
2 weeks in...
                   and still they bemoan,
if they have been growing more and more depressed
since the second world war...
                why allow them to create this viral infection
that's like a virus ingested by unsuspecting
       victims... are they not the ones
prescribing premature depression since they
heaved no foetus in their womb?
          and having done so, are clear of the command:
remove that alien **** from me!
   aren't they?
       if god is dead... all those who write poetry
have committed suicide...
           i once made a lament statement:
given that god is dead, then so is poetry,
i don't which is more lamentable...
but i'm sure to spot a few more eager-beavers of
kneeling and prayer than i'm to see poets...
and can i return to the heights having sunk so low?
      evidently i didn't sulk on my way down,
could poetry ever be tamed with no populist
acrimony? no *auld lang syne
?
      i doubt it...              i very much doubt
a care for anything else sing-along astute than that,
for all i can compete with, is, some sort
of individual... a shadowy statuette...
         it's what's called the reverse of having a heart
for the cardiologist, a brain for the neurosurgeon,
a pathology for the psychiatrists,
  an ambition for the philosopher (mistook them
as humanists you have, for those that are simply
relegated from the realms of language by linguists) -
  for the oncologist that's hardly an ontologist....
swans epitome monogamy with the widower...
apes are Islam with the harem...
          and they say gods do not exist...
but if one sees no god, how is one to replica
a god's existence, if man borrows from the purest
sense of plagiarism that hides no legal documents
enforcing a slack on plagiarism, namely that of anima /
animal? man cannot grasp a concept of god
by sacrificing himself on the altar of imitable animal...
swans have their monogamy... man too presumptuous
also chose swans as the guiding beacon...
softened core, a mongrel of mammal and lizard
that the birds became... furry but borne from
a cracking of the eggshell... man too presumptuous...
he looked elsewhere to no visionary guide since
Narcissus: for mythology is the guiding hand of
new poetry, should god be indeed dead, and poetry
akin to that statement be merely suicide...
then at least mythology is equivalent of history
for poetry... at least there is a logic involved..
   for assuredly should god be dead,
and chlorophyll as pointless as the logic of bio:
be that of life outside one's own graphic or within
one's graphic... should life be nothing more
than the tactless usurping of history that is merely
a blank hole between the omni toward a speciem,
then why have we bothered recording history?
of all scientific theories, of all that rampantly
degrade all human dignity, why create a despotism
within science, that constantly repeats itself
to be overvalued, for reasons that suggests:
en masse applicability due to its pictorial invigoration
for a cruising simplicity? i gather this be a reason
for the emergence of technophobes, or men equipped
to war armed with nothing but sticks!
it's one thing to popularise an idea, later morphed
into a theory, then morphed into an ideology
(an idea that recurs persistently and has no
theoretical basis to not succumb to its theoretical
premise of becoming dodo - the theory of evolution
doesn't take into context the notion that it too can
become extinct... surpassed by something more
invigorating)... later morphed into a shiva
construct that destroys itself...
          we've seen 20th century's pinnacle of this
idea... we've seen eugenics emerge from a pristine
monkish background that said: how best
to economise the case of: the accurate *****-count...
is Darwinism the zenith of invigorating man?
              i find it's too arrogant to even imagine
a square tilting into a rhombus...
       suggesting a rectangle...
       but the days of roaming the Savannah are long gone
and past us... the dependency on oil and gas
and central heating has created a prison-like Akeley...
from what we've inherited, toward what we can
expect, or with suspicion: demand.
            and to think having begun erasing history,
and to think, having erased history of what's noteworthy,
we turned the slapped cheek into a cubist abstraction:
it seems pointless naming pubs after Charlemagne
(shar-le-maine) let alone singing about them...
let's all celebrate running ****-naked on a Kenyan
plateau... and rather than dealing with the past
on a poetic scale... rather: on a literalist scaling of things...
it's almost like biblical literalism kinetics....
     in either case: everyday poetry dies...
or as the case is minded to refresh the argument:
    with the death of god, poetry committed suicide...
i don't know which is the more tragic evidence
of what language has become...
                     this doesn't even invoke an analysis
of the marketplace use of language that politics is...
god forbid it should ever come to that...
  aren't we supposed to feel something otherworldly
at some point in our lives?
                     it's not that i can't rationalise my existence
into this world alone... and feel all the contentment
i need by mere concern for thought trickling into my
being within it...
            it's just that i can't rationalise my existence within
this world alone, based upon a hierarchical
          symptom... much akin to Guy "Lucifer" Fawkes
tried to state by blowing the houses of parliament...
which doesn't suggest a need for a celestial conjuring
of dictator... man has already encouraged that
with English 24/7 c.c.t.v.,
                                                   and as might be suggested...
the point you reach when catching yourself trying
to persuade or enforce a point...
         that lacks all emotive sensitivity hoping for
a romantic excavation invoking the zeitgeist of the times...
neo-romantics are on the rise...
                            we do live in a time of neo-romanticism,
as a few might have suggested: globalisation's
and the audaciousness of militant Islam's offspring:
lying dormant, like a speech by Pope Urban II:
     it just lay there, under a fog of submerged Calvinism
and secular sensibility... waiting patiently
        till the nibbling stopped and it had a chance
to counter... it truly was a case of Damocles' seconds...
tick-tock, tick-tock... and thus the guillotine dropped;
you could feel the carcass stench in the air
         or what cultural-marxisim would make of
an economy that attacked its own economic model...
  it would be deemed dead economically,
but culturally? resurgent...
         you could sniff it out in the air, that rotting
carcass menu: providing a wake of vultures,
                                  or a comedy house of hyenas.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
you know, ego-tripping is one thing,
but tackling religious affairs is an another high
altogether, there's no involved involved,
not enough phonetic encoding,
people made more from the New Testament
than they did of Heidegger's being and time,
wait... i might just squeeze in seeing the light.
i see the light almost every night,
and i'm not even a physician,
i'm not awe inspired with all these facts
hanging about, hard to practice philosophy these days,
it an instilled bewilderment having to
placebo ignorance for that spark, original ******.
it was never about giving a ******* an ******
at £110 an hour without faking it,
god it hurt her, hurt her for enjoying her professions,
******* **** just got relegated....
after her ****** and kissing her hand
she just just the owl's ouch... it's hard to get a *******
to enjoy her work, every time i pull my *******
back and pretend to be all Jewry -
of course i'm not really enjoying it, but she is...
you get the picture, a ******* having pleasure
on her working hour while the 100th **** comes
to grease a beginning of the day song;
i payed extra to perform oral *** on them...
you think i stashed my tongue into a ******?
i prefer rare steaks; or *****.

