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Joshua Sanders Oct 2018
The field was vast. Empty except  for a man and the thing he was speaking with.

The man was middle-aged, he wore a black suit and a thin red tie. He sat in a wheelchair. He was handsome, in a careless sort of way. His unruly black hair was streaked with grey. His Hazel eyes breathed a dull sort of fury.

The thing standing before him wore a familiar face.

"Hello old friend," the thing said
"Vincent," the man nodded

A storm of Mana danced around the two
mixing with the wind and
the air
small spirits were summoned
into the storm
they whispered in
ether tongues
as they surrendered to
the storms current

The thing had long pale hair and wore the face of Vincent Sena, an old friend.
He was beautiful, with feminine features. His eyes were the color of glaciers: cold and violent.

"I'm glad you could make it, Isaak."
The thing wore a slight mocking smile.
"It must have been difficult, in your condition."

Isaak shrugged, "I manage. It's been a long time, Vincent."

"People call me Muun now."

"Muun. I'm gonna **** you," Isaak's eyes were a feral dog's. "I'm going to peel off that face you're wearing and shove it down your throat." His tone was casual.

Muun's eyes resigned to bitterness, "let's begin then"

Muun raised his hand and his finger grew sharp and violent.
He ****** it into Isaak's head.
...


I've had trouble sleeping lately,

Oh?

Yeah just the past few weeks

Yeah I have something I take to help me sleep

Whatcha got?

Here, the man grabs a bottle full of purple pills and hands him a handful,
I'd only take two at a time

....
Drunk taking Tylenol
for headaches and nothing really
The batteries are running dry
The dust blanketed,
ruins in the making
and rust
and dried blood
and you're all alone
You'll die alone

then nothing
...
/Vincent was always faster, stronger. Isaak held his own, though./
Young Isaak heard his master speaking and grew colder.

...

Burrowing
A pale finger
searching his thoughts,
picking at his mind
Burrowing
Flashes of light,
a dull headache growing
sharper
Burrowing
Find it
Find the river
Follow the current
Twisting, things with razor teeth swimming in it
Keep going
There
It empties into the ocean
Sunlight

...

Vincent lay dead
Muun was breathed out
with Vincent's last heartbeat
The stink of him laying heavy in the swirl of Mana
Isaak burned that shell
and watched the fire with cold eyes
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.oh yeah... chris isaak's: wiucked game - plenty of "facts" went into taping as many covers as the song spontaneously made replica... so many objective "facts"... too many to count... when will certain subjective taboos be recognized and other, objective "truths" be denied?! how long must humanity be obliged to secure the argument by "confusion" be deemed liberation as necessarily-arguing the case of confiscatory material? what?! my grammar is bad? if my grammar is so ******* bad... ask someone from Rotherham!

.i tend to forget that people have this, collective amnesia regarding subjectivity, somehow they only associate it with news spew... they vaguely recognize an old widow walking from a surgery to a bust stop, stopping my a lavender bush, to pick a few flowers off of it... like some quasi Notre Dame hunchback... joyous that she bypassed all the ghost souls on the "waiting list" of an English doctor, joyous... clearly innocent... there can never be a place in this world for objective truths... objectivity is limited in the realm of aesthetics... whereby objectivity is a truth: whereby two uncorrelated people say the same thing... but  when it comes to a taste in music? what is objectivity that focuses on the differentiated between the sound of Wagner with / without an orchestra... and a traffic jam? objectively? both are sounds... extreme comparisons... but you can't call one black and the other #A, can you? subjectivity is not a 1-dimensional propaganda machine, it is also a truth... and when it comes to aesthetics... within the confines of personal taste(s)... i can say Wagner works better without an orchestra than with one... but... you can't tell the two apart... subjectivity is not a bias... it is a profound truth... in comparison objectivity's claim for truth is a tirade, compensated by the mere excavation deposit of journalism, which is becoming ever more fractured in compensation; it was always the case that life, expired prior to the, death... but now? it appears? death expires prior to a, life. Wagner isn't anemic without the orchestra... Wagner merely hijacks an orchestra to overdo the purpose of the piano... to enrapture a concert hall; nothing more, and i wouldn't expect nothing less.

i'm drunk...

  you're sober...

good luck
reconciling either,

even if either:

invokes:

         none....

   who gave the reigns
to the internet,
under a sober guise?

