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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
have you ever made a spider a Palestinian? i have, today, refreshing the paint-job on the back of my house, a whole family strutting away from fresh paint being applied (poets cure boredom, they simply don't know it), the cardigans erase & rewind, my uncle would be perfect with his age to work out the demographics - my age circuit, 30 and listening to the palette of those in full-throttle of the 1990s - anyway, refreshing the paint on the back of my house, not for dough, but for the sweat of my brow - learning i succumb to acrophobia on the ladder - but i did it anyway... i love phobias, they're not the fear, they're like a box of chocolates... you never know what will make you startle... it's not permanent, phobias shouldn't be considered permanent, they're too reflexive... and we all know that nibbling them in the reflective realm immediately suggests irrationality, not to a reaction, but to a continuum of a reaction: a ladder, a giant spider to boot. but i never watched a spider eat fresh paint... watched the ******* do the nibble on paint... ***** - a getty cardinal spider shooting paint pollutants with its leg, eating the Chernobyl cocktail, the rainbow melt in a puddle of oil spill... junkies everywhere; so that done, a beer and a quick look at the Olympics...

if table tennis was as relevant as table tennis -
i prefer table tennis,
judo is too cool too - classic Greek wrestling
with feet to match the hands -
i think in terms of the Olympics we're in
the Gobi desert - so many sports are shown only
once every 4 years, the once that don't make the dough...
i'd prefer the Olympics without the pop culture
exponents that keep us hungry for spectacles
during the 4 years apart -
hand-ball, Romania thrashed by Angola -
ladies first, of course,
and weight-lifting, weighs in at 48kg and lifts
80+kg... well Jihad John versus G.I. Jane...
a pretty match up... look, i came from a certain background
i won't be making politically correct statements,
if it weren't for my personal initiative i'd be scooping
grub from an industrial flat surface roof like my father...
i don't mind getting paid... i just love the fact that i will
and if ending up homeless, i have enough heart already
to start a religion, or something.
of course i'll miss my personal library of books and albums,
who wouldn't? i'll join the divorcee crew and it'll be
like it always was supposed to be.
but am i really that ridiculous? think about it,
i use ridiculous words in my vocabulary, after all i went
to a catholic school, it was bound to happen -
not true secular cool, sorry -
but is my usage of certain words completely penniless
more ridiculous in the form of an oligarch buying
a pearl entombed in a custard pie? of a yacht for a month
at Monte Carlo? seriously? if i utilise the words
Paraclete or Antichrist after just skimmed rereading of
a psychiatrist's religious venture in Jung's *answer to Job

am i as ridiculous as those barons?
i don't think so... i read that book like Flaubert instructed
concerning all books: read in order to live it -
a book is a transplant, some leave a heart, come a ****,
some a brain, some a pint of blood with a book...
i hope to leave the worm of hell licking your ear for a sloppy
Jim - read Jung... almost atypical German Christian
intelligentsia byproduct, neutral Swiss just after the second
world war... Freud read Nietzsche and so did Mussolini...
****** was very much Jung... it's a strange book...
we all know that the Greeks hijacked Judaism...
the Romans were like: whatever that meant...
shoved it into a cauldron of the prefix omni-
and attributed to the prefix geographies and geometries
all inclusive (herr deutsche came along though) -
but the Greeks hijacked the oddity of Judea at that
special time because they had scientific inclinations
rather than aesthetic inclinations of the Romans,
and they wanted answers... got **** all...
it's not the Jews that thought the Greek involvement
ridiculous, it was the Romans... hence the omni-
and -presence, -potency, etc. - the Greeks just had
those mythical names for ****... Logos, Sophia...
that's the funny thing with mythology and history -
the book of Revelation by the looks of it simply looks
like a redemption of Oedipus... mythology is a logic
of history where either none was recorded on papyrus
since no one required hush-hush intrigue talk and people
spoke to each other face to face rather than to a profile -
mugs and mustard seeds -
you can always buy the book, C. G. Jung answer to Job,
it's peppered with too much Greek, and very little
Roman care... the theological addition of a globalised world
(under monotheism, failed and thriving, whichever)
is bound to play the montage of omni- and simply add -
God = omnivocab - i have my limitations of words -
i had to censor or rather select a vocabulary in order
to process the interchanges to reach a conclusive churning
without an ultimate goal other than to preserve a continuum,
like Balzac boring everybody with the 19th instalment of
the human comedy. so after reading this book on religious
matters by a psychiatrists i'm sorta bothered...
i'm tripping... obviously not seeing any hyper-geometry
of your choice... i just think the Greeks did the most horrid
hoarding and looting know to man... which reflected
the looting of Byzantium and never reaching the Holy Land...
the barbarians never cared to be honest, they only
started caring when they started to castrate the boys
for the "holy" choir rather than circumcise them...
then they went Berserk... the book of revelation can only
mean the quantum mechanics of history, bound to
mythology - Oedipus was very real... the blackened
heart of Greeks even though Aristotle, Socrates, Plato...
that intellectual import and expression didn't help...
after all Eddie Gein gave birth to the latter part of the 20th
century pop culture... Texas Chainsaw... Haemorrhoid Hannibal,
House of a 1000 Corpses.. history and journalism
dismisses mythology, i dismiss journalism as simply
a hyper-sensitivity that keeps dialectics out of the picture,
a monologue of opinions... mythology just doesn't seem
that insensible given our perspective into history with Darwin
and millions of years ago with the sea-turtles... you know
how gossip works... it sooth the reality of it had happened...
because we prefer oysters and chicken thighs to digest than
the tales of Eddie, oh yeah... Fe Maiden... d'uh!
the Greeks looted the Hebrews to purge themselves of
Oedipus... the weakness came by keeping estranged with
Narcissus and iconoclasm... you want an extract?
bombshell blonde at your bidding -
assumptio mariae: mary as the bride is united with the son
in the heavenly-chamber, and as sophia, with the godhead
.
basically Mary is a schizophrenic ****-child of lust
for a Roman centurion who makes the story of a ****** birth
her wish to bed-wet her son (Jesus) into joining **** John
and Toe into her ****** (***** *****, like her already)
in heaven - she thinks her body will **** her "******-birth"
son and her wisdom (Sophia is her alias, or nickname)
will **** god in the head. oh hell this is sacrilege -
i'm not afraid of it... boo! ha! caught you mouth dry with the
boogie man. so this is a psychiatrist reasoning his religion...
as i said, the Greeks had no omni- Roman put the **** back
into his boots before he starts river-dancing...
all these quizzical ultra-mythical words that the Greeks
used starting with the Logos and Hippocrates were attached
to the failed Platonism of the unconverted Damocles principle
and the tyrant succumbing to drink and never bound to
a sober wish for anything more - (i'm guessing his intentions
were laid with Nietzsche as source of discipleship) - in short
let's just say that Platonism failed in practice,
and it needed a populist movement, a redemption from
the curse of Oedipus came from Hebrew with the schizoid-birth,
Joseph bin Adam was: better bite that ****** of the cow-fruit
and remind her of the stoning practices around here -
oh it's all pretty much Eastenders around here, it's
not the ******* Vatican marble corridors, we're talking
Gaza dust sneezing while whipping the donkey's *** to
move along... split-mind: beautiful metaphor... premature
dementia, obviously misunderstood... if premature "dementia"
while so much creativity among the split-minded...
it's like all the zodiac signs became jealous of Gemini,
incorporating Gemini-Solipsism... well, i have a neck like a bull
and a *****-count like a charging bull... but the thinking
behind the 3.a.m. is kinda staggering... oh right, you want
more quirky clues from Jung's book:
- silvia loret
- maritza mendez
- aria giovanni             (get a hybrid and i'll believe in Disneyland) -
****, that ain't what i was going to write, never mind,
you get a chance to see the palette of what's fudge for
fucky-fucky sized 16+ and what the Renaissance men
knew would be better than duck-feathers in pillows;
- meister eckhart: gott ist selig in der seele
- puer aeternus: vultu mutabilis albus et ater
    (of changeful countenance, both white and black)
- pius XII's apostolic constitution (munificentissimus dei)
   words like muni-imus really make you train in
    grammatical arithmetic, don't they? playing doctor with
   them as to where to cut them for a aqua format of rivers
   is quiet like reciting a 5x table up to 30 (sometimes)
- oportebat sponsam, quam pater desponsaverat, in θalmis caelestibus habitare (the bride whom the father had espoused had to abide in the heavenly bridal-chambers): st. john damascene (encomium in dormitionem);