now the confusing bit...
i was born in a zeitgeist that needs revision,
a book published in 1953 by a Swiss psychiatrist
did nothing to postpone the uncovering of
the Antichrist, simply sped up discovering
anti-matter, Nietzsche, as the Polish proverb
states: silent rivers being silent increase the girth...
we know the Antichrist himself stated lived...
hence the zeitgeist.... the pop culture of
the event, i was born into this *******;
and if i didn't go to a Catholic school i'd write
you a piece about how romantically complicated
really was. there's on problem, i'm telling you this
straight from a donkey's gob slobbering -
it's confusing reading Nietzsche then reading
C.G Jung's 1953 published book entitled
answer to Job - it really is, given popular culture's
hopes entitled: plagiarism.
the book involves another diabolical figure
in the arithmetic - the Paraclete -
and boy isn't he the diabolical figure -
he's the good bad bad guy - the Paraclete and the Antichrist
are almost synonyms -
all our pop culture is worthless when Jung dismisses
the farsighted identification of the Antichrist -
it was Nietzsche... why are so any people trying
to imitate given the 21st century? well, not so much
these days, but those born in the 20th century still feel
the effective remnants taking effect -
the Paraclete is no less diabolical than the Antichrist -
we're talking the heresy of modern philosophers
who said that the holy spirit isn't a person but a community
but then pops up the Paraclete...
the lost pluralism of the holy ghost ends up
with a plurality of the false prophets - gamblers -
also a community - not many people have heard the term
Paraclete, they might have spotted a dove with laurel leaves
in Sicily - but nothing more.
Israel by current football scores is still part of Europe
and not part of America... Beitar Jerusalem F.C. and
Maccabi Tel Aviv F.C. - i wasn't asking, the Jews
really want the revival of the Roman empire
with a resurrection of the zealots and sadducees...
believe me, the plurality of the holy spirit personified
into the Paraclete is what Nietzsche did with
gluing together the conglomerate of false prophets
into his t.n.t. maxim of exhaustion... writing maxims
will exhaust you, until you write a bombshell and it's true.
so Jung's answer to Job is kinda paradoxical in
the years that built up a culture of anti -
toward a dyslexic citation of a quote:
since he is the third person of the deity, this is as much
as to say that god will be begotten in the cruelty of man;
originally it was the creaturely man, i.e, not the
creative man, not the ingenious man,
created that begot not creativity but indolence...
i told you you the Paraclete was a diabolic concept
akin to the Antichrist, given that it was hidden and never
stated in the "holy" gospels... the Antichrist was at least
stated in the book of Revelation... the Paraclete
ensuring the holy ghost was personified also meant
a bridge between the polygamy of prophesies in the false
prophet unanimity of suggested prophets -
but only when reading Nietzsche and then reading Jung
and then looking at our current sub- or culture -
but why was it ever a testimony of something holy?
after all, holy was intended for a dove with a laurel leaf
while John baptised -
in terms of sacredness and holiness i itemise to identify
something holy as having not indebtedness to words,
to meanings... by dove i concern myself with sounds,
knocking on doors, meaningless we also achieve yet still
comprehend with onomatopoeia(s)... the coo the coo,
the feline monkish purr - by holy i also invoke
untouchable, or in the doctrine of the Antichrist,
the chandala (of the Indian caste system) -
it's just become too pop and too imitable to hide the concerns
that Jung might have had - animals are ultra-chandala -
but i'm sure you haven't heard of a loss of a Christian
community committing itself toward the personification
of the Holy Ghost as known by the noun Paraclete -
but it's happening...  urbanity coupled with globalisation
and the pristine English village...
it makes no sense to read Jung as if intending to find the identity
of the Antichrist (i went to a faith school, the vocabulary
intended for priests is like ****** to me, get me off my high
i'll bunch up your ******* with a bouquet and punch
it until it looks like autumn - 6ft1 and 115kg... you think
i wouldn't? wanna try?).
i have no message: you are gods, beyond-man and above-angel...
given your little recording of personal matters,
i think you are in a cognitive slaughterhouse -
i have no message to make you gods... you're below animals...
as sad as it sounds, animals don't have selfie-sticks at
museums... gods that admire animals and hope for
the proper jokes from animals... that son of God really
did trick you to believe yourself ~omnipotent but returning
for jokes among dogs playing pianos and trying out
the soprano... the godly third of the unholy trinity is there,
the diabolical third of the holy trinity is also there...
funny how the Third ***** gets cultural attention
and artistic sympathy with bands like Hanzel und Gretyl -
and how modern man takes depression so seriously while
the holocaust survivors almost laugh with helium implosions.
well, you know, culture built on algebraic fractions...
Islam made simple waiting for a nibbling:
or as they say in England about the stabbing in Russel Sq.,
psychiatric problems are our smoke-cover,
better call the Norwegian-Somali outright mad
so we can keep up the proper P.R. tactic -
the English were always like that, esp. with a Muslim
mayor of London - P.C. thorough... as France said:
you find two people buggering in a Niqab you're not
watching five-blind-men touching up an elephant...
******* *******... it was a terrorist attack but
to keep communities united psychiatrists were
invested in to make up some *******.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
a Darwinist's wet-dream, a youth's depression... i'm not surprised why the two share the same phenomenological plateau: after the said school morphed into existentialism and hit a brick wall with English utilitarianism, it's no wonder it started drawing on parallels - in the 19th century you had the fable of premature dementia - in the 21st century you'll find it hard too curb the fable of premature depression... less schizoids take their own life than premature depressed - the phenomenon of Darwinism's inquiry of the sea-turtles as naturally and intrinsically worthy pity meant that teenagers suffering from premature (unnatural) depression were simply told: aw... you'll get better... we'll just keep looking at the cruelty of nature for inspiration in the realm of sympathy... like ******* will... pharaohs of the food chain... you produced the architectural pointlessness of pyramids... myriads of the crucifix, and the cult of the tombstones... my grandmother visiting the grave of my grandparents almost every, single, day; her son couldn't care less... attaching personalities to inanimate products like cars or planes or Toy Story didn't help, either... but finding Nemo was a bit like finding the great white shark - Darwinism and Disney shouldn't mingle - pity doesn't last outside of what's petted - dogs and cats - you pity an animal outside the realm of what's pitied, you might as well be worth sushi.*

