Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?


one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i wont bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ...


i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   *wumpscut
, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova

With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner

"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova

He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.

Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.

Compared with your arm.

The original:

Ваня Константинова е родена, живее и работи в София. Завършила е класически балет в родния си град и в Петербург, а също и полска филология в Софийския университет и в Ягеловския университет в Краков. Съавтор е на поетичната книга “Четири цикъла” (заедно с Божидар Пангелов). През есента на 2008 излиза сборникът й с къси разкази “Благодарим ти, мистър Уан”.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova


Със цялата тъга на чужденеца

"Ти ще ми подариш един Париж
със цялата тъга на чужденеца"
Ваня Константинова

Той търси работа,
а няма риза,
Роза,
и очакване дори във джоба.
Дали понякога не се привежда
да погледне как минава бавно Сена?
Дали е хладно
(тази мисъл е на автора)?
Във този цирк проблясват само
сините отблясъци на ножовете
(които вчера са заложени).
Това е френски филм.

Париж е малко
за една тъга
и нищо.

Пред ръката ти.


*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
and i'm watching this spectacle... and i agree:
  female tennis is probably more
enjoyable than
  male tennis... there's so much
dialogue involved...
   and oh god, i am but a simple man,
i like my klinik, and my wumpscut
and my other fringe altars
of culture...
but i really like watching the 7 rectangles...
isn't a tennis court a case of 7 rectangles?
no? i thought it was...
  1 at the beginning, 2 are the side,
2 either side, and 2 for the served into "square"
across the net, service, 1st serve, net-first-service...
15 - love...
                then i watch a video by
black pigeon speaks and i'm fired up...
not that i have anything planned
in a year to come,
i'm too wrapped up in the bewilderment of
being able to **** out a bottle of wine,
but seem to never be able to **** out a bottle
of whiskey...
  dunno: it just happens...
i spent the past few hours cleaning the slates
of the bathroom from feline diarrhoea...
    so you know: i'd love to reach the summits
of gucci perfumes, if you'd care to
         allow me...
i really should wait for my ego to turn into
a phallus of slumbering pride,
but given the current situation in Sweden
    and me reading history of the deluge of Poland
by the Swedes, i'm sort of: hands in the air
with four thumbs signifying: i don't care.
   i like watching tennis,
it's the one sport where watching women is more
entertaining than watching men,
and it's not that you're even forced into it...
             women make more rallies in a match...
women tend to play with a double-handed forehand...
      but it really is a game based about 7 rectangles...
i'd love to see it as: Dali, dictates the rhombus
  at the Australian Open!
             i'd love to see it,
and i'd also love to see Oslo...
             but i'm not that bothered,
for all the media frenzy concerning western Europe,
i see Poland as a buffer zone smokescreen...
      the happenings at Ełk proved a point...
the dream of community translated into western
europe came so pronounced...
   people actually botehred to create a lynch mob...
the good "samaritan" had to die...
  and yes, the moroccan yielding the knife
was taken to a prison cell...
   but i guess knowing the polish language
i should feel more nationalistic pride in sweden being
gang-*****... it's an actual shame that i know
english and can't ingest the full potency of seeing
Sweden as it is... as i already said:
the deluge... by henry sienkiewicz...
    and later the recount by an incompetent king
in the works of kraszewski...
             but my: the tennis! it's spell-binding...
and the wine i made? it's digesting my brain to a proper
dehydration... and i love it!
              7 rectangles... and if the 7 rectangles
     were a circle, i'd be yearning for sumo!
           but no no, no... i'm, looking at these rabbits
represent a π radius squared movement,
given the matchsticks...
      i love tennis... it makes more sense watching
a female tennis match than it does a male one:
where it's always all about a fast serve and
           a quicker return... 7 rectangles, and these
fleshy vectors moving about the parameters...
           if i din't know a germanic language
i'd be gleeful, actually applauding the demise of
Sweden, having learned of the devestation
done to Poland by the Swedes in the deluge and
partition of the country, due to the House of Vasa...
it's a joke and i know it's a joke:
say i moved back to Poland and stirred up
    the national ghost?
                                     ha... ha ha... that would be
something...
          i'm a disciple of wine these days,
and i like watching tennis...
                         human history always meant
too much a case of: getting out of bed...
and hence my addiction: sleep...
as odd as it might sound, i'm actually addicted to it...
i'm a lion that pets two bonsai tigers...
    i have enough mane to laugh out a bellowing
word: lion! ha ha...
              but i sometimes like to retreat into
origins, and given i am highly volatile in my use of
english as an acquired tongue, i sometimes love to
re-acquire my ethnicity, and read a little bit of it...
how the Swedes desecrated Poland once upon a time...
how the Germans malnurished her with world war ii
and i... and i sort of love how Islam (for me), is
nothing but a chisel, a hammer... a useful idiot
that speaks more testicles and western female uninhibition
than anything... of boy... do i come across of grossly
nationalistic? i might have... oh gee!
   what a terrible plight!
                         but there's a secret theatre being staged
in Europe, most Americans don't know of it,
unless they managed to ask Joyce to **** his way
around a good translation of Finnegans Wake and
a whiskey bar in Krakow...  or ów... however you speak it...
     depends how you hide or don't hide
or expose the consonants...
                    and that's funny, most people find
the works of Kraszewski boring... to me they're the one
source of sanity having spent 3 weeks in Poland
over the holidays...
and why i invested my person in being bilingual...
   odd scare tactic: the usual typo of ****...
                        if you find the culture you're assimilating
into folding (in a poker sense), remain true to
the culture of your birth, keep the language...
you never know, you might have to move back
to the country of your birth... but only when you
see the host culture as *****-whipped... as England
is... or wait... antagonise the situation,
wait until they give up their capital,
and on the preiphery turn ultra-nationalistic in vox...
   i kept my native tongue, now i'm playing truant...
i have no symphany for the Swedes,
  and sympathy for England? well... if even events
in 1997 didn't happen... i might have more than
enough...
                   a Pole looks at the influx of Muslims to
Germany... and quiet frankly laughs...
                       it's not even a debate...
like the muslims talking about post-colonial
deconstructionalism...
                                     no wonder Russia has
come from the shadows to be the pawn-broker
of at least remaining true to the hunger
of media outlets... it just has to be there...
        so yeah, if you read kraszewski
and sienkiewicz, you might know a thing or two
about the Swedish deluge, that hit Poland
when John Casimir, of the house of Vasa
     "ruled" Poland at the time of the Cossack
uprising, magnified by the leadership of
      Khmelnytsky -
                but then again, all you hear in England
is the fate of the harem of the house of Tudor...
and how Charlie got shaved from owning a head,
and how Charlie Seconds had that
bad-*** poet in his pocket... john wilmot...
who i vaguely remember having cited
made epigram more noteworthy than an epitaph:
     we have a pretty witty king,
     and whose word no man relies on,
     he never said a foolish thing,
     and never did a wise one...

    great words demand the most despicable people
to invoke them... fortunately i live in a time
when great words can't be said,
because there are no great people to be surrounded with
in order that they might be despised...
   well, that is said in where i find solace,
exietential philosophy, for i do say: "fortunately",
as if i am borrowing something...
how can you write a poem, about a monarch,
when the monarch, as has happened with the english
crown, bid more toward philanthropy
than lechery? give me something i might want to esteem
in seeking out the basis for the basic human
depravity! you give me a monarch worth a penny's
toss into a hand of a pauper, you give me
a philanthropic king, and not a lecherous king...
you have sealed your existency,
by gauging out my eyes and giving them to worms,
and cut off my tongue, and lodged it, in the mosque
of a donkey's gob!
Leslie Zhang Feb 2014
new york glasses boy asks questions
in auschwitz: were there americans in concentration camps?
in krakow: are europeans a race?
in budapest: are you okay? why don’t you want people to sing to you?
at dinner i hide from the orange rubber cake
people try to sing and i try to run
after much mulling over a recycled candle
i wish for a simple easy adulthood and contemplate flinging myself into the danube.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt

it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.