summa summarum?
Nietzsche answered Job... this is my answer to Jung as also an answer to Lot - **** your daughters, your wife turns into a pillar of salt... and i equate that as a precursor to the man of sorrows on the ****** crucifix - salt is a metaphor for misery (that's etymology for you); and the Roman phonetic encoding survived over the fates of Egyptian and Babylonian is precisely why the adopted son of Caesar later made his uncle's adopted nephew his successor - as with the four dogma canon gospels, we're replicas of the tetragrammaton... well... i was never confirmed, i'm one short of joining the god-men that came out from catholic school after choosing a name for themselves they could have changed not having wished to be known by the two names given to them by their parents... few did... i just ended up an acronym of Einstein: M C E.
Sunita Prasad Apr 2012
The escalator of despair
Was waiting with her normal nonchalance stare
Her teeth constantly in motion
Offering the tip of a landscape below
A place of not knowing, not a place one is keen to go

I stepped on her teeth with huge trepidation
Leaving behind what was once was a friendly station

I rode the escalators down to this place
Reading posters, signs of things that
Were going to take place
Theatre, drama, the musical of my life
A pantomime made of my own strive

I followed the tunnels deeper they fell
Marking out pathways and other people’s  roads to hell

I found myself on a platform
Cold and Bleak
I looked around me in the hope
Of finding someone to whom I could speak

But I found no map of the line I was attending
Instead just a blankness and huge hole, darkness and fright
That looked unending
Looking for direction, for the interchanges that my destination
Was depending.

I could hear the sound of the train approaching
I could feel vibrations and and see rats encroaching
Encroaching on my light now lost, glimpses of my life beginning to rot

Don’t dance over the yellow line they said, stand back
For the train approaching is just ahead
Its lights dancing on the tunnels walls
Announcing its arrival, big not small

The noise is deafening, screeching and loud
The voice of my own despair now hidden in its vacuous cloud

A smashing sound as it brakes through
The blackness into light speeding through
Hugging the platform really tight
Reducing space so as passengers can alight

Doors part open and people descend
On to a platform that appears to have no end
This is not a place to stand still
The body of people is a perfume despair wants to distill

So move down the platform and keep shuffling along
Belongings of your heart held tight moving to the  rhythm of the throng

So I enter the carriage quickly and sit
Next to a man clutching his pit
The pit that comes to close to me
Smells rank and ****** and full of hypocrisy


Off into a place that is forever dark
Momentary fireworks the only sparks
That give you a glimpse of another line
A line perhaps to happiness or somewhere else sublime

Out of nowhere a train caresses, moves so close
and  brings aboard  a message

For other people are traveling too
To places that were not on their list of ‘to do’’
Riding parallel down darkened tunnels
Moving to their own rhythm, humming their own song
Rocked by a train, speeding hastily along
Turning a corner and now that train is gone

So we are not alone on the darkest rides that we take
We are not alone on the escalators that we think I taking us to meet our fate
For we all have a choice an opportunity to ride
Alone or with travelers by our side
Fegger Dec 2010
Awakened by the summons
Of the moon, he wanders.
His eyes, vaguely responsive
To light fluctuations; and
He often weeps when dishes are washed.
He calls my daughter, ‘David’ or
Simply barks at her.
At midday he routinely gathers
All family photos, stacks in towers.
He interchanges tasks of the dinner table
And the bathroom, incognizant.
The cat seeks him out and
They seem to find comfort together.
We keep mittens on his hands;
For, without them, he’s prone to
Bore holes to the bone.
When outside, he’ll rush toward the maple;
Embrace it, like Mom, and cry.
On Sunday mornings we have come to expect:
A laundry basket prepared, by him,
Brimming with loose crackers, milk, cheese,
Broken eggs and cat litter.
He creates knotted chains with his shirts;
Laughs, hysterically at the sound of the vacuum;
Sings, ‘In The Garden’, whenever it rains.