if fame isn't clenched within mortality -
if fame exists in the realm
of posthumous affairs - it exists
for the immortals to judge whether
it out be resurrected -
to be minded in the daily affairs of
inhaled oxygen -
only because the Coliseum was never minded,
but the Caesar's thumb was...
when i see fame i see only c.c.t.v.
"metaphors" - what is fame anyway?
we have a culture of fame surrounding us!
but we can hardly fathom why so many
scientists are left anonymous with their
anaesthetics and antibiotics -
in this world, what's useful is left anonymous,
what's useless is best cited - and constantly
refreshed - what is fame?
what if not cloning? it's such a shame to
be productive in aiming for such goals
rather than attempting carpentry's prodigy son -
if fame is becoming near butcher's worth of
**** and the buttocks exposed -
then fame has became absolutely devalued -
just after the 20th century the game changed -
we have devalued fame... as we have devalued currency -
fame just becomes a Friday newspaper
on the underground train foot-printed with ink-smears
and that other running-mascara -
as with so many billionaires, so with to many
famous people - the last anarchic act before the
insignificance of insects at a picnic bundle of folded
napkins became apparent - we reached the insect
paradox - not lizard cold blooded essence,
but the phobia blooded essence of insects -
the easily replaced - Auschwitz replenished within
a free society... numbers... satellite navigation -
never had i seen Narcissus so petrified with a mirror -
given that someone stole his mirror and the mirror
was shared among so many... Narcissus, synonym of
solipsism, was never so petrified as he was now -
the insect number overcame the feline king's presence -
not much thought concerning the poachers -
the insect-like numbering less the feline king's
presence - the mane completely cinematographic, suited
only for an intro roar - nothing imitable -
it was all slightly less panicky than expected -
so easily squashed the insects were, as we played gods -
but in number we became the most resembling them -
as if by prerogative to prior life on this earth...
we thumb-pressed a fly to death... as we knew in our
waking-dream that something too awaited us to be minded
as the prime venture we gave our thumb to act upon...
that, cold, lizard-like insignificance -
long before our science fiction dreams became realistic -
we realised something counter our current projection
of interests - from the tier of the cold blooded,
to the tier of the hot blooded, into the tier of
the exoskeleton where blood is confused with mush and
bone, where porridge is both brain tissue and liver tissue -
where beings are more emotionally resilient toward
phonetic stresses, as in units of encoded sounds,
and there this sense of coherency -
we look at dinosaurs with superiority of that famous
example of a brain in a pickle jar that's an anaconda -
the snake - but we're also spied against with insects -
they're looking at us - let us speak in terms of Darwinism
as is loved by those citing adaptability and 1 millions years -
well... we have all the time in the world -
the serpent the most abstract remnant of the dinosaurs
is looking at us... and he's saying: look toward the termite
mounds, and the ants as if you were Solomon...
they are the last evolutionary caricatures readied to usurp
your laughter with seriousness... they are neither
cold nor hot blooded... but simply hard-skinned
and uniform in aquatic assemblage contained within -
as once was Mars inhabitable, when Earth wasn't -
given those millions of years - capturing the speed of light
reduced our note-keeping of history as an act of
derelict intelligence - thus from capturing the speed of
light, into a history of day-to-day-day-by-day -
the plagiarism of 20th century art in the 21st -
the speed of light and the expanse of Darwinism -
strobe light historical-science - flash blink flash blink;
what is fame if we're entertained by the paupers in this realm
these days? we're not watching fame worked for,
as something resurrected out of light of interest, selflessly
attired to be cruelly exploited for selfish reasons -
watching the television (my "metaphor" for Plato's Cave)
is like watching homeless people on the street -
i see paupers of fame being paid to be paupers of fame -
the exploits of c.c.t.v. paranoia - the beggars eating lice
or maggots to support their claim to fame...
just like homeless people... the t.v. is the technological
replication of the cave, shadows... shadows...
when Mars was inhabitable Earth was the prior Venus -
the inhabitants of Mars left... and isn't Darwinism dangerous
when it comes to history? imagine two minutes tomorrow
after two p.m. - is that possible with the given kaleidoscope
of interests? Earth was once inhabitable, purest volcanic -
sending probes to Mars has already unearthed our lack
of common sense unity - communism failed,
the sea lion had his harem - we're not built to communicate
with insects' inherent dictatorial precision - hence we're less
bound to succeed in the theory of evolution -
we evolve to be selfish - we don't evolve to be collectively
minded - esp. given money - insects do that...
we're not insects... unless only in our delusional or orbit of hope...
i just wonder what resemblance we will take
to have given the abstract dinosaur - the serpent -
watching the insects evolve from the Tales of Gulliver
into the green-skinned fables of our science-fiction fancy;
what i've written down just now, will not give me fame...
it has already outlived me... it is outside of human history -
just like what modern Darwinism encapsulates,
national history when trying to govern assimilation of
immigrants with the significance of the year 1066...
and then the canvas of: millions of years ago...
the second big bang... although this one being more
complicated than based upon atoms and sub-atomic particles...
too much colour... too much ready geometry of spheres...
NO ******* WONDER THE CHEMISTS WERE LIKE:
**** IT... LET'S BECOME ALCOHOLIC BACHELORS...
THESE PEOPLE LEFT TO RIGHT ARE TOO AWE-STRICKEN
THAT IT'S POINTLESS TO TELL A STORY OF A
SATURDAY NIGHT ****-UP IN GLASGOW.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
you know there are neo-nazis in poland? a friend once joked. i looked at the news and would have asked had i the chance: you know there are neo-nazis in dover?*

well given china and india, and given the freaky
scientific Europeans spiked-up with power
having conquered  the Mongolians in Bohemia
but being defeated by nozzles of greedy mosquitoes
in the resurrected Aztec man as the atomised
mesoamerican re-awoke:
with the peak the zika viral
infection that's hardly an imitable dance
on a saturday night (pigeon brain
in a cranium aquarium five times the size);
lazy *** with ants making it move
and set sail... play terrible unthinking
chess with hope of a robot beating a russian
known as deep big bogus blue...
well, we have someone named samuel
passing a short-change economy as a banker's bonus...
while the hyenas grew feathers and flew
into darwin's paradise of high-brow concords:
the dumb ones said: the rollin' stones vs. the beatles?
the smart ones said: frank zappa vs. bob dylan?
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it happened to me like it once did at the Gants Hill
Odeon, i supposed to see Jumaji,
instead i saw the Little Princess - with two old women
knitting - don't know how it happened -
the little girl got out of the attic like a revision of
Cinderella - somehow - later i ran skipping imitating
a deer hop home - i don't know, i must have been
10 at the time.