              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
i stand on the central Warsaw train-station,
and there's this girl checking her
mobile interet, phone,
and she looks pretty...
and... i really don't want to **** her like
the guys **** her in ***** movies...
maybe that''s shy i'm considered
"effeminate"....
maybe...
                  i just didn't **** enough women...
or maybe...
i speak the tongue of the crusaders...
but we sent the artillery...
the beautiful women to the Arab
******...
            and kept the nation safe...
Islam, akin to the comparison
of the Bubonic Plague...
Islam... virus of the mind...
    i'll contest thi...
i'll ******* die for this...
i've been feeling weird for the past
few days....
Tom Petty died....
  so... why would anyone give
a **** if Wayne Static
does the coffer?
   so... i'm supposed to care?!
*******!
Jeff hanneman died...
but do you see me,
making a case for a ******* parade?!
no?
good... that's how i like it...
******* south London
plonker!
every single time...
i fall in love with a girl
at the central train-station in Warsaw...
the love dies a sudden death...
when i get to the....
Western train station of Warsaw...

  the Ukrainians et al...
the Mongols...
             love's up,
dead, long gone...
                         i'm basically living
the enterprise in re-experiencing
a slow death...
    feral lands...
  these Polacks are like...
please don't land in Warsaw....
i know...
Krakow has Auschwitz as a tourist
destination...
but... but...
you will not see the generic
schematic of globalization...

every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
and then i think of "it"...
****, marriage..
               no thanks,
you have it covered...
                                           on your way;

i might not be on the winning side,
but sure as ****,
i'm also not on the losing side either...
and t think...
that i could even concise my
life within the confines of
imitating my father...

   i could have...
                   but then... life...
isn't exactly a chance on bet within the confines
of a roulette.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.and i thought that only Metallica took back their mojo from the current musical oblivion... but it seems... the Prodigy did likewise with their new No Tourists album...

i'll be honest... English humor?
bewildering...
               just odd...
                      black satire,
or out-in-the-field plain heap of
ridicule...
        German? humor?
                       what? i thought
the Germans were pure logos
and absolutely no pathos...
   wait... oh... right...
schadenfreude... and irony...
but back east?
                 the Polacks have their
own version of humor...
it's primarily self-deprecating...
the older the ******,
the more they joke that Poland is
the Cinderella of Europe...
    what with the mild non-existent
hiccup due to democratic monarchism
of the aristocrats,
who... well...
   let's just they had their patron "saint"...
Konrad I of Masovia...
who... in attempts to conquer
the Prussians... invited the Teutonic Order
to aid him...
        and obviously the Teutonic
Order, outstayed their helpful hand
culminating in the battle of
Grunwald (which in the east is like
the battle of Hastings)...
yes yes, the dates...
  but Rome didn't make it to these lands...
i used to live about half an hour's
bicycle ride from a flint-stone
      mining community...
  sure... you can have your genesis monkey...
i have a flint-stone mining community...
now i get American humor...
    why?
                its pompous...
and there's nothing intelligent about it...
well...
  who the hell needs intelligent
comedy?
                      i don't want to think:
and then chuckle...
               i want to chuckle prior to
whatever impetus to think about
having laughed is left.

- and then the financial crisis begins,
in whatever year it was,
2007 or 2008...
       just like with the raiding heretical
Sunni Muslims who seem
to not understand the ideology of
jihad: a holy war,
yes... but to reclaim conquered lands
formerly in the possession
of Muslims...
this... this is the second tier of
expansionism, right?
but jihad is a type of warfare
to reclaim lost lands...
sorry... i'm not about to become
a clone...
    ah... wait a minute...
i figured how someone like
   Joel Osteen can speak so persuasively,
the whole point of his sophistry is...
well... just read one book...
and reread it like... countless times...
i must be scatter-brain by now,
reading the number of books i've read...
if i only read one book...
oh hell yeah... my confidence wouldn't
falter, not even once...
   i'd be like the equivalent
of a cardiologist: specializing in
all things heart related...
         point being...
the financial crisis didn't really
affect Poland...
    and this whole Hijab Party
central?
                             i might be a mere
citizen... but my heart is
entombed in the people...
            once criticism though...
  why the **** did you have to bury
leszko kaczyński on the Wawel Mount?
why not in Warsaw Wileńska,
where the presidents are buried...
hell... closer to the Belweder Palace
to boot...
       so... we're moving the capital
back to Krakow?
if i had the time, and money...
i'd seriously think about the noumenon
of how a certain part of Poland
was not affected by the bubonic plague
in 1347...
                 or Islam circa 2005.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
well... i know how you love to be made expectant with psychological premature ******* of ideas, other than banking, banana tweaking ****** the bendy part? i was asking the ****... is that Croatian **** in Korean? elevator blues, diarrhoea... welcome a suburb of Saul and we'll have Bangkok for jokes... did she just squint her eyes at me? hard to tell... squinting in Asia is like killing Jews in German occupied Poland, December in Krakow, is that snow or Auschwitz ash? see how poor the joke is, even with English black humour? Monty Python seems more like Benny Hill right now - i too love kids, preferred their limbs on toothpicks with Kentucky glace dip sauce... but you said: cheap Romanian, so i said: alright ******, you go back to the construction site, we'll send the Irish concrete layers home, we'll send the polish plumbers and the roofers home, we'll send the german installers of glass home...  how many office worker in this country would like to work in the outdoors? **** me, given facebook, instagram and twitter, gucci and the new **** of the fashion industry, revisionist capitalism and solo brands... um... about...  none;
they won't exit Europe, they're not as evolved as the Swiss or the Norwegians, sure they have the 0, 0 coordinates of Darwin, a starting point, but that doesn't mean they're Swiss or Norwegian -
well sorry, but that's how it stands, i'll be happy to send
the Romanians and the Bulgarians and the Poles home... can we dismantle the Shard while we're at it? it's not supposed
to be here... i don't blame the Russians feeding a father-role for
Putin, the anonymity of western democracy just gets to me,
i get ****** over by anonymous poker players, gamers, prior to computers we had a different sort of gamers, call them retards,
call them nerds, they're one and the same; they think they read
novels having recited maxims of the plot to perfect Italian choir of
an operatic - it really doesn't matter, i'll just bunch-up together
a few ******* to build me a castle like in the old days,
and it'll just be a sweet sixteen William IV in the Encyclopaedic enclosure of former economic dynamics of who boxed,
who rapped, who played basketball, who sprinted against Adolf,
while the natives lost the plot in zoological enclosures
and the hybrids invented souls to counter such
enclosing.
filed in
the most deviant chambers
of my memory bank
is a
summer of bliss
in a
breezy city
of blue lakes,
buxom blondes
and *****,
near the baltic sea

eva's skin-tight
****** white jeans
were the envy
of my roving eye

"hi"
she replied
to my
transparent thought

and I
bought her
a screwdriver
with a twist
of jive

we sat poolside
chatting about this
and that

and after the
5th *****
driver that is,
we both knew
'twas time for
some intercontinental
love-making

she was curious
and excited
to sample the coffee
in my african skin

and her talented
slavic tongue
stirred me gently
from
gdansk
all the way down
to krakow