While, for years now, I have prayed
That this is solely dormancy;
And someday, he will be full again.
I solemnly wish that I had no memories of him;
This would make my love for him less complicated.
Copyright, Fegger 2010
You tell me three little words;
I reply with four smaller words,
You smile at me;
I laugh with glee,
We share a moment or two
But we hide many things through
And through from each other
Wonder sometimes why we even bother,
Don't know who's going to speak up first
I'm parched from talking got to quench my thirst,
We walk away to our own little planet
Etch a sketch shaken we don't plan it,
What we'll say next
Lies shallow deep fabricated text,
How long can we keep this up
You're half empty I'm half full brimming cup
Of false interchanges amongst us
The world outside can't join this circus,
Always putting on a show improvising
We wear masks to keep from disguising
Our deep dark truths threatening to be sieved,
We are the greatest actors to have ever lived...
© okpoet
Ken Pepiton Sep 2023
Fit to be tied to a ligand gated receptor,
mind you,
right there, in the area below our own aptness
to think and do at once, thus we think without
knowing we are

thinking
things,

new and old, linked by local nodes arranging ions,
in channels previously lacking bridged interchanges.

Instant one past then,
we re think,
if we remain, persisting at or on some certain point,
may we not, mainly almost completely, be self aware?

The gaps insulating our separate selves, as we imagine,
thoughts outside our heads do remain connected rectly
ortho dexterous… sinister off, right on. Switch,

transcendence, sit zazen intently making bits of this
peace.
Inner, breathing conscience, knowing used, to pay
yourself, first

love, neighborly behave, have love as for your self.

I, the boss mind, I, the chooser of destiny from now,
I, ego and id and all, me, you must acknowledge,
I was here when you arrived, in an acknowledged,

innocense, not ignoring a curio juxtaposed, sup-
posed to prompt a why from your own self, why
am I not kind to me.
I am no better than I can imagine proving, to myself.

I must convince me, you are merely watching me be,
in a mind state seeping from a spring I cleaned,
to channel a flow a bit thicker than a seeping…

Sit with me a minute,
measure the brevity,
leave be the reason, I wished to feel you there.
Knowing how I love you, determines the worth
of my own love.
an exercise in flow provocation.
AlanK Mar 2016
The fear has subsided,
Uncertainty melts into endless kisses,
The second movement begins
On a hopeful note,
The violins build with a confidence
And unity, powerful and harmonious.
The unstructured first movement
Simply a search for a theme
A leitmotif to progress from darkness
To light.
The woodwinds laugh,
The horns announce the news,
The drums are strength and power
Driving the rhythm of our love.
Writing the notes together
We flow like rain
Blow together like leaves
In a breeze so brisk and strong.
We are conducting this movement
In gentle caresses and playful interchanges.
A melody only the heart can hear,
Silently envelops our waking hours,
And urging us to surrender.
The orchestra plays as one
We float upon the ocean of sound,
Wondering if the symphony will ever end.
Let the musicians play on
We can dance till dawn.
Ken Pepiton Jan 23
Many inputs say Mondays are common,
but one input says this Monday is uncommon.
We are to be the judge of that.

This is the Monday when you appear,
as reader dear, ready to reason with ghosts
amusing each other with wishes doing pirouettes
as angels may be imagined doing on pinheads,
spinning, or kicking in chorus line choreography.

The elderly nobody imagines the scene,
and makes it seem a vision, something seen,
after the finest sieve - pulling pin wires

snipping whimseys, making mites for widows.

------------ The Government's about to change,
wanna bet, whose got money on whom,

leave the room… vacate the judgment hall,
we are all here, to judge me, last call
all the outs are in, all the ins are intimate,

and we have made all the seed we could,
in word and deed, and we chose to leave
the edges un mowed, so critters can live,

when we can understand our own words
and read other languages using them,
these words are as living things imagined,

said and known, at once, in Housie or Hindi

whatsoever we can envision and project,
we may elect to try to do, or we may do
using words alone,
we think as one
mind,
so now we is I, we is not royal,
we is eloheemishical. Us big good being.


Watcher what of the night?

----------------------
Two geriatic puppets duke it out
for the FOOTBALL
News is all reruns.
Making war for pay,
money makes it work,
gotta love it, gotta love it.

Any reason for killing for,
gotta love it, real deal love it,

steal from the rich to become
richer, Lord knows, war's reason,

come now, let us reason together,
let us cogitate clarity of conscience,
with science standing in for knowledge,
the whole truth, once told, whole knowing

all things working together with reason,
for those in the blooming gnosis realms,

where augmented intelligence forms
teams of knowing hidden reconnectors,
citizen band geeks in the olden days
breaker, breaker, let the learned agree,

we lived just in time to see it all work.

In older olden days…
Messages were carried, at current
stretch of the imagination speed, by slaves…

Writing letters was…
different, I suppose, or
propose, positionally different,
sup and pro posals posed as statu'es,
forms of former founders of the orderly
clusters of human compliance called nodes,
junctions and interchanges, whither all roads lead.

Edu-pre-gogy-ology **** bang,
mechanical thinking in the subconscience science
used auto responsively,
finger aiming quick **** experience, wired below
the will, deep down to predator macrophage stage,
running id scans on the ego accepting wedom hero role.