i said i was seeing Nabucco - but instead if was seeing
a version of operatic Goethe - (gef eh), read the work:
die leiden des jungen Werthers - the sorrows of youthful
Werthers - can everyone stop the ******* clapping
before the act is over, stop your provincial habits
like eating food without a knife only using the fork!
**** me... stop! you do it more so during ballet -
but in opera? please! stop that seagulls' flapping of wings!
mind you, that's how it goes these days -
tourists from home counties are seated -
pensioners - who apparently have no money -
i'm 30 this year, you think i wouldn't spot someone younger than
me in the oyster shell of an opera house dome?
a few, by a few i mean arithmetic of one palm of my hand -
that's about as many youths appreciating classics -
no more thereafter.
so i sat there, i was told it was Italian opera,
later i was told it was Wagner (i hate Wagner) -
but there were french horns in the orchestra and the opera
was done in french, what the ****?!
so adding the dot dot dots... the french are real bores
in Opera... the french can't do opera! for the love of god
they can't do opera! i admit a almost cried with
a dying wish and a toilet break when Werther sand his
last - i almost ****** a tear like salting a curry -
but the French CAN'T DO OPERA!
the German can, Italians too - let the French write philosophy,
the French CAN'T WRITE OPERA -
although the fourth act saved the entire spectacle -
i do admit with the back of my mind present
that the children's choir was a salvage point -
oh poor Werther - soft-spoken German, must be either
Saxon or slang - *verter
- vide cor meum -
the French aren't allowed operatic expression -
banish them toward the ***** of Stendhal - banish them!
but you know... i can count almost half a year to
respect my memory since i last stood in an urban environment,
with Duck Trump accents demonising the air -
so tacky, so ******* out of place...
prosthetic limbs equated as people with their
tourist visa permits scaffolding the areas where
a Guinness sells at 5 quid while in provincial pubs it sells
well under 3 quid - i came up with a maxim along the way,
waving Kant's critique of pure reason along the way
(exaggeration, well and truly established, necessarily) -
a book contra a mobile phone use -
when i got back to the outer suburbs of London, or "London",
or simply greater, after seeing the panic in the central
sphere of commotion, i simply said the words:
an hour for them is a day for us.
an hour for them is a day for us - drop the paranoid
straitjacket clause revised -
there is clear distinction - in my fashion i was worth
less than £100 - most people where worth per item an excess
of that - London is an eerie place there days -
e.g. Sarah (33) communications manager -
an Arab stole her chance for a one-bedroom box or
something resembling living space -
Eve (24) -property guardian etc., 27 people sharing
one kitchen, quasi-squatting in a removable van of brick;
Aletheia (33) back with her parents in Brighton
(cue the scene from Hellraiser: Inferno - the last
scene, the noooooooooooooooooooooooo! and your childhood
bedroom) - well, d'uh; t'ah d'ah!
London is eerie - the only person smiling was me,
the rest of the people looked boxed, Hammersmith
Hamsterwheel types with duck-taped around their foreheads the
slogan: jog on... jog on, keep calm, keep on jogging.
you said Doreen or did i say Doreen and was this a
short-term memory placard advertising a "wish you were here"?
the French can't do opera - they're the same bores
in opera as the Germans are in thinking -
Jules Massenet did no wrong but undid so any wrongs -
but then crescendo! the most ****** fragment of the opera -
next to me a plump beauty with her boyfriend -
throughout the second act our arms were touching
and i rhymed my breathing to the rhythmic of hers -
clothed, neither naked, neither penetrating -
i guess the English pinnacle of ******, chaste -
in the third act our legs were touching sadistically knee to knee -
nonetheless London is to tacky - so eerie - so foreign -
so not imitable English - forget Soho or the East End
like you already forgot the folklore of the ancient
English smog of the 18th century chimneys -
it's gone - bye bye - it won't return - it was never intending
to return - it seems only Camden remains to be levelled -
or Vauxhall... we'll all be rich phantoms by then -
whether a real swimming pool for the rich or a virtual
swimming pool for the poor, it won't matter -
dreams will hardly be summoned for poetic partisan expression
bewildered as to whether the simulation or the actual partaking
are that far apart - it won't matter -
such a night in London i summed up with words:
for them an hour, for us a day - the discriminatory relativity
poker-handed us the ****** expressions that way -
but in the countryside... so much air, and so little
minute phobias grown into offshoots of skyscrapers -
so much air... so much air... so much air...
and no courtesan airs... bow... mm hmm... huh?
THE FRENCH CAN'T WRITE OPERAS!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i'm not here to joke about the stance of creationism, i know that secular society admits to the pillar of atheism, a- i.e. without theology, but i mind to not be concerned with the bishop's mitre or the pope's ironic kippah - i just look at my library and think of aeroplanes, the creative process was there, these books are stones you can enter and stretch your feet up, the person in question is now a persona non grata, out of natural constraints, namely mortality and death; creationism is not so much about originating into what i call a limited readers' digest - you can hardly be creative citing only one book, why just one? is this trampoline worth jumping on? why not bungee jump with some other book into the abyss? aeroplanes, books, you see the **** thing stacked on a shelf, and you have to play the role: in the end there was sound, and the sound was with man, the only currency of rubric coherency among animal instincts and lack of insight to digress from seasonal stimuli like the grizzly bear nearing the end of spring preparing for hibernation, hence our insomnia; look, the book is like an aeroplane, and you're the delayed sound feedback, but the magic is the fact that there is no authority holding you back, you interpret it as you feel constrained by an idiosyncrasy when brushing your teeth, writing is the foremost expression of something about you being dispossessed, you write from the standpoint / angle of particular, but you write to reach the plateau of universality: obviously you will feel disgruntled should your particularity leave no tsunami or earthquake or an atom bomb of influence (you think i don't?) on the plateau of universality; and to sound ironically even more biblical than necessary: i will walk on the plateau of universality and i will only fear myself... let death take the valley and god with it... i'm talking about the deity of solipsism, akin to Sisyphus, namely Solipssus (Σoλιπφυς) - you're the delay and with origin (0, 0) coordinating what creativity once was, regressed and shut in the cemetery of Tartarus that the library is, the aeroplane in plain sight... whistle a tornado with your book of choice!

whatever the father intended for the son,
ex *ecce ****
of pilate
and the washing of hands at the mosque
to fulfil the temptation prior to prayer -
Hemingway spoke of the centurion's
act of pity with the spear piercing the lung
in a chapter from the book men without women;
whatever the father intended for the son
came to pass, hence the inquisitions and
the sheep-herding conglomerate of the holy
populace, not a person, but a gathering,
the membrane of these church-going folks
required a blind Samson to shake things up -
bring the temple of petulant whims into
a standstill saying: enjoy the weekends and
the theme parks.
i could never become a performer,
we deem universality of the shades for each man,
i know entertainers have a immunity
like ambassadors when on stage -
the bass line from the new paul simon's
L.P. wristband is gratifying, minimalistic,
the way i like to claim all music
to imitate strippers, feng shui hits in the basket,
maybe... maybe... maybe.
and should poetry create an imitable orchestration
of all the musical instruments in a band
or orchestra through the onomatopoeia flute
sometimes adding a definite meaning
with words, so be it, but still, a voice to match
to an army of instruments coordinated,
it will be hard to create a concert hall audience
for encore and deafening applause -
you see the plot now, don't you -
poetry for the shy punching bags, poetry
neither for heroism or gambling, both
shared a womb and both shared a tomb;
but this auxiliary trinity i'm speaking of,
never mind the father or the son, we're trying
to encapsulate the holy spirit, or should
i say the zeitgeist - for it is a zeitgeist of
switching the years around at spring for harvest,
an hour forward, when a strange anomaly to
change dates - and the kingdom of china
didn't bow, nor india - even though satan
promised all kingdoms - these two didn't
bow and i am thankful for their stance -
so if the holy are to be left holy and unimpressed
by a lack of dialectical stimuli - holiness is primarily
a non-engagement with dialectics,
secondary to that the horrid synonymous approach
of treating the concept of sin as both immoral
and criminal... well... it can't be both,
i can understand forgiving immorality,
but forgiving criminality would only translate
as the unnatural collapse of the profession of law,
all the lawyers and judges would end up as hobos...
so watching a music program (on t.v. it starts well
near the midnight mark, so you want to be hip
stay up late, foraging on the internet solo will
not necessarily give you a wide range of chinese whispers
to gather new influences, stuck in the grunge rut of
the early 1990s, e.g.) - and it came to me,
creativity now a stasis, nothing is really changing
in terms of what's new, unless it be primarily in art,
new art and abandoned auditoriums of former trends,
digging themselves out of and into a cemetery -
so this zeitgeist has to be accounted for -
out of holy must come something destructive:
δημιουργικoς ψυχη (alt. πνευμα) -
             the creative soul (alt. spirit) -
the artistic community is in shambles over-reacting
to a lack of creativity in this world,
their atheism repressed, unimpressed, reveals
a hope for every new big bang a minute by minute contrast
of the whole inertia surrounding them -
but never did a single man provoke a question
that tailored all the answers - no theory of everything
could be a chauffeur for the ride -
so indeed when half the potential is asserted by deviations
in the obstructions via holiness and lack of
argument to represent a clarity, another half is lodged
in a constant strife to overladen immovable mountains
and inert stones with a spirit of creativity -
it's not a holy spirit, it's a spirit of desecration,
or constant creation with subsequent equal constant
destruction - i find this spirit of more interest -
this zeitgeist to be perpetuated, esp. since it existed
prior to a.d. in the realm b.c., and continues to be pursued,
more ardently, given the declining number of
worshippers in Anglican churches - the final abandonment,
which create a strange picture with Evangelical
ardency in what is deemed the most progressive country
on earth.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
with the onslaught of a.i., and what television represents:
a couple watching shy arts on a saturday, because the urban
environment tells them so, make Chopin or Liszt accessible,
make it Parkinson's Debussy,  Yogi too and Satie - slooooooo
riddles the wheel that does, makes it a carry on as if Bagpipe Ben,
Benjamin's pharma ***** arose at Zion - never had naked flesh
felt so crass imitable African: cow ****  and Masai tick-tock -
thomas newman and the levellers cradled punk into
middle-age, just before the overdose
and headlines about Los Angeles and
everyone equipped with wings,
a harnessing of William Wallace -
anointed son in woad is half-a-baker's
challenge to burn London Town down...
and made market to the kept profiteering postcard
of lullaby ****... page 3 argument
equal vote share concerning fox hunting...
red coats... **** me! red coats!
you can almost shelter insanity with them having
a nostalgic trip rather than an urban narcissistic
trip of mono est genus - a Venus embedded in plant
like Narcissus - what is said beyond Olympians...
three brothers, a singleton fathering,
what be worth eaten is worth being given to eat...
scientific humanism already assures a billionth
parameter which we are to make schematics of off
a Friday night, endeared by a billionth of a second
tamed, later expressed by a second in multiple of billions
with re- of Friday and 0 as necessarily denied prior
faults, readily repeated as cause of revising a / the
default(s) - what pluralism leads to the continuum without
relapse barriers of safety? with the former article
it's an endurance of focusing of the geometric expression
of: oh, oh oh, oh... delayed matrimony with morals....
with the latter article as its endurance of focusing on
the anti-geometric of what's eerie: linear standards and
tri-geometric evaluations of three-dimensional space
and three-dimensional time;
so where keep the riddle fluctuating permanently and
with frequent consistency, for us to keep
kilometre and millimetre,
                                  centimetre    and the metre,
second                  and the hour....
all these divisible extractions from the entirety
that could be left intact as a safari trip and heroism...
well, higher than Mt. Everest, and cheaper than
Gucci & Gabbana - insurance brokers tempted
to file lawsuits against man's contrast of genes
overpowering: and napkins and nappies with
the minor hailstorms - or why the West fears
nuclear Holocaust, having prompted the fear by
the atomic twins Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
******* are spreading the fear, no one mentions
this war crime, because Minato Pāru is mentioned
first... hell, the boys conscripted... what's your point?!
Bruce Springsteen... huh? 50 years of a cultural influence
is enough, now i'm fed nostalgia and the new
crap sound just like the acronym J.V.C.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
in english slang: you're a bit of a ***;
hence not holy water in russian orthodox,
but holy fool.