****! quick!
catch me a moth in a lampshade
and send me off to
a CIA acid camp!

IVANA BELIEVE!
and congregate
like a ******* beehive!

or a termite mount...
whichever...
            what?
i'm drunk... you're sober...
    
unless you have some
fetish for Swedish pop music
akin to Roxette...
  we, have, seriously,
nothing, to, talk, about...

  savvy? is that privy enough
for you?

tell me the difference between:
i have no rank, no lābrador
to mind suite for an orchestra
worth a Wagner...

**** it... i just watched
Apocalypse Now...
   3 and a half hours of what i could
make of the heart of darkness...
prior to the ride of the valkyries...

but to be honest...
i'm with david...
             take of pure piano...
of Wagner's
     the entry of the gods into Valhalla...
sole, piano... it's not anemic...
it's justified interpretation,
it''s... the justified counter
to Chopin...
  a refined honesty...
                 i never liked
Chopin...
   unlike most Polacks...
i never like Jean-Paul II either...
like most Polacks...

i'd envision a Jean-Paul II emeritus...
like all old Polacks lay claim:
it you have been nice to see
an otherwise different,
process of dethroning...

no... the orchestra undermines
Wagner... the piano will do,
for now, for as long as it takes...
the piece doesn't require orchestration...
if the mere piano makes the pieces
anemic...
then the orchestra makes is
gluttonous...
  
people shouldn't expect their children
to be intelligent by merely
listening to classical music...
what they should expect...
is listening to classical music...
elaborating into jazz...
and then coming back into classical music...

why do i hear such horrors...
that the only classical music made pop...
is classical music underscoring
moving image...
why is the only classical music
"worth" listening to...
the music composed for movies,
or at least, incorporated
into them?

            no... Wagner is not anemic
on the sole basis of piano...
     das rheingold: is not anemic...
Chopin might be...
with his intricacies...
a bountiful butterfly in the age
of Bonaparte...
              
               but? listening to the piano?
of Wagner's exclusion of
orchestra?

   Handel is the new Bach...
and Wagner is the new Chopin...

you don't make toddlers listen to classical music
because they might be better
at arithmetic like some prized
monkey who later struggles
with economic biases -
or tax returns...

                     you need a classical
music appreciation,
to hit against jazz...
and if it doesn't return to classical
music?
then the original investment was
worth... zilch!

       orchestra ruins what perfects,
or rather allows Wagner
to stand-out from a Baroque tradition
of Germanic exfoliation...
   and hurts, hurts...
hurts the gentile spirit of a Schubert
or a Schumann...
      
the just Libra interlude hanging
within a composition,
the dangling in the air...
or a dire, interlude, a dire... note...

                   Wagner minus
orchestra...
                      what a fine affair to...
anticipate:

