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i can fix anyone except me
bring me your problems
i can put them to sleep
its nothing special i just say what i see
you see it too or you wouldnt be talking to me
its just a form of devils advocacy
i see your demons and i speak their language fluently
let them talk through me
occam would approve
as deeply incised insight like mine
is built on a life in ruin
It's easy to cut the heart out of life with Occams razor but I'll take it over Damocles sword every time.
my room smells like that sandwich
i bought home
because of the fear of
loneliness

that sandwich
with
cold bacon
baked with temporary warmth.
spiced
with sweet onion
mayonnaise
honey mustard
which flavours fill the emptiness.
healthy-ised it with
lettuce
tomato
cucumber
onion
to make the most out of things.

my room smells like that sandwich
i bought home
because of the fear of
*loneliness
eating away the pain
December 19th
wet snow
and
church parking lot; let out a
sigh of relief
he prom-
ised 
For days
Behemoth
size
elininating
our concerns
i
would be happy.
still
"experience"
involved *****,
heavy, exhausting, loud
tradesman using
some of us.

together in
unison
pounding
away we filled the church basement
with sound
tempo and
beat.

Then it happened.

The angels were singing just
for us.
A black-out poem I wrote a while ago using a local newspaper. Reconfigured it so it wasn't so spread out. Probably going to play around with it a bit more before I'm completely satisfied. Let me know what you think!
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
co ma piernik do wiatraka a kóra do pióra?

immortalised mortality: Achilles -
some also quote Zeno on the matter
suggesting that anyone can be involved
in the question of turtle shells:
mortal-ised immortality - meaning
it's democratic, any mortal can think
about it, since there's only one Achilles.

what has a gingerbread to a windmill?
Don Quixote. again:
what has a chicken to a quill?
Nietzsche's handwriting - kura pazurem
a człek igłą.*

but there's a majority of us that think about immortality
seriously, only because he haven't fulfilled an
adequate mortality - we haven't, there are so many
of us that haven't fulfilled mortality to depart with death
with agony, we're just happy it's over,
i end up drinking beer like it's apple juice
on the after taste - we're called the depressive ones,
but still they make money off us -
the fault is the stars, we're not in it -
and why did he drink? the shame, the travesty -
i too wanted to fulfil my mortality to the ****,
convene on naked-concreteness, on bare concrete
and cover it with tar, so that someone might
watch television...

i don't know the result of the referendum,
i woke up early, took two acidic ***** into the bowl
and thought about my mouth spitting venom,
too little, too late,
walked for three beers to balance the metabolism
and walked back, waiting for cat-food to arrive -
nearly sunstroke saying under my breath:
'if you really want to make Wales into Sudan,
go the **** right ahead, book a Disneyland trip
to Florida, for all i care, i'm a Kentucky fried chicken here,
oh no, go ahead, i'm really eager to read your journalistic
attempt to be serious like they were about Watergate,
no, please, no Pelican briefs, just socks... oh come on,
we can't be seriously, we're trailblazing the **** out of
whatever we thought about the penguin continent;
Green Peace? here?! you have to be kidding me,
i have Arabian playboys playing chasers and racers
on real-life Playstations at Knightsbridge, they think
Harrods is the only shop beginning with H in London;
what about Hamleys? i'm sure the playboys and blonde
****** would be better suited to race around Regents
Street... matchbox Ferrari ***** -
i'm not going to be some Sudanese suntan just so
you can jet stream to elsewhere -
i'm guessing they all had ***** when the Reign of Terror
happened, 'cos what i'm seeing right now is a bunch
of eunuchs biting their toenails -
me? no one gave me a firearm to shoot someone
like Napoleon said, i just posed for a portrait;
i'm not into torture, i have a memory of goldfish
reminded of a globular tank, given Newton's explanation
of the curvature of the eye, upside down and all,
i'm goldfish Bob, dubbed 'the all-seeing eye'.
i have to admit, the artists were crude when they
painted Elizabeth I, or anyone prior -
they didn't exactly represent them as human,
humanoid, yes - quasi ****,
i'm Darwin in Tate Britain looking at canvases
and regarding mascara as the new adaptability tactic
for what the Galapagos "Rhodes" colossus turtles took to
over-sizing  and imitating boulders - the art those days
was a Bayeux Tapestry - Shylock after Shylock after
an oversized ***** graffiti inserted somewhere instead
of an arrow piercing a neck - the artists weren't sloppy,
they were simply unkind - i'm shocked that so many
kings took to up-keeping their vanity of rule due
to the sloppy hand of artists painting them as if ******.
Ike E Davis Mar 2019
U prom.....
Is,d'
U did
U lied
What u said
U hate me
Enough to call
To tell me
Who u balled
U prom.
Ised..
"  "
"  "
"U promised"