and as david bowie according to w.h. auden saying
'he became his admirers,' i too, but i don't care for admirers,
i have this strange affinity with alcohol,
i'm morose dirge clipping  in the night,
but during the day, i speak variations
of peacock onomatopoeias to cats
and laugh a dry fox's laugh
that insists on operatic regurgitated phlegm
for ointment for a vehement approach
to the sung piece of work:
much of our cognitive faculties are
based upon translating optically phonetic
symbols into action, unlike gob-gagging-droop
of seeing the creases (kreskówki, crayon drawings)
of colour upon colour, supra-colours of fantasy
that leave us speaking very little,
much is designated for the ah, within the framework
of dentistry's 'say ah...' aaaaah... good, not the filing
and implants. i lied, there are actually two
aesthetic phonetic units among actual diacritical
units in the polish alphabet: ó (u) and ż (rz, e.g. rzeka / river)
ę and ą are imitable by crouching with the knee bend
of the vowels - still the russians choke the joke:
'polish is all sh sh sz sh sh sz sh sz,' *no tak, i szczepta soli
/
a pinch of salt.
and when i die, and die i shall, i want the shamanic winds
to turn me into deer and foxes, my greatest patrons
of the senses - and if i die in my sleep, i will never rest
for having the opportunity of looking death in the face
stolen from me; how many painful blinks it might take,
death conscious than death in my sleep.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
why do i believe in god?
           yes yes, that santa claus of all ideas,
i can't imagine it being an unnaturally
derived idea,
   i can't believe it's a software package
with a virus, as much as i can't imagine
it a hardware package with a hammer...
i can't seem to get rid of it!
and this is not some strand of argument
derivative of any religious dogma...
it really is a software (subjectivity)
   and hardware (objectivity) type of scenario...
every time i hear a woman agonise
feminism, because there just isn't enough
femininity in the world i concede
to the remarks as necessarily true...
  what is contrary to that, i.e. unnecessary
is to state the obvious... and that's the tyranny
of nature... nature is a tyranny,
    for the most part people went crazy
when god became by debasing himself
had a masturbator moment and said:
pyramids and the Himalayan mountains....
      it took enough time to reject the idea
and embody the French counter-cuisine
culture and build a ******* Eiffel...
  i believe in god in the same way that
Milton excused Satan...
      it's when a woman said that raising children
was a job... i was like... what the ****?!
  being a mother is a job?
  so i guess being a father is nothing more than
a plate of food and something to whine about...
  my belief in this procrastination is only
due to the fact that i'm rebelling against
de Sade's deity... i abhor nature...
    i abhor this stance on naturalising everything
that claims there is no outlet to decry the rules...
          i abhor this blind-forthcoming
of all things deciding upon subjugation -
i abhor the so-called "mother" -
      i don't understand nature, and i won't be
in the Attenborough cohort slobbering with
awe-aplenty at her feet.. i will not attest to
feeding the myth that's contrary to the obstacle
a god imposed... with whatever auxiliary arguments
auto-suggestive of the necessary dynamism of
encountering the full potency of human freedom,
i chose to believe in "santa claus" only because
i am facing the tyranny of reducing myself
to a comparative status equivalent of parasite....
      the parts you might add: chivalry and a slap
on a cheek, black friday, and godforbid
      a spectacle of watching football -
20 idiots running on a scratch of green kicking about
a geometric morphing of a tadpole...
score!               a wet hanky to my debate,
could be added.
                 there are a few who allowed themselves
to be the maggot on the end of a fishing-hook,
unlike the marquis, they didn't celebrate nature,
they called nature a derivative of all forms of
organisation experimented with by man,
      all the dogmatism runs counter to what's
expected, it's called a placebo... given that
we already have to abide by so many laws...
gravity... we have to abide by that...
   as with god so with man, he too would love
to embody nothing and not scrap this world -
as we all too would rather become the foetal
existence of pure thought and have no sensual
coercion to mind and grind against...
    but i have already established myself as having
identified "mother" nature as a tyranny,
by comparison Stalin looks like a buttery bagel...
    for the most part the ones bound to the lower
hierarchy already represent by exemplification
      toward an imitable model a sense of
escapism... monks are the ultimate escapists...
they live a life embedded in a non-existent prison...
atheism to them is a celebration of
            naturalised by tyranny...
                         perhaps the concept of god
is infantile... perhaps it's only so constructed when
there's a patent for ritualisation and many to
come gimmicks of looking at lunatics....
        but i have the convenience of reversing
onomatopoeia and extracting imagery from it...
when i think of knocking on a door
i can't see the word knock representing an actual sound
(dentistry already taught me to say a'h rather than aye
because the foremost h in the tetragrammaton
encapsulation creates a marcon-prolonging
desert-like environment of vowels) -
therefore i'll knock on this one more time,
       and hear the cathedral bells of Cologne.
the concept of onomatopoeia is an accurate revision
of barbarism, the fact we still invoke it is beyond
my comprehension of what's otherwise a sound
argument for a making a campfire in Siberia.
   so yes, i have an infantile suggestive concept,
clearly spelling a u t o m a t o n...
   because whenever i look at the hardware
comparatively enshrined in a mountain or a tree,
i can't see a software logic to suggest i put it there...
or anywhere (for that matter)...
   it's because certain arguments are finite...
there're as concrete and definite as 1 + 1 = 2...
                 the counter argument is usually
based upon the bias of man abandoning conscience,
or doing what the hell he likes
and discarding any sense of self within the context
of self-reliance: i.e. being responsible / acknowledging
the existence of causality.
         that's why i stopped believing in the handmaiden
of the tyrant nature...
        it's man's unaccountability strategism -
                 the Pontius Pilate rhetoric -
       only persuasive: because not much can actually
be said, or was ever said... hence gesticulation
of turning washing one's hands into a signum crucis -
as one might say: the binding of a contract indicator -
that's one... enforced baptism is another...
   thank **** i haven't been confirmed with a third
name to match my surname!
                  i just "forgot" to get confirmation
by a bishop - i was never tainted in purple -
     technically i was too rebellious to agree to the contract.
Carson Stephani Dec 2016
That we crave.  
To hunger and to lavish in this place.
Humbling and irritable.