The sole survivor, from ten thousand stories repeated
trillions of times by now, exoterror faces esoterror,

children led to mindless aliegiance to the flag,
and to the given republican form
of labor management,

had the heros of history
had my tools, perhaps sense had been made easy,

but this is the future, tense
I have, for a modest sum, any course of andragogy,
mankind mind leading, post child mind pedagogy,
- repeat not in vain taking my name, say true
- memory for song is long as all that

among canine species, we see breeds.
among human species, we see types, types for tasks,
intuitive doers of certain things magnificently, once

often, relatively, often
in the process of time, unique tasks.
Ever canonical, global and beyond, true wow
Onesies
Single mortal lifespan tasks, centered self aware tasks,
rockstar, base baller, foot baller, tackle, center, guard,

sergeant major, permanent noncommissioned officer,
loyal to the letter, let us assume, a military mind,
holds all response react ready reading inclination
to check for polisemy snuck in under humor heresy,

whose spirit is stirred up when fans are frenzied,

where do the emotions go, after the connection
to the whole aspect of prowess in team leadership
leaves the bubble of we the fans, become me,
alone and unwilling to ever cry wolf again…
-que sera sera
my side won, my times done
being, as a man with no real job,

they pay me for surviving crazy,
that's how this magic pen is driven.

Of course, in the course of human events,
this stage of peace enough and time enough,
shelter enough and sustenance enough,

centering, any whole self requires more knowledge
than had been made plain using words
in agreemental treaty
form, easily entreated,
as wisdoms are,
so you know what the adverse position is, and why
or why not, good or no good, workable or not,
doable or not, whatsover we agree,

as touching anything,
in all the sense ever fit
to touch, the initiates recognosis
sense the essential lies all being judged
in your heart,
gentlest touch, truly superlative softest

Public heart, common stander at the anthem, hoo yah
rah and all, good citizen soldier ever ready, to imagine

your part in the billions of parts is perfect
for one task, Life given, your one deed,
who says? Fate from the exoterica available to boys,
and girls who seem allowed to mind wander, some how

reading children, book reading children, in homes with
gigabit wifi and
dads and moms and
grand parents who lived
through historical moments.
  
Selah, long breathers, long now,
times proof recollections written
on the tables of my prayer's heart,
I prayed for one of the kind that works
instant in prayer, ask and eventually, find.

The process of time, see, seems invisible.
Perfect, facere specifically just right to be you,
dude, man, joker, street wise desert gawker, you

lucky, you live in a world where words are animated,
via actual Starlinking thinking come to pass
in proces of time since I was
preschool, a kid, child from the escaped goat clan,
mindshapers begin at the ******, confusion,
is common enough for first borns, nobody knew,
really, you can imagine, the cravings,
but confusion is not disconnection,
and no disconnect to knowledge
becomes immortal hell zones.

oh, my god, why, and
then, an elderly man with mottled skin,
sun squint wrinkles around slit smiling eyes,
bemusing the unbeguiled
amused at his appearance, a'knowledges knowing

With a re-coknowing Nod, to the east,
we are so far from where stories start forming leaven,
we merely imagine many long unthinkable things,
habits lost in ritual performance, character act-or,

no need to change a thing, that guy, that person,
that could be me, I have done that same dumb thing,
or watched it done while doing nothing
time and again, get lost in genre and find myself
wondering in wonder land
wonder woman world  of my own
imaging, imagining
living words between us, intimate, most in, inest most
crowd of witnesses,
reading right minds left letters better left than right read
clunk chunk
encoded news from the superlative zone, grand canyons
filled with technical debris and useless superlatives
clicks from children who know what discern means
are subsiding,
slipping under the wave,
trending sense first your worth,
before you accept a bid for your attention,
if you know this line of reasoning, having been
this far
before, as a thought, forethought
-breathe knowing now more than ever
knowledge inside intimates attain
to thorough patient word
redemption and restoration to full
polisemy parallel -all el, par excellence, a we
awe
form. Wind shapes form of spirits, tried, true.

Mind thing first reading each letter,
finding the evolved pen much to my liking,
fluid forms meander, and sigh, and sometime,
puddle to ponder surface reflections,
seeing some wishing for simple,
while we all know we are a ways after simple

this is sub-limity. Lowest ever so far. Look around
nothing needs to be secret at the bottom of it all.
If you don't like the style, I understand, some people come with clipped attention spans, gotta love em.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
it's quite something, to hear a double bass solo in a jazz song, most notably? in moment's notice, on john coltrane's blue train record.

and no, jazz doesn't belong in the headphone
category of music, just like classical music,
it needs air, it needs space,
   like red wine -
      you just can't be that selfish /
embarrassed by listening to it: that it might
require you mentioning a like for classical
pop, like 13th floor elevators,
or madonna's material girl -
         i'm sorry to say, it still rings true:
that people will become more embarrassed
by the choice of music, than by their
****** preferences.
         jazz being the black man's classical
equivalent needs a c.d., a decent sony player
and a decent pair of speakers,
a few beers, a cigarette, or two -
   and some sort of cognitive shock-absorber to
muster the confidence to keep up with
the utter randomness of the music,
unscripted, like the most assured:
leaving you without a moment's worth of
boredom in reading, namely the cut-up works
of william burroughs -
where words dart, quantum leap from
place to place: there's no point (a) through
to point (b) - there's just ab ba ba ab ab ba ba ab
interchanges...
but i do make exceptions -
   jazz on the bus, esp. on route 86 from
romford to stratford -
   just a straight line -
england at the beginning, bangladesh at the end...
and *joshua redman's
album back east
buzzing in my ears...
     jazz on the bus, makes perfect senses,
but when listening to jazz in the house?
that music doesn't work with headphones -
my internet connection is slow and i have
to play some open air music...
  discretely, of course, since it's almost 11
at night...
                 and then i think:
my... if those western africans remained in
west africa, and didn't become ingrained
in the building of america,
first of all there would be no jazz,
second of all there would have been no blues,
no elvis... no this that & the other...
      strange, isn't it, that from a very bad
deed, some good could have arisen...
         dare i say, if it wasn't for **** germany,
there would have been no israel?
         what a strange question to ask,
wouldn't you agree?
          after all, with no divine intervention:
there wouldn't be a laughing god now
apparent, riddled by the once mighty
german, becoming castrated and limping
  on the cusp of: medusa on the guillotine;
still, there's that notion of jazz on the bus
to clear things through...
     the only time jazz can be allowed
into these claustrophobic instruments of
"torture" -
             take a breath, the mind expand,
you've just ridden the 86 bus route,
all the way from england, through to
bangladesh!
wordvango Feb 2017
I've got half around the bounds the sounds
the circle sphere the noted atmosphere and feel
the dizzy echoes lingering here in
this wounded stratosphere
the cries of puppies make me whimper
the lonely kittens purr
the baby humans the utmost catastrophe
but no one seems to join me way above the common
clouds and skies  they get weighted down in
bits and bytes
textual minutes and data here,
not actual feeling things,
no more, they see it all as
graphic interchanges on Facebook or twitter his
and it all bites my ***,
makes me angry, such feeling goes almost
unnoticed in this time ,
this day this
temperature.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
what a parting sea spectated
                                  with: but one word...