I took eva
for a long
wild ride over
the serengeti
on my faithful thoroughbred
johnson

together
we climbed
the rugged hills of lust
to passion's prurient peak,
a blissful journey
that left us
gasping
breathlessly

we embraced
under a fountain of rapture
as words
hung dry
in our throats

we would wear them later...

~ P
(7/21/2013)
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i find nothing intelligent about philosophy,
if in were to prescribe a self-help book
i'd prescribe any philosophy book,
it would become mantra to: dumb-down.
fascinated as i am, dancing
pretending to drum, when there's
a sudden jolt and i sing hail! in the
vandal epice, i am fully intact as a
skeleton of an albatross - and stand in a shape
of ᛉ... zigfreid... jawolh...
    having spent 3 weeks in Poland,
in some obscure city gave me utter peace...
but hey, why not come back to England
and get a moral sun-tan of absolute
*******... why not dress up
  in post-colonial nuances, why not experience
post-colonialism?
         3 weeks without the internet
and i really, really did feel relief...
           i thought television is bad...
well, it is bad, if you have internet access...
but with the internet, comes the Belzeebub,
a swarm of words, of opinions that only lead
to a cul de sac of your own basis:
for not talking on a street corner, with a sign
dangling on your neck like a cowbell
reading: the end is near!
          i get it, it's a fetish, it's man claiming
the end will come when he'll obliterate gravity,
i''m cool with that, shindig and all the ponce
of an urban vocab...
   talk to me like a farmer though... please,
please, please do... i want to talk to a farmer...
i can't deal with this cool urban kids
and their microaggression and, whatever it is
they have stashed in their socks...
     because you really can't read a philosophy
book and care to be intelligent...
         i've read a few, and each time i return to
the most despotic creature i could ever wish
to be... the one that's perplexed that he
say something tangible, something worth
riddling... but nothing outside of
the arithmetic... of gluing i am dodo
therefore i'm extinct
...
     try to imagine living in a country without
a colonial past... i can, i just did, spent
3 weeks in Poland, and after having acquired
English, like the good, assimmilated foreigner
i am: i want to unlearn it...
   i'm dying to unlearn it... i ****** wish i didn't
speak it...
              it's too global for me...
    i speak it, but i don't want to speak it,
but then i invested over 20 years of my life in speaking
it, and thinking in it...
       i'd also like to see little england,
the england with its camper vans and it's yorkshire
terrier... but i am currently holding
an anchor on the periphery of London,
and boy, the drag is something, i am actually
enjoying this paralysis...
but you can't expect to read a philosophy and
get the idea that suddenly there's a theory
of relativity sleeping within you...
    read a philosophy book, learn to become an idiot...
    intelligence can't even stomach awe...
it always has to say something witty,
be something opportune, have a dinner party...
fake it...
           the idiot just looks at the world
and says: huh? it really is a chance to play the Frankenstein
monster... so many people, and they have so
much care to trade, sell apples, argue...
so much care to attain the ****** appeal,
to trim their hair...
   so much energy to trade, sell life insurance,
to argue...
               where do they get it from, that mana?
it can really be so welcoming,
to experience life in a non-colonial society,
    to be bored, to do nothing and simply be human...
now that's a first...
              to do nothing and simply be, human...
   me thinks that animals have it easy,
i wish i could have the digestive system of a koala
bear...
                to be a creature with a mono-facet
adaptability dynamic... well, a bi-facet adaptation
scenario... me, coordinates (0, 0), the thing
i want, coordinates (1, 1)... move!
     not me, i'm human, i have to go to the *******
cinema, i have to attend a funeral,
i have to do a, b, c, and all the way down through to z...
    evolution is cruel...
               this constant physical bombardment
with sensual teasing, and then being ****** anally by
some cognitive fudge phalllus...
    it's really become obsolete to even think,
there's no: think for the pleasure of mere thought...
now i'm waiting for a shepherd to
huddle me into a crowd in need of writing a book...
i really don't know how the natives
  deal with this, but if i were to suddenly speak my
native tongue i'd be better off, english is really
being stretched, so many bad, i mean really bad
accents... they only speak the english they speak
because english is a barren wasteland without any
diacritical marks... it's covert language,
puny secretive bollocking at the start,
and nothing else at the end...
    but it really is a headache knowing english
these days... it's doing my head in...
          i speak english and i'm already imaging
myself head-banging, or knocking down
the al-buraq - if you know Polish then you'll
just say: the beetroot.
                       and whatever the media tells you,
everyone in the trenches of society
actually adores Putin...
             it could be sad, but at least it's not so
flimsy and artsy after all...
   a society with clear indication that internet
megalomania is not permitted...
                  yes, i really am writing you a postcard
with a: wish you would go there...
     even with its Christian conservatism...
      it's actually bearable...
becuase, having 3 weeks there, and as i get older
(even though i'm only 30)...
  i find England: exhausting... literally
like dragging elephant testicles wherever i walk...
it's exhausting... England is exhausting...
   talking English is exhausting...
     this beacon of hope and freedom has become
a **** nugget, set alight on a toothpick...
     i've lived in England for so many years,
and have yet to taste the local delicacy... of an English
******... while a story emerges in Rotherham
about a ******* cartel... it begins to really break
your heart... there's you, ***-starved and
having the tendency to over-exaggerate a handshake
and there's the world...
     you can't really drink enough alcohol these days
to knock yourself out...
and i've been drinking, on and on, on and on... and on...
and it never stops being so depressing!
     there, my tongue is lose... it's a streaker on a
football pitch... running wild... giving it all
for the worth of simply: frenzy...
             but there's something very ancient about this
dynamic... the fact that these are the lands
once occupied by the romans...
sure, in Poland you use the Latin alphabet, but
the spaghetti maneli crew never threw their
pizza that far up north...
                          go to any country that doesn't
boast of a Roman heritage...
that's for starters...
                         if the place boasts about being
conquered by the romans...
                  you end up watching a funeral that
just won't go away... not how the latin alphabet
was best symbiotic with numbers due to the holes
and you can't code on a computer screen
with anything, but latin... try writing an app.
using arabic or hebrew...
it truly is a language based on: matchsticks made
in heaven...
                 just the areas where the romans didn't
settle... the "uncivilised" regions...
    it's enough that the Slavs probably had the equivalent
of runes... and a polytheism of some sort...
but all i see is: perfected exploitation of the latin
alphabet, and well, might as well forget the rest.
    now that's major digression...
      it's as if i'm trying to have a conversation,
  but then the claustrophobic tendency of narration
take off and i''m thrown into a Tartar army...
       entranced into singing allah'u akbar... instead
of reciting Rumi...
                    it is what it is,
and since England is a major player in world
affairs, there's nothing little about it, even
if you live in Dover...
                 yet there is a nation-state serenity somewhere,
where everything is truly small,
  truly content with very little, where it's not
gagging to advertise itself, to sell itself...
    perhaps Auschwitz is a blessing as a "tourist"
destination after all...
           come to think of it... people will be children
around the pyramids...
they'll climb a pyramid... make funny photographs
of the pyramids what afar, as if they were holding
it... can't see any funny photographs coming
from Auschwitz... people gearing up to
smoke a shisha in a gas chamber...
                       or climbing into one of the crematorium
ovens to replicate a Tokyo hotel "room",
maybe Auschwitz is the blessed deterent of globalisation?
it's a great question...
           while the Czechs import hen and stag parties
to their capital with cheep beer...
  no one from the west seems to feel the same
drunken bliss in Krakow... what with Auschwitz
so close...
               they'd rather drink with the Russian
separatists in Kiev!
                  and indeed, what the German rage left,
i wear it like a black diamond...
              a crow's croak...
so, does that mean i have to appeal to some
imaginative conquered-party appeal?
   that i let it all happen, while i pressed the snooze
button on my clock?
     i don't know... Poland is a bit odd, and coming
from there, it almost seems that i should be writing
about Moldavia.
              and blessed are those: firmly rooted in one
place, with neither care nor obligation
   to travel far...
                          lest they bring nothing but
scurvy, in hope of bringing the beacon of civilisation
  and only that, no olympic flame: but a plague.
England is a land of displaced people,
  and can't be anything other than:
i got ants in my pants and i'm going to sing the blues!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
My poems, where are they from?