Green as life.
Green as poison.
Green as envy.
Vexing.

Illusions and illustrations of what we want.
Imagined by the imitable.
Synthetic satisfaction.

Sins of Incontinence.  
Sins of Hunger.
Sins of Commonality.
To be half is to be all.
Larry Feb 2020
Write this ****** as I've any care too.
Words rarely imply presented struggle
w/ capable conditions I've compared you.

Words struggle along routine routes
imitable in their ruthless mouths
seeping feeble attempts from keeping 'in' - out.

Brandishing burritos w/ nutritional intent
my concerns happily underserved
yet proficiently inept.

Talk of me -honestly- espouse worries wept:
means very little to those of us found down
(entrenched)- in here near sheer last-step.

Spurn-on to other realities unspoken for
just as prevalent; their prevalence
shatters all: unequivocally...then more.

Undying infatuations contentiously fraught
w/ awe to beget
rescind garbled-frequencies lest thee scorned to forget
such ideological complications pale against an implemented lament.

Mustering strength readying capability calmly set:
among the least you'd reasonably think do
but will ultimately come to expect.
- written w/out contempt, but rather in-love for those Heaven sent.
i'm sitting in the bathroom at ul. Radwana 13 / 72,
i must say: a rather unusual place to start
my long awaited archaeology of the ego -
but long awaited for whom?
me or a readership...

               i have recently inherited a chrome book
with those old school protruding click click clickers
of QWERTY: protruding in that they are
easily found, almost like tickling newly sprouted
flowers from the ground...

i find myself in the form of: my and self
yet over psycholo-loco-gist...
of wording will not help:

the gents had their fun with the spirits...
they drank and drank and talked of plans for
their lives, they wasted good liquor on dressing up
on having fun:
they never took alcohol seriously...
now one of them: namely my uncle...
is a death within life, which is worse than death
itself...

i am so rigid from not trying
i am rigid from my former escapades with the allowances
of a good keyboard and a decent internet
connection...

what i am currently studying is the punctuation
of Frank Herbert...
it has been well over 4 years since i read any fiction
seriously...
bogged down in existential prose serious literature
i gave so much of my reading-time
to Knausgaard and his Mein Kampf
feigning defeat when life became as serious
that i had to find an alternative...
and yes... the new adaptations of the Dune books
put a negative indentation in my current reading
of the first book...
but lucky for me i'm picking up on certain
cinematic nuances... notably concerning Hawat
the Mentat who would roll his eyes back to
make calculations and who had a rectangular stain
on his lips from drinking the sapho juice...
cranberry stain...

what are the chances to reach the same heights
of excavation i was familiar with,
perhaps if i write long enough i can bypass the initial
struggle: because i will not waste this little gush of
***** reaching my cheeks
having to substitute a chaser of Fanta
with some orange juice (half)
and half of Polish mineral water...
unlike any other mineral water i know...
for there are three gradations of it around here...

gazowana (sparkling)
nie-gazowana (still)
lekko-gazowana (slightly sparkling)...

this fun side of the tongue, the only instance
where there is a double consonant:

LEKI (medicine)
LEKKI (light, masculine)
LEKKA (light, feminine)
   light as in not heavy, not light as in darkness...

i have traveled across eons and sleep and haven't
slept a wink in the process...
now almost strange to have a washing machine as a writing
desk in the dim light...

perhaps spacing, not even the subject matter will suffice
to somehow give me escapism...
what "should" have taken place is the idea
of an uncle retiring in his 50s...
able to somehow come closer to his mother
in her 80s and with enough dough
to party via travel for the next 10 years
and spare for invest in at least 2 or 3 properties...

now i visit him in the house of cripples...
the once known jealous vitality from ***** house
to ***** house...
this juggernaut of virility reduced to a ******* zombie like
shadow...
bit lips, crooked teeth...
vague associations and even vaguer dissociations
on the word-logic spectrum as provided by the doctors...
not so much having drank himself to
a zombie body but no early grave
his inability to invoke the body to similitude with
iron vitamin D3...
a shell of a man... once clean shaven...
now mimic of grandfather...

and all this female warfare
this daughter against mother and grandmother against
mother all this
this scaffold and crows and rotting of meat...
but diligent i somehow trying to work my way around
the fatalism...
is it so wrong of me to go out of my way
to buy the old woman a few new books
some chocolate,
to cook her pork, pork meatballs in a tomato sauce
with a special mash potatoes...
infusing the meat with caraway seeds...
yes... because that's almost the distant cousing
of cumin seeds... at least around here...
around here, "here" being: ul Radwana 13 / 72
Ostrowiec Swietokrzyski...

           i used to spend so many joyful days in these
confines, yet now i itch with a feeling of being
the Grim Grey...
reading about melange, spice, cinnamon...
i conjure up a fusion of poetry and prose and think
about Caladan and i think about earth
and i think about the white gold that is salt...
i've choked on tears and i shed some tears
but for all the talk of water in the sands
there is little talk of salt in the dunes...
perhaps those equivalent to Arabs in the Dune universe
have no notion of taste when it comes
to the ingestion of food...

i hardly imagined myself to be a fan of any work...
i tried to be a fan of the Beatniks...
grew a beard, forgot i had toenails
later forgot i had toes...
therefore re-imagined my feet as twinkle axes...
chopping step with stomp and air...
oh this air in Poland...
when was the last time i visited Poland
near the time of birth, come May...
that is spring... when the violets started to bloom...
when the continent gave up her riches
of distinguishing seasons from
that Caladan damp of England...
how many of the past suppose summers have
i spent on that dreaded island of grot grit and grey?

thus this DUMP of lettering and spacing and
whatever other, "other" technicality might
be obstructive, obtrusive, ob- ob-:
signal one signifying beacon of obstruct for
for me to follow up with the right sort of juice:
because i am the one to have squandered
the... "ridicule of the use of words"?

seems like a fear of god is never enough
when justifying the games equivalent to the chess
people play with mortality...

just one fetish freer from the nearer,
some Novalis (von Hardenberg) -
as i very much like to name street names and places
in German,
because i find the Polacks neglecting their tongue
as much as they neglected their earth:
through the tribulations of a lackluster of attachments...