            the teutonic ascription
compared to:
          a sword that fits through
a mold of an needle (double) -

or is that: the dull monstrosity
of an unfolded umbrella?

  whichever...

       trailing back with an english
son to the german father:
  plenty of S to Z and Z to S
interchanges: believe me...

     one word: just one word
of "concern"...

           disease...
    dißease...

               ah, but there are two
variant emphasis structures,
      hence the need to deconstruct them
with what the germans might
call: "chinese" optics -

         you bundle a few words together,
but actually can't
            pronounce them when
someone else does a similis,
   e.g. grzegorz brzęczyszczykiewicz -
    gregory buzzingfangpeakfeat
  outliers of the word, dissected:
                     szczy(t) - peak
                           kie(ł) - fank
                     w(i/y)cz(yn) - feat...
i.e. greg buzzed like a fly at ease
   attempting the feat of "climbing"
   fang-peak...
          but there is no technicality
to go over:
             digression hasn't really earned
its place as worth scholarly interpretation:
unlike rhetoric that morphed into
oration...
      it's borrowed from a cult film
that you should go and see:
      how i unfolded the second world war...
by a single rifle shot nearing Danzig...

      how am i to be both poet and surgeon?
you know that there are "doctors"
    who are merely clerks and there
are "butchers" that are also the misters
as surgeons?
           yeah, a clerk can be a dr.
   but a surgeon is a mr.,
                petition for surgeons to
receive christmas cards with a dr. adam smith
(generic address)...

   as you might observe: i'm not trying
to be smart: it's just ******* complicated
in general...

      english as shrapnel in comparison
  to german:

                  dis-ease, as i once explained:
a negation of ease...
               but when you say it
          disease: well: that's worth steering
away from...
       but there are twin emphasis routes
to say that one, but one word...

            if you only know that there is
a latin prefix attached to what could have
been ease: but never really bloomed
into a retirement plan...

                          well...
      the snapping Z in the first tier emphasis
of: and i hope that awaits you too...
   or the curved S of a universal:
   it could meet you to -
   a dis-                                     +ease
             magnets:
                         magnets:
       how could i write it as
         dis-                        -ease
          and: surprise surprise:
                         the words didn't attract
a compound?
                    
     any man would have given up on
language at this point: **** it, let's splash
some colour on a blank and call it a: Kandinsky...

            jaw bone to the elephant tusk
   comparison:
     i've learned that brushing my teeth once
a day, with a minimal amount of toothpaste
makes me wish my dentist was death -
as i already proved: post wake after my
great-grandmother's funeral:
      grinding my teeth to the point where
i chipped a bit of my lower central incisor:
  because i cry when animals die
  and i do the following when a human
dies.

             i also have a cheap tattoo:
   a scar from having a port-wine stain that
hosted the flesh on top of my shoulder-blade
removed...

      and i'm a writer of fiction in my delusion
of actually having inconsistency
   believing the only belief remaining:
   (it's) worth digressing;

but if you had to attach yourself to having
spotted an emphasis with only a single word?
you too would have been
   a(n) edinburgh university chemistry
student: once upon a time...

           (n): is that optional?
   i mean: is there a arm, or is that: an arm?
             magnets:
        how can you have two vowels attract
  and also have two consonants attract
   when: in relation to the stated difference:
  there ought not be a: oo -
                           or how you say: oh -
                 whenever you ooh?
  glee gloat glue...
                          but there is no worthwhile
critique of Kandinsky:
                    splash of colour: **** here,
**** there, a slight at geometry and: boom!
  hey presto let's build an art gallery.

         (i forgot the goat)...

                     because after you don't really
get that much "attention":
   you get to do the ******* like -
   unlike a respectable pardoner of Kraszewski...
                                            (kra-sh­ae-w-ski) -

you know what i really want?
    for a linguist to be given the primitive tools
of language back: and explain
   what's /ɡəʊt/ -
                 apparently it's a thing with
horns, a goatee: and possibly a milk sack...
hairy... lives in mountains:
  or if "domesticated" can survive on
paper: in the form of public posters...

      and to think grass could equal cow...
    or grass = horse...
                 i really don't need to be
a scientist to say: wow!

                       and the masculine in
a poetic format is, what?
        probably something alongside this -
speech, perfection!
        
     it's still going to be a variation when
you don't acknowledge that
             disease is not akin to a pathogen:
a hostile body, a virus, a life from Mars,
when in fact it's just the minus
   aking to: dis-ease:
    a denial of ease better represented by
those atop sky-scrapers: those without
the denail of... whatever even they know
of ease.