Westerner.

An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation,
Customary identity association,
But not one that springs to mind,
When they inquire, as they do,
Hey man, tell us about your "self."

But there is no deniability,
At least three hundred years,
That my father was aware,
Europe to America,
Westward **, the seeds sown.

From the banks of the Lippe,
Ocean crossing to NYC,
From the Krakow Ghetto
To the shores of the
Manhattan Indian Reservation,
By the banks of the grandest river Hudson,
They journeyed, they sojourned,
Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest,
"Coming to America."

Yet out West,
I am an Easterner,
My hometown teams,
In the East Division,
And this schizophrenia
Is non-problematical.

But where are my poems from?

I have studied the time zones,.
The AM's and the PM's.
I know when I deliver this to you,
If the sun is rising or setting,
Whether to greet you with
नमस्कार or magandang umaga,
Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!"
Or an Insh'Allah...

But where are my poems from?

Bog of technical definitions,
Matters not, my poems have no
Passport to be stamped,
The Customs lines they cross are the
Customs of mine and yours.

The are both immigrant and emigre,
Experienced, well travelled, they familiar
With the right satellites to
Grace thy welcoming space.

Tap dance, recitations of evasions,
Answer the question man,
But where are my poems from?
You tell the when, the how but not the
Where.

We can't wait much longer,
The inbox heavy with homework,
Your poems to love, like and take.

Don't you see?
They, born in the West,
For lack of a better answer,
Clock and setting sun racers,
Surfing the Atlantic, Indian,
Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles,
Is just the course they take
When out my window sent.

But is that your answer,
Their path, to the single quest,
From the West, is that the best
Answer you can equivocate,
Where do they come from?

**No.
Obviously,
They come from you...
Created Oct. 24~25th, 2013
Watching Wallace Shawn expound, him, driving me crazy,
So on the streets of this my isle,
Look away, look to you,
Thinking about where
The poems I send,
Come from...

Original title was born in the West, they rise in the East.

But that was wrong.
They love the names of your towns and nations,
Where they go,
But there is no country where they
Come from.
How about that Polish guy:
Karol Jozef Wojtyla!
AKA Pope John Paul II,
Previously, a Cardinal,
The Archbishop of Krakow . . .
A tough cookie; in 1941
His mother, father, and brother
All died, leaving him the family's
Sole survivor.
Worked in a quarry,
Later a chemical factory,
Enrolled at a university,
Closed by the Nazis during WWII.
Ordained as a priest in 1946.
Holding 2 doctorates, Professor of
Moral Theology & Social ethics;
A powerful preacher,
A great intellect with vast charisma,
Working as a Catholic priest in
Communist Eastern Europe,
He was often asked
If he feared retribution from
Communist leaders? He replied:
“I’m not afraid of them.
They are afraid of me.”


Sounds like a scary guy?
Pope John Paul II,
The name he chose--
Tipping his yarmulke
To Lennon & McCartney,
For “Hey Jude,” no doubt,
Patron Saint of lost causes &
Desperate cases--
History’s most well traveled pope,
With that signature bit,
Coming off trans-oceanic airplanes,
Cutely kissing the ground.
First non-Italian Pope
Since the 16th century.
A strong stoneworker’s body, &
Knowledge of chemistry,
When Pope John Paul I--
Another Beatles fan—died in 1978,
After only a 34-day reign,
Few suspected Wojtyla.
White smoke (fumata bianca)
Announcing a new pope,
Chosen on the 7th round of balloting,
The first-ever Slavic pope,
The youngest pope in 132 years,
Yet conservative, a Papacy marked by
Firm, unwavering opposition to
Communism & war,
Abortion & contraception,
Capital punishment, & homosexual ***,
Coming out later against
Euthanasia.
Human cloning, &
Stem-cell research.
But, hey, you had to love him.
Took a bullet, famously in St. Peter’s Square,
By would-be assassin &
Double ***-*******,
Turkish political extremist named
Mehmet Ali Acqa,
A Muslim, later a Catholic-convert,
An early skirmish in 21st Century
Anti-Islamic Crusades.

Our Polish Pope John Paul II,
Died, succeeded in 2005 by
Our German Pope, Herr Ratzinger,
Calling himself Benedict XVI,
After The King of Pop,
Michael Jackson’s favorite rat,
Benny began the beguine—
Beatifying John Paul II,
During his first year on the job.
Later, acting as if
The Papacy was actually, just a job,
Does the unheard of:  RESIGNS,
Rather than die in office.
Rather like Nixon,
*N'est–ce pas?
Qualyxian Quest Nov 2021
I'm not an academic
I just write some poems
Sadness in the morning
Burning firelight

Sleep perchance to dream
Staunton aglow in snow
The Matrix comes at Christmas
Krakow would delight

          Red pill. Mystic flight.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
my mother got frisky with the publisher,
she danced latino
without a care, and gave her first interview
for my hometown newspaper...
the intro to my flashback of being 8 and leaving,
with inflation and with pepsi cola glass bottles
and spending most of my childhood
outside and not before a nitendo screen
shooting ducks...
picking up a ***** mag from the church being built,
chasing petted dogs near the gombrowicz river,
going into the forest and wiping my ***
with a leaf... when writing make some place
small big, bigger than you could have ever imagined...
make it bigger than you ever considered 6ft1
to be when aged 9...