                                              ­    en oeuvre.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i was never an enthusiast of the man,
don't know, never caught me,
the drill of impersonation,
of the zeitgeist doppelgänger
mode of enforced reminder,
just this, forcing upon
another of a memory:
i always repeated the mantra -
let the river flow,
let history become less
congested,
don't allow the **** beavers
build the dam of
historical coagulation...
let others onto the pedestal stool,
but once history that's
a river becomes a dam enforced lake,
well, we currently live in
such times,
  we can't shake off the 20th century
as luckily as we might think
we have done so already...
it always seems to happen...
the closure of the 19th century
was peppered with the most quack
spontaneity...
     usually invoking killers,
as always happens,
a son of cain encrusts the beginning
and the end of a period,
solidified by abel...
      nonetheless,
chris isaak came close to elvis presley,
he rubbed shoulder to shoulder
with "the man"...
it was only, but one song,
but houdini was knocked dead with
a single punch to the stomach...
sometimes it really takes a single
blow to the giant, to see him fall...
after all, achilles was governed
by death, to die from a mortal
imprint of an arrow on the heel...
     elvis who? chris isaak, i agree...
a song that tends to echo without
a repertoire of all to eager impersonators...
it's the per se momentum -
    **** just rolls,
and lols while telling the:
elvis has left the building joke
with added u.f.o. paraphernalia add-ons.
we live in times of
constipated history,
    by now you should have spotted
& appreciated that history is constipated,
the pop culture, the stars in their eyes knockout
sucker punch...
   we are currently living in times,
in constipated times, awaiting a massive
abnormality of leaving the plus & minus
yin yang of the 20th century...
  feels strange, if all honesty be worth disclosing...
here, on the altar of the yonder,
peering into the vacuum,
    a rudimentary, unforced, what
seems to be: merely a yawn.
      it's a very special place,
we're more nostalgic about the 20th century,
than the 19th century philosophers were
nostalgic about ancient greece...
never has nostalgia been so apparent,
and so apparent, given the proximity -
people will look at the 20th century,
and the beginning of the 21st,
and tense up, sensing the most awkward
magnetism at work...
so, when it comes to spirituality,
i think it's *******,
  i'm more inclined to stress: magnetism...
it's only 17 years into the nuance of
added zeros...
     or, rather, shoving a zero into decade along,
rather than a beginning with ω = o x 2.
     and of those years...
14 were lived at the end of the past century...
still, with one song alone,
chris isaak managed to overcome
elvis presley...
          hardly any imitations worth minding...
and that's all it takes, sometimes,
a stealthy punch to bruise the titan
out of the spotlight,
      uranus - ur, the place where
abraham arrived from -
    gaea & the graeae;
       seems so unimaginative,
that man abides his "spiritual" core to the basics
of the arithmetic, accounted only by
the limited digits,
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, perhaps 10, but certainly 12,
and 0, as antidote to the lemniscate (∞);
then again 24; so too 365;
there's no point any literary outpouring,
no worth volume of expression,
given that man orbits a fascination,
mystifying these numbers.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.a viable compensation... males ought to stop being such ***** romantics... how my father plays the Chamberlain to my mother ******... me... and a woman? please... let's just get it over with, castrate me... i have no existential imperative... i am,. the sort of fascist you're supposed t fear... i actually endorse their ideology... i can't sway the opinions of western women... **** 'em... to be honest, the most ****** eruptions i've felt were for Kenyan ivory beauties... ivory? the teeth... skin like molten chocolate... rare for a white man to desire black women...never experienced the Asian fetish... first time in Africa and i recognized in her eyes: we weren't a pair of the ugly people... while shy smoked marijuana on the stealth... god...  liquorice in caramel... coconut oil smeared all over her... my one time in Kenya... and i'm looking for a shade... and i also fall in love... and i recognize the eyes that fall love... and everywhere i go... i fall in love... but never stay... a death, the blues, and what comes after: the everyday noose... just prior... come sleep.

*******, i too, am,
bewildered at not
finding my ego...
or rather... pretending
to leave with a hard-on...
what's wrong with me?
or... rather...
what's wrong with you?
blame games can
only go so far....
        i can only pretend to
give a ****
having listened to
enough chris isaak songs...
after a while...
i'm  "thinking"....
if this doesn't have rooney
mara to compensate with...
                 *******...
i'll eat the cauliflower...
point break ***** of the 21st century...
i'll scratch my beard
and pretend to shave... o.k.?!
hard-on, no ego...
ego, no hard-on...
  i guess thinking's
side-effect is that that...
thinking... sometimes paralyzes....
good to know-ro-ro-robot-good-to-go.
WA West Oct 2018
In those freeform movements,
Your small hands,
twitch out the blueprints,
for a life well lived
on my chest
I find more of myself in your light-shy eyes,
every second,
I feel more than ever.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
here comes
the baggage,

    here comes
the sermon...

   and...

   oh look...
here; also comes;
the, person...

lucky you!

i actually prefer the elongated
pauses from excessive
drinking,
thank this excess of
punctuation markers
being employed....

we already get the part
about soppy poetry and
broken hearts...