perhaps those Arabs and waiting for the dino-juice
to propel the locomotive bonanza
of the Lamborghini engine...
sand-worm earthworm ego sworn mouth agape
like sitting in a Turkish akimbo poise...

the sun was never going to lose a tooth:
let alone a golden one,
but by topic of grey in water
and white in metal
and green in mahogany...
a tease out of respect for the one handed clapping
like some inevitable "cultural appropriation"
from meditating the death of Christianity
in the European soul and the invitation toward
Buddhism, extrapolation...
because this half a liter of *****
will measure just fine when this washing mashine
is silent...
while the solace of orbits of the grand orbs
like mountains cradling deserts satisfies...
like the windless lights
and what is conversation? locum?

i find little gesticulation of comfort in people
who regurgitate sayings, supposedly wise on the onset,
with sensibility of perpetuating a humanism
of their otherwise deviant comfort
of sheltering in hubbub and commotion
and click-bait not-known-to-fish conundrums...

by now the eagerness of flying into a bed
on a half whim half dream,
like a parody of a blinking universe:
each to his own sorrows and intact:
ensuring these sorrows do not multiply...
but become these self-contained mechanisations
of self-digestion: to diffuse the anger and agony
of the shared experience...
some semblance of a collectivist effort
where the individual is sacrificed and not glorified
that this democratic beacon of vector
adamant force-hood falsehood is dried up
conquered and subsequently squandered on
readily imitable minds of the youth...
so that youthful fancies may pass and by the rigors of time
and matrimony of the geology in the air
become hard pressed to usher in the only known
individuation that's the citizen and with it
a necropolis of first reference: as mortal abiding
non coup...

through some prism of the elected editorial
staff of the newly arrived freedom of the flimsy:
wind without paper...
came a torrent of freely available voiced
concerns for what could be said: could be unsaid...
what a forlorn essential craft of
symbolism to be tortured thus by crucifix
and the faceless man of Islam...
at least the distinction ingrained...

keeping a jug of water in both desert and in sea...
to drink to waste...
perhaps a jug of ***** in the forests and hybrid
tundras of sloth and cold and
what other bouquet of the thus presented
entourage of immobility of parlance of formal
is: what more expected of me?!

no more hunger no more stealth and no more
Japanese encrypted borrowing of tongues...
to ****** a MA into a マ
    subsequently: ******* palindromes...
because Japanese might allow a MA but will not
allow an AM... unless it's: TENET, RADAR...
a palindrome...
thus listed:

                 アマ
                 オト          oto... here, thus...

ama                  well... given the English tong and tie and glue of T
that would invoke Anna...
and faTTer...
                not father, though...

i think it best to understand Japanese scribbles through
palindromes...
whether that's me excavating consonants from
elaborating vowels or what not...
my... at least i have retained a memory of my old
themes and hobbies...
notably these...
because i...

palindromes... yes... that's how to best discover
consonants as free standing
as vowels are in Japanese via palindromes...
given... my stay in Hawaii was peppered with the history
of the Polynesians...
who's origins began with the wild oar brigade second
not celebrated to the vikings
from the little island of Taiwan...
across the seas without sails
across like the Mongols across Siberia
and the Russians toward Alaska...

                     palindromes...

イキ (iki)
イシ         (isi)

          leo mai honua...

                                leo nui: mai hāmau wai...    

of no talk of science fiction and i can see the equivalent
of the Fremen in the Polynesians
and see this world as that of what happens
when the once former mountain range
of Sahara now is desert and
waiting for the desert of Himalaya
because then were the known mountains of Saharans
while the seas boiled and the ice caps melted
and we were dreaming a history
somehow inherited before the insomnia
of journalism and the **** of light brought down
with strobe amnesia and suffocation of the attractive
glittering half of halves...
while the litter of the brood of peoples
squabbled over the 7th October 20224...
without much squabble equivalent to the massacre
at the Bataclan attack in Paris...

do wiosł!
    to oars!
                                 i nā ***!

let us leave these superstitious people to their
magic stones their kippahs
their niqabs and their orientation with the stars
almighty as if... as if...
this orb might be ever displaced by their potent
numb **** and over-sized ego-*****
and clipped ***** of Egypt!
Roninia Guardian Aug 2020
one, two, three
pay attention and let me speak
about someone
who means a lot to me

four, five, six
let me tell you this
we were not sisters by blood
but connected by heart

seven, eight, nine, ten
she so incomparable
her traits are imitable
everything in her is treasurable

she's a second mother to me
whose love is selfless
she's always willing to listen
and guide me unconditionally.

she's everything to me
for she was sent by God
so she deserves nothing but love
coming from me and above.
alternating in thinking: this would be an underlying motif of my life on Kauai, this domesticated fuel of feuds... and it's seeping into my digestion like it's a cognition: i have, started, to think about thinking as byproduct of digestion... maybe i just like how i don't bother to rhyme sentences... for the purpose of cute soundbites... maybe it's time to rhyme concepts: thinking and digesting... maybe they are very much aligned... hmm?

sonic hangover meets a moral hangover:
or rather: what's leftover from the sonic
and the visual hangover of doing
7... that's 7 of the 8: 0.875
5/6 = 0.833...
   3/4 = 0.75:

funny how fractions oscillate around
0
and become the ****** numbers...
fractions assume a whole: a one...
while decimals dismiss one
and begin with 0
a fraction is 3/4 of 1
while that's also true of 0.75...

   just saying... just saying...
today is the 23rd of August
but the 22nd of August was spectacular:
i ate the fruit...
i was the body-fermenting
a digestion of thought
and i did spend the entire day lying
in bed
and divulging in psychology lectures
worrying about my spine
stinking of rot and **** and not that
i was ****** or rotting
but i might as well have been:

i ate the fruit and i didn't feel sin:
i just felt: shame...
i was naked and trying to incubate
my genitals by folding my legs
and almost pushing my genitals
into my bellybutton:
let that image sink in:
it's an imitation of the serpent eating itself
for the... purpose...
no... longevity... yes: the temporal plane...
spatially: well:
i experience this strange assemblence
(assemble: assembling ambiance of
semblance - assemblance...
the quality of something not yet
designated to be imitated or understood)
of gravity without vectors of Newtonian
explanations...
like a second advent of Copernicus...
vertigo while lying in bed:
quiet an experience...

the nightguard is a gimmick:
i'm not that much into boxing matches:
parlor of the shakes in Muhammad Parkinson's Ali...
sorry: but i'll wait my turn for what's
to come....

is Kauai supposed to be my St Helena?
is Kauai supposed to be that?
it sure as **** and hell above it feels like that:
now comes the thinking about it...