      well... all i can say is that
                                i saved an Amazonian
tree just by doing that...
     a lot do about nothing:
            and absolutely nothing to do with a lot.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.come to think of it, there's that other album i loved learning on the guitar, notably for the song: show me how to live... audioslave - self-titled album... could play most of the songs... i once played with a drummer, a swiss exchange student, who was in a band back in switzerland... tobias... otherwise? a pretty ****** affair playing an electric guitar all by yourself, unless you're making haunting solo-interchanges-with-rhythm akin to ol' cobain, shackled in his sociopathic house with leeches for roommates... but there was something else... what was it? what, was it? ah... prompts... nothing beats reading some heidegger or looking at the qabbalah version of hebrew... to stir the mind into itchy fingertips... two drinks down and i'm geared up... how many nicknames i have for my cats? too many... the female cat i sometimes call tyson fury, by the way she tries to conceal either her no. 1 or her no. 2 in the "cuvette" (yes, that is, a misnomer, but i like the word, so i used it... in that place where cats do their no. 1 & no. 2 with all the "raisins" to cover their seemingly irritable sense of "sin")... the male maine ****? big *******, almost 10kg, big as a fox... his nickname? bodzio... since he always appreciates a head-**** as a greeting, sticks his head out and: ****... heads meet... i also call him the: choir boy... i've never heard a cat make so much ****** noise... i stopped counting the number of meow variations he can usher out... fine during the day, at 4am? not so great; well... if animals don't have a soul, or rather: they have impure souls... i'm pretty sure they have a **** distinct record for character... people? eh... you rarely meet people with character, sure, they have personalities, cats don't have personalities: except one... a cat personality... but cats are more likely to have a character than any known man, since there's no chance for them to grasp a personality... the female ****? soames (forsyte)... such an anti-social cat, pick her up she complains... zołza... i almost miss owning a dog, dogs are fun when you're young... but at least with cats... you can just ignore them: you do your ****, they do their ****: everyone's happy... as an only child i liked a sycophant on a leash... but as i grew older... cats: because i can ignore them, the most natural solipsists... and mind you... what is solipsism if not a superior version of atheism? current trend of youtube cencorship (no point boasting about viewcounts of subscribers, but at least reading imposes the high-jump filter, any idiot can watch a video, spurred with ill-will in the comment section, report etc., much harder to pursue censorship when: you have to read something, rather than passively watch a video)... ****... they reduced the "suggested" feed to only 12 videos per video... so much for finding glitches and new bands, back to the tedium of using last.fm... as i once watched a h'american give a talk in a conference: solipsism is a mental illness... my my... why are the h'americans toying with psychiatry? at least i'm not chemo-phobic... i'll pop a psychiatric pill over a whiskey... i'm currently using an anti inflammatory as a sleeping pill... naproxen... solipsism, is a mental illness? seriously? something that can't exactly be put into practice, like catholicism? wow... i always thought that solipsism was a tier above atheism... atheism bores me... it's the sort of boredom that a psychopath serial killer would associate with existence per se... boredom... and even then... the thrill of the **** is also tied to: missing... of course christianity spread so easily in the roman empire, given the obvious plagiarism of the greek gods... no other plagiarism in existence is so obvious, elsewhere? similarities, but not plagiarisms... a fresh god appears, of course he would appeal... how else would ha-shem conquer if not from a position of weakness? everyone still remembers Zeus, a father figure, venerates him, and all the others, in poetry at least... Odin still remains, another father figure... the runes are still here... but ha-shem will never be a father figure for me... it's impossible to arrive at that conclusion... no father figures in monotheism, even islam forbids it... sure... in polytheism, feasible... but in monotheism? it's no more a he, or a she, for that matter, an it... a h. p. lovecraft nightmare conjuring... and if this is infantile thinking, if all of this is a "delusion"... i've seen worse, i've heard of worse... and as such: there's no comfort in such a thought process... more... some extra spice to add to the curiosity that reigns in me over furthering my linguistic perusing adventure.

playing with my
           maine **** male
quorus,
   cat...
while gulping down
   root parsnip
with some raw turkey meat...
and then came the dream,
of falling asleep.
root parsnip
and raw turkey meat...
it almost makes
baltic sushi seem
like a luxury
         with the herrings!

all the while...
drenching my face with cold,
cold, tap water,
cusp of hands...
hereby: drop your pennies
for best wishes...
pretending to sober up;
sober this.
Onoma Dec 2023
kyphosis/hunchback--basket of abandon, made

stronger than a dozen shadows of men.

mustachio bushel eyebrow covering his left eye,

a bloaty flap of toad-warts covering his

right eye.

palsied arms clamped at his sides--like a chick's

wings embossed in yolk, draggy right foot trailing him.

Quasimodo: 'half made'--to swing from thickly fibrous

ropes & land on musty planks.

swinging/sliding/climbing, up & down, man to creature--

creature to man...in the attic of housed worship.

made deaf by the struck-unstruck sounds of Notre Dame's

bells, cathedral that gave him ears to hear.

of which he named each, each a heroine of the belltower.

made King of Fools by the townspeople during festivity--

crowned & propped up on a third-hand thrown.

stealing away a crowd throwing currency in a gypsy

goddess' tambourine: Esmerelda, whose proceeds went

to the: King of Thieves.

not long after Quasimodo/Hunchback is accosted with

rotted vegetables by the townspeople as he's led to the

public square.

after blindly following orders to abduct a certain gypsy

by the archdeacon.

where he's bound to a rotating pillory & flogged thirty times.

Esmeralda mounts the pillory and pours water from a leathery

flask into his mouth, as he called for it crooked-faced, the jutting

topples of sparse--but hard in the yellow of teeth.

amid bloodlust catcalls that already drenched the pasture-green

rags of his shirt.

his surrogate Father, archdeacon: Claude Frollo, the one that

first reached into a basket to coddle abandonment--as to invest

in afterworld treasures...rebreaks the bones of fifteenth century

sacrilege into covetous place.

whose unanesthetized voices escape from the mouths of Quasimodo

& Esmeralda.

whom the Hunchback rescued from the gallows, citing sanctuary

by church decree, after being falsely accused of murdering

Captain Phoebus.

a philandering standby of integrity, that saw Esmeralda's

eyes follow & fall for the span of his sword, all the wooded

babes of her marital hopes--dashed.

followed up by the sped blackening of the archdeacon's

hooded robe, ripping open the door of jealousy he spied thru.

an almost unbroken motion of forced entry, & ****** of blade

into Captain Phoebus' back--though the ***** survived the *****.