i don't drink and
listen to chris isaak...
i tend to eat something...
**** requires a stimulation
of a palette to
eat, and
be listened to!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
the entirety of the english tongue's
"finalities" are nothing but,
banalities...
                  and yes, chris isaack,
could have been the new elvis...
  try or no try, there was no
train from st. petersburg to moscow,
and however women love party...
men are always in love with
a wrinkle...
  what of thinning hair,
         men age into lizard people,
women age into the graeae...
      the last one laughing stands...
   i'm thinking of conjuring pasta with
a poached egg akin to heston...
but it is as it is...
that gateway into the affair,
heidegger,
     VI, LVI,
   we really do live in an unquestioning
age...
     i love that phrase:
spiritually determinate...
no one is actually asking a question,
everything is "seemingly" intact,
readied for some glorifying plateau...
but we live in times when there is no
question, worth answering to,
in that there are too many answers,
and hardly a question to craft a usurp action
(usurp-tion)...
                    the tragedy being that:
we don't live in a questioning age,
we live in a paraphrase age,
             in an age worth reclaiming
an "original"...
                        you can fry lard all
you want, but after a while the game is up
having tasted the butter...
       chris isaak was the new elvis,
but he wasn't, because he got the J.F.K.
treatment;
retrogative in an age of completely unquestioning,
an age where the only question is
questioning perpetuated?
there's a possessiveness of "being there"?!
apart from journalism?
can dasein ever reach a dasein's dynamic?
thank **** not a lot of pdf. existentialists ever
read kant...
            i'd be worried had they ever done so...
sartre's novels are fun, his thinking though?
about at dry as an overcooked doughnut...
but we really do live in the age of a lost question...
          aetate quaestio amissa;
and for an age filled with answers, as ours is...
i find it obnoxious, too certain,
       too "truthful",
but also too fricative in what scientific
     fictionalisation provides...
    summa ut...
          age of a question omitted,
                  summed up to perpetuum sors:
id refero qua quaestio
    ut quaestio qua refero,
                 *** finis ping pong logica.
            and it is true:
why are we left so completely unquestioning?
as heidegger noted with my own
reinterpretation,
why is history simply a delayed end,
                   as it is: a falsified beginning?
falsified by the count of:
   the unglorified estimates of poetics
being allowed the burden of the images
cleaving to a claustrophobia of space...
we can't live for the next 100 years
by being satiated by the already "certain"
answers...
we never managed to call the planet
mars inhabitable, when we already stated:
earth was once uninhabitable...
   the once upon a time schematic needs
revising...
      i never bother a latin friction of
a "dictionary": i write pig,
i snorkel in piggish, and then i snort
a hog's affair of "compensating" grammar
in english grammar schooling (private)...
we live in an unquestioning age,
    an age riddled, rather than filled with:
all the answers...
      if i were my own, in the contemporary sense,
of being sharing a tempo history,
i'd begin to sound the bells of suspicion...
  i never warmed to this age,
it's neither road nor highway,
but a cul de sac...
                 and i will never warm to this
age, i will always be nefarious towards it...
because it has been oh so blatant in treating
a case of awe, as a worthy take on the carousel.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
g-swizzel books'
video

    my thoughts on recent
booktube drama
....

...........................................
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10 minutes later...

...........................................
   ....................................
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      ..................................

  i'm still blinking...
blinking...
blinking...
dazed & confused
but still blinking...
blinking...
    dazed & confused
but still blinking....
blinking....

the **** just happened?!

and focusing on about
1mm x 1mm x 1mm
focus point...

what the ****?!
is this what making fun of 20 year olds
looks like on the #resist movement?
this is the backlash?

i'm 30... i'm pretty sure i'm
categorized as a millennial...
but is that:
millennial snowflake,
or millennial: up yours!                 ?
you need a pronoun before that
?         insinuation of,
said word? yes? no?

oh **** me, we're becoming
pedantic now... o.k....
UNSAID word... surd... fine...

whatever...
              i'm watching this book review
video and, and...
i'm trying to think!
       but i can't...
i'm starting to focus on
Australia's Master-chef exploits!
i want to think,
i want to think!
             but all i have is custard
for thought... ****...
    
put on some operatic metal,
therion, with the song
rise of ***** and gomorrah...
****... no good...

   back to the critique video...

fake reader girls...
          mental health concerns...
and then... some comments by some
*******...
   my theory?
pedophiles are not into smoking
and nicotine hangovers...
or heavy drinking...
which...               ****** one ******...
never... enough.

               no!

**** me... i thought i'd never manage
to find an echo chamber...
but discovering a safe space?!
wow!
             wow! wow! wow!
this is amazing!
              
   i never thought i'd come across
this zoological phenomenon!
     **** it... this calls for sampling
some if not all of the circa five minutes
of chris isaak's song
wicked love...

      it's like... discovering a village
of gorillas and ****...!
safe spaces! wow!
wow!
   it's like...
i'd really want to have
a trans-gender Confucius- disciple
of a man...
the sort of empiricism that
could be exchanged with
a child like that?!
  priceless!

please please please please please!
please!

give me these leftist monkeys!
i want them, i prize them,
i dream of them!
i want to study the role of
safe spaces as the replacement
concepts of the Gulags...
please let me...
          
i'm as itchy as Mengele...
please let me...
  i'm dying to know!

alternatively:
  can i have the Dian Fossey role?!
it's a ******* jungle...
and i've just come across
the stereotypical left,
the atypical paid protester type...
i'm excited, no argument
against that...

   but please please please...
i want to study these people
at a closer range of affairs!
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
drink about: just enough...
it's not a litre of ol' jack...
it's not whiskey it's not ms. Audrey
Auburn... or...
that Baltic stone...

   bursztyn...
        