Taylor didn't have to sing about it:
but, being the Grand Witch... she did conjure up:
she did invite the serpent:
of the eras tour i did like
the dark sexuality of Taylor the ***** witch Taylor
and subliminal or not:
she did ask for the serpent to come...
little did she know:
the serpent the tongue of the dragon:
but the dragon wants to become a bear
and disregard the monkey...
money monkey money monkey...
all just dangling in the open
in the air: concentrated into an arena!
ah... i was just aghast with so much
air and... this meteor leftover where
a cult could be born...

the theonyms... the study of YHWH
has brought be beyond any measure of how
language is to be proper processed:
i can't see the potential in Allah...
i just can't:
there's the Latin assemble of YHWH
graphemes... diphthong: Æ
       YÆHWÆH

                       just saying: Adam of Yah
and the Eve of Weh...
you can't even say the name because you
have to write the name and think
about atoms and letters and vowels are +
while consonants are -
since...
vowels can exist by themselves
while consonants need to be supported
by vowels:
a be cee dee e ef gee H i jay kay
el em en zee queer

where is that video i was watching about
queer theory:
it was fascinating:
traumatizing children...
queer is the antithesis of what homosexuality
looks like when normalized by society
i think i'm queer in that William Burroughs' sense
of...
homosexuality at a Taylor Swift concert...
well: working with Muslim men:
some virgins...
and them slobbering all about Jannah...
funny how no bomb exploded
how i was able to tame the frustrations
of being a male ****** Muslim...
so i had to do what...
any bear in the vicinity of:

my mind is a fishbowl and my ego
a goldfish...
my mind is a fishbowl and my ego
a goldfish...

but she did invoke the serpent
in that segment where she was all BAD BLOOD
like: no no, it wasn't a subtle concern for
getting sexually poisoned...
weird: how can people be so
irresponsible concerning ***...
******* on toilet seats
for others to late imagine
parasites in ***** crawling up one's
buttocks to later make
maggot acne indentations on the face
like the moon is protector of the earth
and moon is man and woman is earth:

forget Venus and Mars:
men are from the moon and women are:
here... men are from the moon
and women are of the earth...

so i'm eating this apple and i'm thinking:
maybe i can get some ******* idiot
to pretend to be a young Socrates
and speed up the process
and design a metaphor...
wine... bread...          applause! applause!
and i know that it will be my turn
to be born and die...
eh... once should suit me just fine:
i'm a productive know-it-all
so i'll get busy regardless of the sane,
mortal, allowance: by a woman:
to architecture a child... into...
something workable...
all my deviant vices some call evil will
come to the fore...
they will be a playground for voyeurism...
i don't mind:
if i can turn SIN into SHAME...
i will have a workaround...

now...            to turn SIN into SHAME...

of course i wanted to explore the victimhood mentality:
ha ha... funny... no -ism escapism,
red riding -hood like the sound of tuning an Oud:
oh wood ah woo! hehe...
   so i took the shift on... Monday...
like i was gang *****:
but i wasn't:
the night guard lover knows i talk and walk
in my sleep: i am a sleepwalker...
but those chips on my teeth?
oh... i didn't do these when sleeping...
i chipped off my teeth when i was wild
and awake...
you missed the bottom ones:
this was my wedding gift to death:
she wanted bone so i was like:
haven't broken a bone in my body
you want bone into your cauldron?
**** me... em em... right...
well, you want a bit of my chew?
so i clenched my jaw so hard
that i saw no sclera and no iris in my eyes
just that darkening whirlpool of pupil...
like a shark...
and the abyss just yawned saying:
you've reached the bottomless envy...
you can forgive yourself
as long as you eat of the fruit of shame
and tame sin...
so i did... i think: by the way: i don't think...
i just experience the afterthought
of what the semblance of man to animal
has become... via science...
because religion wouldn't allow
that mirror to stand...

too much ******* schematic obstructions:
or punctuation... name it what the hell you want...
new mysticism will try to actually
condense science...
there's no name for it
since the original mysticism was
something to do with congesting literacy
and the knowledge, proficiency of a language:
now that language is known
and deviating into... something...
abstract is a quote?

               Taylor did summon a serpent...
good girl still doing good but at the bottom
so open about being of a certain age:
millennial:
not *** and the City not
                     Bridget Jones... but still a red riding
hood: witch...
        who is...         is who?
as what?        how is that?
                                 writing songs, drinking wine,
can't you just leave those cats alone?!
cat?                   hey!      fern!
nice kitty... nice houseplant... stay stay...
go go!
                     i don't even know why
i have cats in my house...
my life would be so much simpler if i didn't
have them...
outlandish: they're not even utilized for anything:
i made sure there were no mice in
the house
and even if there were these creatures
are like horses left to pasture
without me having to ride them into battle...
can't exactly turn a cat into an armchair
or use it to cut vegetables...

so in  bed all day... contemplating SHAME...
why? well i had a great day of scribble-productivity
and... yeah...
my mother caught me on the off-load of
drinking and smoking wobbling in the kitchen
and it must be such a shame
to have a mother
and a father
it must be shameful to have such people...
oh but i known Baron Envy
and how children are raised these days
with at least one missing...
              but that was worse than:
i don't drink during the day... sparingly...
if i have a great idea and want to concentrate on writing
then yeah: i will drink...
otherwise i'm just vanilla sensible...
and it was unlike sleeping with someone
who tells you upon waking:
oh... your grind your teeth... you talk in your sleep:
well! i'm not a painter!
i need an unconscious outlet for the art
i conjure when conscious: writing should make you
talk in your sleep and not dream... right?!
but mother, dearest, caught me while i was
semi-sleepwalking...
why did she want to see me in my most vulnerable
creative self:
my most creative self is also when i'm
the most self-destructive...
i have reached the nihilistic zenith of drinking
and writing as a form of escapism... which is not:
hasn't been properly tested...
as far as i known there's no impediment of
third-party associations...
         that's why the internet exists and that's why
it has become so unnerving for my paranoia of
others: **** 'em...
         that i can... just...
justify my ambition of how networking crux...
it's not hacking...
but a close association to it...
             if i were desperate to make any money
from my verbiage...
if i were... ha ha...                 oh if i were...
i wouldn't write this...
with so much sadistic pleasure - and i write this:
with as much sadistic pleasure as
is necessary.

p.s. i wasn't sexually harassed...
but you put yourself in a scenario with so many
young females...
a lunatic asylum, makeshift...
the only equivalence of confiding in sexuality
is only going to be a male...
not that that is a symptom of ******
frustration: but a ****** dominance...
no... prominence...
i allowed Jason to eat my ear...
it almost felt poetic: even my friend Alexander,
the painter... dropped a bomb
when i was off duty drinking at a pub
and this guy with a long-board: not a skateboard:
a long board... crossbows longbows etc.
YOU'RE THE THING, AREN'T YOU?

am i the poet-bouncer?
**** me... i've heard of the sage-warrior...
maybe this is equivalent...
truly: if i was in power? yeah?
i would ban the consumption of alcohol
at football matches...
if it is, supposedly: such a beautiful game...
why spike it with alcohol?
if football is the equivalent to ballet:
don't ******* drink when watching it!
get to appreciate the intricacies of the sport...
otherwise it's not helping you
if you require the sport to drink
and vent off personalized detailing of
unsolvable drama in your life!
otherwise just ban the sport...
          clearly there's a very different clientele
when it comes to appreciating
rugby or cricket...

jeez... a Roman Catholic living in England
is like a death-wish...
the ******* were so adamant
about being the inheritors of Rome that
unlike any other Europeans:
they didn't allow the insurgence of diacritical
markers onto the original letters...

e.g. SHarpen šARPEN... the Turks were closer
to the point of excavating
a borrowing of identity: the identity of posterity...
right now there is no identity for the sake
of posterity...
                                     like year 0
()                              all over again...
and i know )i( (know)
                                   i'm not an imitable crux...
so i'll just let words be words
and the rest will resolve itself,
queer gay or straight; whatever.

— The End —