this active underbelly could withhold no more the fat of

a pig on a spit, so after several **** attempts on Esmeralda--

the "bewitched" archdeacon: Claude Frollo, was impaled by

a nail like a renounced garment by Quasimodo, and left to moths.

he loved Esmeralda as he hid his face from her in their brief

interchanges, with the rests of a pianist absorbing unplayable keys.

along with the gargoyle that spat fire from the belltower to ensure

her escape into the arms of her true love: Piere, a poet.

along the underground torches of safe passage, Esmeralda &

Piere, followed Quasimodo's secret instruction...as they were seen

to sunset.

as the king's army closed in on: The Hunchback of Notre Dame, he

clung to his stony confidant--a gargoyle.

where the pale stories of dawn climbed the cathedral, Quasimodo

clung to the gargoyle's head, where he was talked way down.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
why would anyone even bother asking
      grandiose questions,
when we are only able to answer
with mediocre answers?

who the **** wants to bother
  20th century existentialists these days?
most books written about
them & their movement calls them
bores...
             no, they weren't boring,
they were expressing
         an antidote to grandiose question:
namely through difficulty...

choose one of these *******...
    i chose heidegger...
                and is he a great stylist?
so-so...
               i get confused with him
when he interchanges
                italic stressors -
  esp. in compounded words,
notably the prefix da (there) in
the compound dasein...
  and yes, the hyphen use -
and yes,
           how the anglophones hijacked
the ditto to invoke quotation...
   what was wrong with
    'i am in awe', he said, exempli grata?
       how does the ditto work?
          "        "       "       "         "    ?
like that.
   what's the difference between 20th century
irish literate and polish literate
to this day?
none...
   they write dialogue like they might dance
a quick-step...
- aye
- tak
                     they use the hyphen insertion,
in dialogues,
   rather than use the hyphen
as the english use the hyphen
when teasing vaterdeutsche -
all the chemists in england are
german spies...
     well, in how they word it...
a humanist would attack
the syllables (the hyphen is probably
the only "diacritical" indicator
in how a word is dissected to
ease the dyslexics), e.g.?
   hydrochloric acid...
      hmm?           hydro-chloric acid...
the existentialists are
confusing me with their third party
sources...
       it's like they're debating
a quasi-etymology -
(origin of words) -
                             but in a way that
demands too much cognitive gymnastics
sometimes...
     i scratch my head,
   and then i scratch my groin,
and then i scratch my ***...
    and then i fiddle with my beard,
and then i scratch my head one more
with my other hand...
       i don't understand why anglophone
people demand this reality debate...
you read any existentialist,
        or you go back as far as kant...
there's no real stress, or for that matter:
a shortcut to concern yourself
with a reality...
                     but i guess populism has
its sway with people, and they debate
the useless questions...
   for that's what philosophy allows:
useless questions that
are grandiose questions... meaning?
      its twin:
useless answers that are mediocre answers.

a classic:
  what's the meaning of life?
you ******* chimp just dropped from
a tree, you were born yesterday, or something?

   live!       and see what you pick up
along the way... hopefully not
  typhoid fever...
is there an afterlife?
         sure thing bob... only if you consider
life itself a learning process...
   we already know the final lesson,
namely that we'll die...
            no ******* surprise there...
i guess death can sometimes feel
like a motivational tool...
   to excuse a mid-life crisis.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
and they thought
   premature depression
was bad...

                       mmm... hmm...

mainstream uses this
cartesian dichotomy of
anti-dialectics
  with a catch-phrase
                           beginning with:

   'but that's subjective'...

   i'm currently stuck on
heidegger's no. 66 of VII -

beginning with:

    the "object" of philosophy.

so there is no subject,
given the mainstream media,
given that a dichotomy
can exist, if it interchanges
alternative posits
and yet retains
a subject, and an object:
mechanism?

   forget about writing
anything in greek...

    φυσις: fusis - fission -
      fusion -
                   "nature"...
counter via  
                          **** ex machina...
(and with language foremost) -

i'll rob the greeks from
their excessive diacritical application,
and dress up the lost trojan
in english, with a few distinctions...

           τηχνε

funny, eh?
    short e prior to a long e that
doesn't require frankish trebuchet launch
patterns of: from high above...

at least the hebrews hid their vowels,
this, modern greek
peacock stalking a garden filled
with serpents?
           i'm not buying the new testament
crap...
   the greeks didn't promise to
keep the unearthing of
   the nag hammadi library intact...

neither did the latter-day roman inheritors...
**** it, have the football match...

the 19th century, and the 20th century
philosophers could have cited
greek as a case for samson's pillars,
                and focus...

i'm done!

          it's not cheap within the confines
of techno...

                  see the barrage of waves?
now swim, swim *******! swim!

           ⠝⠕⠺          ⠊         ⠎⠑⠑    

        (chee              k'si            shee),

the greeks seriously went rampant
with diacritical application...

         which... did very little...
to matter in dictating elocution lessons
having to mind other languages...

you could have sold that sort
of ******* to the english -
who are: stark naked,
  with no, absolutely no
      concept of orthography...

tongue numbing R - the lost trill...
the lost rattle-snake...

    so what's bad about a subjective view?
is it: implosive to the point
of a disappearing act
   reached with the help of ****** death?!
objectively?
        head-****?!
wouldn't an objective answer
be a head-****,
  rather than entertaining
the softcore software
                      notion of a subject?

i'm in a ******* cartesian hell with
these people...
                  with what used to be
synonymous, superimposable,

   has become antonym, and chemical
"naricissus" of,           chiral...    

                      let us deviate from prisons,
institutions, and asylums, they said,
let us craft an agglomerate, they said...
    a "silent" majority, they said...
and they said this, and they said that...
    of what became a mea culpa juggling
act of a society:
    expose the "tyrants":
                             but hide the culprits.
David Hilburn Apr 2023
Days without you...
Misery, is such an eavesdropper
Completing the day, with prayer due
Complaining announced, with hunger's care

Stoic interchanges
Odd to beauty, the committing change
Of love into a season of strangers
Where oh where, has my little lamb been?