i'm about to publish an entrée for the literati elite
with a fresh off the causeway book,
i became an ex-pat not being caribbean enough
who forgot their tongue and became encrusted
for the easiest integration of migrant tactics,
i forgot my slave tongue voodoo
and decided upon sunny english...
no problem then...
but with me i had too much history, too much pride,
my mother flies in to see her parents via warsaw...
i take it to be krakow originally...
i can integrate but you tell me to forget my tongue
i'll call you racist with linguistics... never, never!

e.g.?
w ramach swej kultury
zachód broni
w ramach swej kultury, zachód:
jak niby władza na wschodzie
jest prawdą taka sama:
władza broni go i dusi kulture,
no tak, zachód swym kabaretem i
płodnią rodzi nowego księdza,
a na zachodzie nowego komika -
który stanie mu na opór by żyd
nigdy nie mógł skorzystać -
mesjasz mojej dupy warunkiem
ten mesjasz prostata więzi podatku i ryb...
zachód karmi kulture która śmiechem
go wklucza, wschód jednak broni go
i karmi kulture głodem - jak ***** riot -
wschodem zachować święte jest
tłumaczone z zachodem jako święte nie piękne...
jak więc zachód karmi swą kulture na wschodowi...
igrek nad każdą kropke na konieć sentencji...
ja ameryka ja anglikaniń...
ale tak szczerze? chrystus ma lepszą muzyke
niż mojszerz czy też muhammad...
pieć razy la illah ila allah co dzień czy też
judasza sha shtill! pierw nad bach'a, beethoven'a
czy też mozart'a? nie wydaje mi sie.
bo i tak powiem krzywe słowo przeciwko jemu
jako niby tact dialektyki racji,
to nawet wtedy krzyż nadal będzie kwitł
prosto... czy nawet stanie się płonącym...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
always back in
a monochromatic society,
twice a year...
   a nausea -
    of only interacting with whites
akin to myself...
most people will not understand
the nausea...
   and there is a nausea -
within these anti-major
cosmopolitan hotspots...
but the nausea passes...
   but in terms of a personal
psychology?
  i lose something...
   a game a learned integrating
into english society...
the... chameleon game...
   i never have that
in Poland, i'm back to square
one, generic,
like the rest of them...
       i prefer the English
multi cultural society for
personal, "selfish" reasons...
namely?
i can play the chameleon game...
i can speak two tongues
and four accents,
   reserving a fifth for
some Muslim who thinks
i have the ****** features
of a German...
       back home i'm just
a Pole among Poles...
      nothing that couldn't
be conceived as lack-luster...
back in England?
ah nay.. not exotica for
the women...
             i prefer the chameleon
game...
as it turns out...
not all immigrants huddle...
at least not all Polacks huddle
together in... communities...
communities of workforce?
sure... Poles coexist together
only in work environments...
socially?
    like a ******* dog & cat...
i don't know any Poles in terms
of community,
  or social interaction...
      no chance in hell...
never will...
   which shows...
when i travel back to Poland
to visit my grandparents...
**** me the nausea of being
an ant in an anthill...
      i once landed in Krakow
and fooled around
by pretending to not speak
the native tongue...
only interacting in English...
i felt sick...
            how?
   i eased out an ear of
compassion and spoke to her
when she approached me
talking about how her son
hanged himself and she needed
money...
   and there was this
immigrant Anglo with
a Polish girlfriend,
and some Miroslav with a
broken French accent who
emigrated to France and
forgot to speak the native tongue...
and the girl of the "expat"
was like: huh?!
    England is unique in that respect...
well...
not England...
   London... and London
is not England...
    England is not London
and Londoners were never merely
Cockneys...
last time i heard?
Jackie the Ripe-Piper
was probably a Jewish Pollack...
    i was born in a small torn
just shy of Masovia -
every, single, time,
the monochromatic nausea
of only seeing white people...
i guess... it must be the same
for a Nigerian who grew up
in England and gets to visit his
grandparents back, "home"...
women are different,
i'm talking about males...

           then again... ****...
a Nigerian can't exactly perfect
the chameleon game...
i've been Hungarian,
Swedish, but mostly German...
never a Pollack...

            back "home" you miss
the ethnicity roulette...
    i can understand the ultra-nationalism
of small towns of nations...
but i can also understand
the ultra-cosmopolitanism of
capital cities of post-nationalistic
states...

come to think of it...
    i'm only comfortable in East London...
west London is off-limits for
comfort, again,
equivalent to the monochromatic
nausea bound to urban Poland -
the tourists sticking out
like birch trees in a ******* pine
forest...

      it's all contradictory -
rural - small urban strongholds...
where people recognize you
via recognizing your grandparents
and your grandparents fill
the locals in...
   no problem...
   traveling through Warsaw?
a ******* gutting sensation
like some variant of William
Wallace being executed...
   Mongols, Ukrainians, Roma...
    the odd Lithuanian...

it's the nausea of the effect of
a revived commonwealth once seemingly
lost...
    unlike the British commonwealth
slowly disintegrating into
farce and: keeping up appearance...
pomp & circumstance
having replaced pride & prejudice...

i can walk down a shady East End
street and talk...
            and feel nothing but
a welcoming thrill of contempt...
   strap me to a crowded place in the center
of Warsaw...
and i'm disorientated,
like a fox in daylight...
                   wildly afraid...
all the time on my guard...

  and i'm! "supposedly" the native...
   merely having inherited
the language is no guard...
      i might speak "their" language...
but when it comes
to the several underlying
languages of human interaction?
****... i can walk down
some shady alley
of Whitechapel -
                           i've learned it from...
i guess...
that one time me and my three
friends were robbed
in South Park, Seven Kings...
two girls as bait...
and then 10 of them approached...
started kicking my crying
friend to the ground...
some **** about me asking
for my walkman back off of him
while he was getting kicked...

whatever it was...
   there are actually more languages
than the mere communicative
of a Fwench class of buying
groceries...
   there is the language that
extends into the surroundings...
   the sort of language
that allows you to visit a Goodmayes
brothel
and leave it
telling the girl:
   can i not shower,
so i can keep your skin's
perfume for a while longer?

  there is no chameleon game
when i visit Poland,
i don't visit Poland,
  i visit the dutiful grandson who
still has grandparents...
and that?
is the most boring game of chameleon...
i stop drinking, enforce
a self-styled rehab...
   read a book, watch Polish t.v.
befitting pensioners...
   sunrise... sunset...
   and give my grandmother
a holiday from cooking for
a dementia sufferer...

  but back in London...
              a parade of over 280+
languages... making the mold
in the shadows of off-limits Mayfair
and other, politico, ******-pots
of riches,
exhausted by the Sheiks
   and Mandarin Emperors
                 of the Lapis-Lazuli.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i can easily counter a poem such as this one, apparently some sort of national identity is no permitted, in the great bleaching project that's globalisation... all the old sages of poland speak of the youth being greatly disgruntled with globalisation: it's just a farce of noun-censorship and pure pronoun usage, it's almost the stone ages i might add: flint + flint + quick strike the two = fire... or? if it's in english it's permitted, anything else isn't... but i woke with a memory of a dream today... i was on a train... donning a black SS uniform... i'd swear god (atheistically worded version: freud's interpretation of dreams / having an ******* while sleeping) is the worst chinese whisperer, because he tells the truth via dreams... and i was on the train moving large slabs of cold stone about the place, and then curling into a foetal position to sleep; i guess being misunderstood is an asset; but i did mention my paternal great-grandfather owned a wehrmacht dagger, so there.