Good luck
Meeting me
*******
For telling me
Tellin'

Promises
Oh oh oh ah promises
Promises
(Change)

U promised
U lied
U didn't
Even try
U promised
U hate
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
after two poems of mine turned into horcruxes...
gone... fizzled out...
unsaved... stashed in the draft section...
at least one...
my heart ripped out and sliced up...
i don't even know whether or not they were
any good... but sure as ****: they felt good
having written them...
502 bad gateway... what what drug?
                    or that whole ctrl + c fiasco...
- only today i came to the realisation that...
there's only one thing superior to getting
drunk...
while watching roaming stars at night...
and of course sister Luna...
it's... sobering up... while cycling...
esp. into central London...
just so you know... i'm all for narratives...
and seeing so many faces all at once...
placebo solipsism on each and every face...
before there's an "encounter"...
like today... a faulty back-break...
the just-eat guy started to sir me for attention
catching up to me near Liverpool St. station...
we got off our bicycles
and... come to think of it...
i started to gesticulate with my hands
more than i'd otherwise like to...
do we gesticulate with our hands less
when people have become more familiar to us?
otherwise, no:
a faulty break on a bicycle...
the eyes and the tongue were not enough
to express my plight at being unable to help him...
or fix the bicycle...
my hands were expressing what i was already
saying: i wish i could help you...
but i have not tools...
- do you know any shop handy, nearby...
that might address my conundrum...
- i've cycled all the way from Essex...
i might have spatial awareness to greatly respect /
admire traffic...
but a bicycle shop that does on the spot repairs?
haven't the foggiest...
but... since it's your back-break that's broken...
while the front-break still works...
- so i showed him how he should take is slower...
for fear of "capsizing"... going over the bar...

  to exist is to be seen...
what's not to like about third person subjectivity...
is that... objective... enough?
respectable language use in the realm
of essay?
i was probably seen doing my highly antiquated:
robot stranger meets robot stranger...
in the great antithesis of the forest
that's the whole concreteness of: concrete of
the London pave-
      well... there's also a river... "somewhere"...

yes... there's only one sensation on par if not
superior to getting drunk...
cycling... having ***** of brass when a roundabout
comes "to mind"...
or a dual-carriageway where i guess i average
a speed of 30mph...

after a long session the night before...
oh god... how much balances on
ingesting that "hair of the dog"
bottle of cider...
  bowel movements at least... equilibrated...
or rather: like a bear at the end of his
foraging run of binge... topping up with
plug-hole fibre - & fibrous stuff... fur etc.

- why is it that i don't dream...
i can't remember the last time i had an elaborate
labyrinth to "work" with...
most of the time it was a dream about
my mouth & esp. teeth...
bones are eternal?

end of this meditation...
there's nothing more sublime than getting drunk...
esp. when writing...
a welcome distraction: "distraction":
well... so i don't turn into a *******
pickle...
but sobering up while cycling...
it's not a Beckettesque-Freudian mash-up
mind you...
that thrill of momentum...
that thrill of having to respect
larger... bolder: IN BOLD objects...
on the roundabout utilising them...
mostly buses...
or those 100 or so cigarettes inhaled when
cycling into heavily urbanised
"recesses" of welcome observational
stampedes of time in passing...

Brick Lane has become a favourite of mine...
for some obvious reasons when
i was only welcome to use the
centipede... like a proper tourist in London...
on m'ah ******* bike...
i never saw so much of the nitty-gritty
details of this city...
teasing all the streets with
embassies: proud dogs... flags flipping
and dangling in the wind...
queer in their own pompous extension
in this, here, a foreign land...

1 mile shy from havering-atte-bower...
to these kaleidoscope streets...
of inner congestion, coagulation...
and constipation...
so many faces to read...
so many lives to trace...
so much: forgetfulness...
      on my part... and their part too...
it's not like i want to forget
the pedestrian aspect of life...
but i'm on a road minding larger
objects: indicating when prompted
concerning the flow of the "river"...
while there "they" are...
the happily pedestrian...
  pedestrian-ised?
  stretching it... i know i am...

i've had so little of a prospect of continued ***
that... i had to seek alternatives...
drinking became the 2nd best alternative:
there's only so much you can spend
in a brothel before the objects dissolve
and a subject-matter comes begging...
sure... they'd say things like
'but you haven't changed...'
'you're a good man...'

i pity my genes... and that whole atheistic rhetoric
for what's worth what...
apparently nothing that might unhinge
me and turn me into a dark triad imitation prone:
ambition goading wriggle...
no signature...

    all of this... and nothing more...
i believe this has been a most eventful day...
a day: the least.

— The End —