Calling bird an open world...
Words of defense, the wisdom of tides
Turned by insignificance, a lip early
By courage's reclamation, for wishes divine

Cold thoughts about a seemly limit
Made by lovers and friends
Was succor to verify a new spirit?
Of legends, of vanity and amends...

Was home the only place for love?
Same to each, and known for a conscience
Adding reason's; made by the causes of us
Corner's of reality, with but a moment for your presence?
preservationman Jul 2020
The Hound Bus that crosses states
Passengers being ladies and mates
It’s the Hound bus with the flashing lights
It brings Major Cities and Towns to life
Destination in the open road
The United States simply unfolds
Anywhere bound
You will find the hound
Routes being interchanges
Back roads that connect
The feeling in travel has that effect
The Hound wheels being guided with driving skills
It is the hound bus Driver that fits the bill
Highway town waves
America Up Close
Personal
Lean back in that reclining seat
Conservation with other passengers that can’t be beat
So into the sunset with a sunrise
My life could be destined for anywhere
The hound bus will show my tomorrow
My destination will be my appreciation
My arrival will be my association
My travel complete
It was the Hound bus travel that was neat
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
isn't this what, intergration, proper, should look like?
some people adorn themselves in vague tattoos,
me? working from the crux of dasein,
i too have to tattoo myself,
              cognitively...
        
                     ever since i can remember...
it had to be the turks besieging Vienna when
the defenders of christendom took charge
against them, the winged hussars of
the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...

         but prior? did not the Polen defend their
commonwealth with the pagan Lithuanians
against the Teutons in its summation,
culminating in the battle of Grunwald of 1410
(a battle in the east, akin in magnitude
to the battle of Hastings of 1066),
         poet, or an overlord of historians'
"amnesia"; a history, a memory,
a revival...
             who the hell even follows the modern
poetic ******* of high school children
being whipped into submission
regarding: measure, "meaning", "sub-meaning",
taunting ***-bits, metaphors...
if you only look at the ancients' style,
Horace, Ovid, Virgil...
      there's a narrative at play,
            the narrator play the role
of protagonist, there are no phantom non-existent
characters, there is not puppeteering...
there are over-stretches of narrative,
that interchanges between dialogue and
monologue,
        as ever: poetry, not philosophy,
is the uninhibited art of retrospection,
of introspection, notably... while drinking...
sober minds can deal with philosophy,
with "questions", with "problems",
with "solutions"...

                i just want to spew,
i came here to regurgitate...
        and what does it matter if i appreciate
homosexual literature akin to william burroughs...
i still, much prefer,
homosexuality in reverse, i.e.: taking a ****...
i'll even downgrade the male ****** to
a tier below, taking a ****,
and most surely below a tier of pleasure
arrived at: taking a ****...
women derive all the ****** pleasure
of the two sexes... hence...
the desperate need to import african walking
****** for their canvas of unsatified needs!
if a ***** doesn't do justice...
   import a bunch of african play things...
me? bitter? of just painfully honest?
     there's a difference...
           like... i do admire the polyglots...
they're like yews (jews, via yiddish)...
they never really settle in any culture,
or said culture's norms...
                        **** me, aren't i in frenzy
of creativity... thank god i'm not one of these
youtube news vulture journalism commentators...
i esp. like the kind of **** that
takes three attempts to give birth to it...
i call that the tapeworm escapade...
shy ******... wants to, but doesn't want to,
want's to, but doesn't want to,
so i have to ease my ****,
   ******* to some still **** material:
ploop! frog's in the water... aaaaah!
          - ha... i wrote that... that's ******* funny...
but old school poetics...
  conversational overtones...
no bother regarding: "techniques" or god
forbid rhyme...
                        it's the running joke against
poetics these days: roses are red,
violets are blue... and a greeting card...
while... safe to say... fiction? these days?
complex characters... sure...
as they must be... but the narrator?
                                 dim-****-wit.

again, i wouldn't have returned to "identity" politics,
if only, if only the trans-gender clowns
didn't attack and dictate grammar...
               i don't like being dictated false
grammar, false biology i can entertain:
sure sure, have your thing...
           but, grammar? you attack grammar,
you call for the antithesis of the effort i made
into integrating into this language!
     *******: learn a foreign language yourself!
- and since i'm not a polyglot,
since i've dug a trench into this language
and its subsequent culture...
em... i have to celebrate its past...
           and that implies i will have integrated
to appreciate songs...
               e.g. chevalier,  mult estes guariz
   (french crusader song),
or...
          da pacem domine (templar chant)...
salve regina (hospitalier chant)...
                  hell, the flag changed...
it's no longer white on top of white...
now it's a red cross on white...

how else was i going to integrate?
into this, current, western,
   pseudo-socialist cosmopolitanism?
because that's what it is...
       pseudo-socialist cosmopolitanism...
how many times must i say it?
social, does work, but only in exceptional
circumstances...
     there was only one, Poland...
      Syria might be the next one...
   it works, for a constricted amount of time...
3 generations... in a country...
that has nothing to begin with...
          i.e. is war-torn...
           either socialism, or the Marshall Plan...
which, of course, Poland didn't receive any of...
but Sweden did (neutral),
    as did Switzerland (also, neutral)...
it worked... because it was allowed to work
with the ambition that it would fizzle
out, as it did...
             socialism is a decent model
in times of exceptional circumstances...
as a rebuilding socio-economic mechanism,
and nothing more!
              i can't imagine the Syrians wanting
foreigners toying around with rebuilding
their economy...
                      that sad side of global affairs...
but like my favorite quote from recent years,
regarding me being a foreigner,
"stealing" the language skills of natives...
       kevin spacey: well... i'm not exactly going
to, *******, am i?

   below?
         an abstract schematic i devised
                                solving a su doku puzzle...      


/     _                           | | |
             x                       _        
               | | |                       +
           _ _                     | | |  
                      x             _ _ _        
            | | |                      +
       _ _ _                      | | |
                  +                     x           \

— The End —