seems rude to make friends and then disregard them,
poland lodged between the great powers
of russia and prussia and austria,
aiding austria against the ottoman turks
in the battle for vienna, then partitioned,
but none more painful pairing to have
some nation far away heed to help
like england's engagement in aiding poland
in the events of world war ii...
i guess the poles to the anglians are bumper
stickers or at least shock-wave inhibitors of
england's colonialism...
well at least the french and napoleon foremost
gave us the duchy of warsaw, disintegrated
into the free-city state of Krakow like Danzig...
at leas the french didn't introduce a doctrine
into the expressions of middle-classes
that all poles were labourers in the plumbing industry,
what ******* cheek the english have,
it's like i'm bleached ****** clearing pipes
rather than harvesting cotton fields,
what ******* cheek they have...
i'd slice off their upper lip, because it's stiff useless
anyway... and ask them all to grow moustaches
to cover the scar...
what ******* chequer cheek they have to checkmate
me before the first pawn moves...
if you're going to make friends with the ties
of the 2nd world war, the polish r.a.f. pilots
engraved noble in a marble placard in st. paul's
cathedral... at least you'd care to appreciate
the epic novel *(porcelain) doll
by B O L E S Ł (W) A W (V)
P R U S.... P R U ß! don't make friends with me
to ease the post-colonial pains, the french didn't,
they gave us a state-freedom,
they didn't suddenly say: come over, do the hard
labour while we procrastinate in glass shards
and gobble gobble talk like turkeys like the current
london mayor of london talk...
the english have a knack of entering a place
and promote democracy always buckling with
every venture, the greeks didn't...
as the current iraqis and syrians say:
oi! gob slobbering ginger bulldog! sing us a song!
you're the best singers in the world... but we dare say...
the most idiotic politicians...
the english politicians always have this in reserve...
you know, when confronted, they do this
funny expression... wholeheartedly intelligent people
when confronted, given the situation of being interview
about some affair, faces like the judas rats
jumping from a sinking ship... they have the maxim:
do the stupid face / pull the stupid face...
that translates as 'my hand isn't in the cookie jar',
they come in, **** it up, draw a few triangles
which makes the geometry of iraq and syria look
as ugly as wyoming... and then leave...
but you know syria is the nevada of the east...
so instead they're selling you peanut butter or lamb shanks...
don't bother listening to their politics...
since their politics is still primarily about aesthetics,
a list of priorities:
1. hedgehogs
2. wind farms
3. suicide among kids
4. the dark ages of cartesian obeluses
    (which end up as multipliers in psychiatric
     definition, splinters of the body from the mind -
     the abstract of the definition of the brain -
     leave many with a rainbow of psychiatric nouns
     and in carnal terms, an allergy to peanuts, for example)
5. censoring historical education,
    more roman empire, less british empire
6. lager, crisps in a bun, fish and chips
    all in all, debased nationalism,
    as you'd expect, after the glories of the empire,
    debased nationalism throughout...
    putting fish & chips next to the big ben
    and the queen's jewels...
7. the lost industries of jaguar and rolls royce.
but coming back to british politics, i'm still all very much
chow mein chuckles with doughnut oily sheen cheeks of
davey cancan mormon.
Hear

Bozhidar Pangelov&Vania; Konstantinova/In Memoriam/

Under the Coat of Arms

In Malta, in the ancient walls
is beating the sea so salty.
Somewhere behind,
distant,
hidden
are shining through southern almonds.
There is no moon.
The light is illuming
herself
in the pearl of your eyes.
Harmonious.
Without gunshots
of the squadrons by Lepanto.
The falcons on the coat of arms fall asleep,
never wanted,
in honor
and dignity.

Vania Konstantinova

Behind the Gates

Behind the gates
of Mdina I hide you,
far of any nemesis,
of foam and stretched sails.
Behind the towers of the castle.
In the most inner yard.
Under the spurts of the cascade,
more precious than silver.
Here they see only
the eyes of the peacocks,
whisked their tails
for cooling.
Keepers of the secret
with their tongues wrested.
And when your brush sculptures
the bracelet around my ankle,
reflected in Venetian mirror
like a trap –
I forget who you are and the sin
with head chopped off,
I forget about the death …



Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Bryan Dahl Feb 2014
I’ve always felt it’s a copout
To say there just aren’t words-
The words are never too far away,
But don’t they take their sweet time
Coming home.
If words could talk they’d often say-
Don’t wait up.

I’d like to think I have many friends in words,
But then I remember every time **** went down,
And ****! they skipped town.
I wonder where they are now,
Since my friend,
(insert here your beautiful name)...

I knew him well enough to know
There just aren’t words right now.

He just-
Killed himself.
He did- just **** himself- didn’t he.
Quietly excused himself from this life,
Committed to his side of paradise.

Keep repeating any set of words-
Eventually they’ll mean nothing.

I can’t say, of all the brilliant minds I’ve met,
Any words to do justice to his.
Because my words, whenever they decide to come around,
Will only layer so much saccharine frosting
On the fun fact that he just knew
Everything there was to know about everything.

I can say, I had, a friend
Who was on Jeopardy,
Who always managed to make me realize
How little I knew about everything,
And make me smile the whole time.
What more could you ask for?

Goddamit, you ******* brilliant coward *******.
I’m writing a poem about the fallacy of words
Instead of talking with you.
Because I knew you drank,
I knew you raged and resigned so many nights.
But didn’t I have my head further up my ***
The more I knew you were suffering.

I could never remember a friend
Getting me thrown out of a club in Prague,
Wandering with me through snow-covered Krakow
Searching for Schindler’s factory-
None of it- with more endearment now.