Latvian declension... say what?
    amber... that's that stone...
Wittgenstein and the limits of language...
i thought this was an atomised
endeavour...

then again... i'm not worried about
an absolute good...
a relative good... or a trivial good...
it's not even about: it feels...
if it's good it probably implies:
back into my placebo solipsism i go: curl...
"hide"...
the least of the other is by my standard:
the only relevant... good...
how i abhor confrontations how
i avoid them:
i have made a life out of it..

so... just enough drinking... too much smoking...
and i've written, only, this...
well... i blame memory...
i've spent too much time in that cinema...
i'm not some Goethe, some patriarch...
on a deathbed with a stereotypical
cascade of: life cascading before my eyes...
i already see the end...
the pagan way... taking it myself...
overpowering the lateness of death...

i drank just enough i smoked too much
and... in all fairness... i wrote: am writing...
the bare minimum to pass this night off as:
well invested... in...

          Wittgenstein and the limitations of language...
chose a different topic...
i hear these moral arguments
concerning women...
like... will there: should there, be...
a hope for improving these...
under the flourishing freedoms...
these.... sleeper-sociopaths?

long gone are the days when a man
would crawl back into his mother's *******
to remind himself of being
somewhat tadpole...
my advent of self-gratification...
compensation...
******* a tear along with that genocide
of ***** not off-loaded to a bank
of sorts... since nearing 36 i'm finally getting
bored of the whole design of piston
works and a bony imitation ****...

sifting through the faces along a route
from the outer reaches of the M25
teasing at st. paul's cathedral...
long ago there would be a song
akin to... stereotype me...
chris isaak's wicked game...

tonight? i ended up drinking enough,
smoking too much
and remembering just about: plenty...
origins of imagination
are not the same as the origins of:
well no ought no thought:
language is altogether limited, no?
but i can't fathom the letters
for the intricacy of a sparrow song...
i can't write you a *******
onomatopoeia for that sound....

i'll be the first to lament...
the fact that...
it's impossible to fall it love...
love in the old sense of allowing some
tenderness... kissing the eyelids
of a *******...
so much for attempting to still glorify
being that ideal love...

we won't be hurting from any new
love songs... mind you...
the girls will continue to sing about:
party on!
i don't mind; Darwinism outside the
anglophone world is...
distasteful... mildly arrogant...
Darwinism is true...
but there's all that existential cafe
******* to mind
having a summary akin to:
yes... everything has a reason,
everything has a purpose...
nature abhors vacuums...

         i abhor Darwinism for the sake that
it suggests itself as being all-encapsulating...
it's ontology, it's etymology...
it's the ******* trust i put into traffic...
all as one...
oh but i out a lot of trust into traffic...
only today i was "mindless"... a speeding demon
via Bow...

i keep myself being childless with
welcome distractions...
other people... the monuments can stand:
for purpose of presumption and / or...
otherwise...
but peoples' faces... mostly rigid...
proper thesis of cubism... poker psy-op
inviting...

only today i admired ancient Rome with
the t.v. spectacle of Domina...
they were really... liberal... in the classical sense...
weren't they?
surrogacy was a big "thing" for them?
to be a man... and raise a child...
that's not your own... to employ the tactics of...
close-closeted-encountered....
you scratch my back i'll scratch yours...
Gargantua...
                          favouritism of relations...
there was never sly hand...
involved?
*****-please! back the **** away!
what's the proper term?
nepotism?!

oh? so it's agreed, upon...
there's a tinge of nepotism i might have to work around
like it's supposedly Russia?
and Russia is bad...
    
yes... Russian is bad... i will not speak
i will not write their cheap-*****
Cyrillic when, otherwise...
Greek might be attested...
5 years under **** Germany...
better... best... bitterest most:
than... that cringe of Bolshevik ****!
and i'm an extension...
part of the ****** plethora...
         sink 'em... the Russians...
into the cauldron
of the Caucasus... in with them...
along with the Ottomans...

the 1990s market for love song.....
when the if: idealism of woman was still
available....
rummaging in **** associated with:
sunset, sunrises...
why are these muslim teen girls...
doubling up on pretend shy...

i can't help being a tinge of traffic....
she no Yoko Ono...
but for the purpose of my... me...
wetting the *****-nilly...
just a thought:
consecration on the formidable...
posit of junction...

i'm not supposedly not speaking english...
hello... the end...
no hello... i'm bound to,,,
all that's left:
the twaffiic!

****-****-you!

— The End —