But, right now, I don’t care to remember
Any such endearing moments.
Because you took off and all the good words followed.
So to you, my dear friend, with all my love and regrets-
Here’s a drink, rage, and resignation,
Should you want it that way.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
well..
                                                  with the English
being so: oh so
                        ******* welcoming
i'd rather be remembered
                                              as a full-throttle
                      wanking rather than
a raving-ape's worth
of ᛈ ᛁ < ᛏ ᛋ (kap c! kap c!
                Cierkiev uno bud!
i uno buda!
                                                        Rrrrrr'am!
                serpentine's clue)
   Chernobyl charcoal,
or as some like to keep the
entertainment checks:
             a loss...
the famous Krakow smog...
                          leftover chimneys
to blame...
                            i don't
need a paddy to teach me how to
behave among the Anglo...
                             the Anglo who
lost his way among Germans and the Norse...
                 when the Russian Empire fell...
because one cousin said to another cousin
cussing: to hell with you!
                                    i don't need
a paddy for that...
   the paddy can play chequers and
river-dance till the nymphs come home...
sure, the paddy can do that...
           on arable land the paddy can what
the paddy must... mustard tatties...
             believably edible...
                                you know,
every man has his limits...
             my limit was agitated,
the paddy ate k.f.c.,
          and i too said to him:
               well, it's a two way street...
               you empathise with me
i'll empathise with you...
      you don't empathise with me
                     i'll see you in the sewer
and call it: the rats' livelihood worth of nibbling
     a narrative of the black death
worth a Madam Tussaud's examination
for worth of anaesthetic... torturing wax...
                  of all the islander tribes,
the Welsh are docile, the Scots
are: who invented copper wire?
to Scotsmen arguing and pulling a copper
two pence coin apart,
                      North Irish is Yates -
    "south" or republican is
              Joyce in Paris... Dublin
        and the thought of dungarees...
                      why the **** did i ever become
    involved with these cousins conjuring
        fake birth certificates?! why?!
i don't belong here... my motto still stands:
          among the Faroe Islanders
and the Orca slaughter for the red sea!
              the English were humbled in Germany
and never to be seen in Sweden...
     with Germanic roots...
the English are an embarrassment in
Scandinavia...
                        better sun-tanned propped
in Iberia...
                            or the call:
Hindenburg! Hindenburg! Blitz! Blitz!
  drink till you fiddle with your ****!
               up d'er balcony and
         somersault like a whale in a belly-flop
pose into the swimming pool! ploooooop!
belly splash and the beetroot suntan pinch
                      of cancer (zodiac alias of crab);
forever brother v. brother,
               as ever... a civil war...
               i actually celebrate the
unwelcoming nature of the English...
                    because i know they're
what the Turks say of Saxons: pseudo...
           the English can be English in Iberia
and what the Greeks say to be:
a reason to think...
                                  but if ever they were
found in Scandinavia
                                 they'd be frowned at...
mind you the Americans are worse...
                      they deem it necessary
                    to talk of conquest to invoke jealousy -
               i'm as jealous as you are
readied to rear these *******...
                                     but since you're not...
i don't know why i need to know what
                      cubicle *** is like...
                                     i don't see the point...
          my narrative is complimentary
   to what most people shouldn't say
                          but feel obliged to do...
but since they talk about it... i'm writing an answer
to what they're supposedly not supposed to do...
         otherwise, why talk about it?
my ex-girlfriend's favourite motto? good for you!,
well, it's exactly the same...
            why do it, then speak of it,
why not just do it and keep it shut?
                               unless you're looking
for a confession booth and a priest...
i wouldn't be looking for a madman
                and jealousy... to be honest:
what could become: 20 hail Mary's penance,
could easily become 20 stab wounds to the throat;
                              just saying.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
or find a way to hush punk:
to find punk reflective:
   akin to
                   ♫ above a              u
     with the                       ü
             rather than a pure
command of reflex          
                 or the echoes of forgotten
Europe, in Europe, while
the western powers took
to nautical re-definitions of
what's called access -
                         long they peered into
the h.i.v. **** of Africa when they
became startled by the laboured
brows of forgotten Europe
     (east of Germany)
             and the evolved Europe
(north of Hadrian's concern) -
and         what the French, Spaniards
and English fear most:
                 Cyrillic hordes as my
grandfather remembers the Red Army:
                teenagers sleeping in barns
with goats... not like the sharp-dressed
black-clad SS-men who gave toffee that glued
fingers together...
                 no one mentions the infamous
Krakow smog as they mention the London smog:
difference apparent: crematoriums' whiff down
the drain of history... survivors: Ovid,
Dante... some other poor sod... labouring
within himself the year 0...
                    but how many years
have passed until that crucible: the year
of denial would be discovered?
                     je suis non zeus...
but i guess a woman was always to be a
numbed sexuality... that envisioning
of a deer giving birth engulfed a woman in
having ***...
                         and then sorta oh oh oh,
mow the lawn...
                                    western Europe is
really deluded about its primordial quest
for 1st placed: existentially...
it's comparatively deranged to the rest
of Europe... all romanticism in its ability
to grasp it has died... hence the need to
keep up appearances...
                                honestly, it's completely
deranged. i called English society it already:
an asylum...
                        hence the Calais jungle....
                 it quiet literally is what the former
colonial nations think it is,
                                 but it's not...
i don't know why the Jews congregated in
what was once the example of Commonwealth...
        but no Irish will feel superior to me
faking being English... i leave the scouting
of honour among the Scots and the joke
about inventing copper wire...
                                2 pence stretchmarks
when a. invited b. to dinner...
                                               well,
if the king of Kenya can sell his ******* cousins
i am not willing to sell my identity to fill gaps...
just so a white girl can practice
                         repressive aggression to write
masochistic / moralistic poetry and edge toward
feeling superior, but actually not being
            any more superior than a skunk
                              in a Parisian perfumery...
i too thought the idea was:
                             to make a scent most potent.
                  the most piquant form of morality,
that doesn't translate into Germany,
  Polish, Lithuanian, Scandinavian or Serb...
                     but is currently ruling our concept
of socially-cohesive undermining of future study
in anthropology that's to resemble society: a tale
of the 22nd century and still waiting for the l.s.d. trip
of the crucifix.
                            so too the love long gone...
                to me... Zionism (Eva) became married
to ****** (Adolf) to end colonial-capitalism...
                                        it ended...
           but what was once the norm of the monochromatic
became false...
                              we needed soul-bleach
and soul-bleach is what we got...
                                                you can take any
east London black guy to Africa
and he'll feel as much out of place as someone
who's white...
                             as some say:
in writing, talk of colour is least pardonable,
or at least approachable,
             or at least: the least juggled.
my canvas is being called vermin -
                            it's a great canvas to work from...
               tank-a-rhino-rune;
you learn to twist swastikas like you learn
             to twist the star of David.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
winter ist kommen.

you know what nickname i have among those
that know me well enough? oddly enough it's *Dracula
-
my body-clock changed into a nocturnal
creature, while those around me
basked in the sun, i revelled in the moon -
some would claim this to be mere cliche,
and i'd agree with them -
burying a President on the Mount of Kings
in Krakow was a step short and 12 inches
below Napoleon's hope for the Duchy of Warsaw -
perfected xenophobia, once the economic ants
enter the Irish are ****-out-dry and starved in
a potato famine on Titanic with Big BIG dreams of
U.S.A., they only came back to England as the I.R.A.
they really fear the economic migrants -
a Chinese invasion less spectacular than than
the Mongolian invasion and everyone is still
calmly brewing tea... the 5 o'clock shadow, or simply:
brew keeps company of whisperers.
i don't know why the ******* nickname,
at university i was nicknamed banana because
one time, at band camp, i wore a Velvet Underground
t-shirt, and another time, at band camp
i was either goldilocks because of my long hair
or the french braid donned - also known as the hippy for
eating Sharon fruit and pomegranates -
i'm not Morrissey adventurous with **** SCHOOL
rather than Johnny **** THE POLICE -
i kinda liked it - seeing teachers get dissected by
younger generations - why all this negativity surrounding school
fuelling pop music? you played Final Fantasy VII,
exchanged Pokemon cards? no? then what's your *******
problem?
that isn't the point, the point is:
why are Maine **** cats not recognised as the sop buddies
of lore? i swear you to the grave as keeping this fact intact,
Maine ***** are like Bloodhounds - no
matter how many treats you give them, they play sentinels
of the moon with you all they want is company,
they ******* meow meow at your door -
you end up putting on Handel, cushioning them in your
arms on the windowsill listening to, what i would say to
be: if i had children, i'd speak to them in german:
fuchsgesang - wide-eyed diabolical pupils with
a tear from my eye drooping into their crystals -
Maine ***** are the feline equivalent of the bloodhound
canines - they get depressed easily - no matter how many
treat your give them, they still want to be nurtured,
wrapped in diapers of your arms - Ginger Russ weighs in
at 9 kilograms... try keeping him on your arms before
the northern hyenas start cackling simultaneously with
Handel playing in the background.
Maine **** (canine equivalent) = Bloodhound (feline equivalent).
keep him sniffing fresh air and in good company...
the ****** goes to sleep like Speedy Gonzales...
once upon a time... thump... the cat's asleep.
if i'd ever have children i'd wish to speak german to them
for the first time... no other tongue would be given access...
the second Elizabethan Era has ended promptly -
as was its due course - now the degeneracy appears
where art once blossomed...
we're waiting for the Autumn of the second Elizabethan Era...
with winter, new sprouts anticipated... Charles?
oh Charles? please! be the usher impromptu:
beheaded, never built Versailles, killed his wife...
hey! you heard it from a rat, this was written in a sewer,
**** knows what happens in Kensington Palace...
journalism? probably, since around here
all that happens is an obituary.... if you're lucky! ha ha!
otherwise someone else including you toward
an epitaph engraved, most notably: 1974 World Cup -
West-Germany Wins - auf wiedersehen - pronounced:
auf veedersen pet - Liverpool roofers in Munich - yet
everyone knows that all roofers came from Scootlaund.
when philosophy becomes systematic (i.e. wheel rolling
thanks to a limited vocabulary) it does become a thing-in-itself,
that cheats by discussing a thing-in-itself within
its systematisation akin to a thing-in-itself, basically
it cannot find chiral-divergence, or a schizophrenic
to put in a ~mild metaphor - when philosophers systematise
they treat no daily oddities - they encapsulate everyday oddities
with: ground control to Major Tom... ground control to
Major Tom... priority via imagery: forget the bow-tie events
and the fully prim suit buttoned tight - being systematic in
philosophy is not about being dishonest,
it's more about being counter-observant - all the little details
are missing; which is, to be honest, permitted -
if you base your inquiry on all things omni- related,
forget that a Jew would ony write mn and hide the o and i...
too numerous the qualities, but only one accepted tetragrammaton
(square of letters - i.e. not fact, not tool, not hide... but yhwh)...
systematic expression in philosophy, means, outside of it,
missing the daily details that provide the necessary
conjuring of rainbows from water hoses when
watering the flowers in a garden - write systematically
and you **** the particular flavours of the day,
ensuring the sky doesn't all on your head tomorrow
by saying: a priori: the sun too, today, tomorrow, everyday.
reading Kant after watching a ballet made me rethink
my coercion of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche is just too reactionary -
if Kierkegaard took up theatre, i might as well take up
ballet - or any other musically intoxicating form to stage
my coup.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jun 2022
LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 12


Jon was thinking of Mietek as he and Bian were flying back to Boston from Lima, Peru. Bian, beside him, was asleep.

It was on a Saturday morning in early spring that Jon, then an Upper-Middler at Andover, decided to walk to the Andover Bookstore at 74 Main Street. He wanted to purchase THE AGE OF REASON BEGINS, Volume VII of the eleven volumes that constituted THE STORY OF CIVILIZATION written by Will and Ariel Durant from 1935 to 1975. It was a beautiful day, Jon remembered, a perfect day to go on a walk.

When he entered the bookstore, Jon asked the manger where he might find the book he wanted to buy. The manager told him he could find it down aisle Three halfway down on the right side. Jon thanked the manager, then found aisle Three, turned left, and walked down the aisle until he found the book he wanted. He pulled the book from the shelf and began perusing it.

Several minutes after Jon began reading, a man came down the same aisle and stopped about three feet to his right and began, as Jon had done, perusing a book he had pulled from the same shelf. Several minutes went by before the man said, “Excuse me, may I introduce myself? My name is Mietek.”

Jon was a bit startled, but nonetheless he responded. “My name is Jon. Nice to meet you, Mietek.”

Then ensued what turned out to be a long conversation between the two. Mietek was from Krakow, Poland and had been in the United States for about three months he told Jon and was in his mid-thirties. Mietek seemed like a cordial fellow, Jon thought, and continued to converse with him. Mietek had begun his tour of America. He had heard of Andover, as well as Exeter, and wanted to see the former, the oldest prep school (1776) in the United States. The two talked of many things. Finally, after a pause, Mietek asked Jon, “Jon, I’d like to stare into your eyes.”

“What?” Jon said.

“I’d like to stare into your eyes to read the tapes that will tell your future,” said Mietek.

“Tapes?” asked Jon quiizzically.

“Yes” replied Mietek. "Everyone has tapes in his eyes that tell that person’s future, but very few can see and read them. Obviously, I’m one of them.”

Jon paused more than a moment, then said to Mietek, “OK, let’s do it.”

Mietek had Jon stand directly in front him and asked him to open his eyes widely. When Jon complied, Mietek began staring into his eyes. Mietek stared into Jon’s eyes for several minutes, then stopped.

“You can relax now. I’d like to share with you what I saw,” said Mietek.

“Sure, Mietek, I’d like to know what you saw,” said Jon eagerly.

“I saw joy, Jon” said Mietek. "The rest of your life will be full of joy.”

Jon was dumbfounded. He could not say a word. Finally, he said, “Joy? My life will be full of joy?

“Yes, Jon, that’s right,” said Mietek.

The two stood facing each other in silence for several minutes. Then Mietek told Jon had to go and slowly walked out of the Andover Bookstore.


Jon came out out of his reverie and looked at Bian. She was still asleep.

“Jesus, I think Mietek was right. Ever since I first saw Bian, my life has been full of joy,” Jon thought to himself. “Joy, pure joy!”

The rest of November and early December were full of much research, comparing each other’s thoughts and ideas, and the building excitement as the two anticipated the beginning of their two-year trip around the world.

Cape Cod was now cold, but the hearts of Bian and Jon were increasingly warm.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
it's become truly: self-evident...
why i haven't been able to write as i once did...
it's hardly a hiatus - or a writer's block...
it could be any of the cheap-thrills
of custard-brain and fudge-thinking...

but... i'm more or less... celebrating...
   a celebration: me celebrating:
me having to recalibrate lost details
of... the persuasive life:
it doesn't matter how little you do...
as long as the little that you do:
is the good...
              for example:
i'm not a big fan of self-help books...
jordan b. peterson
is hardly the sort of psychological
literature i'd venture to find...
r. d. laing: the divided self...
william james...
    jung: western man in search for
soul...
   julian jaynes: the origin of consciousness
in the breakdown of the bicemeral mind...
the anatomy of madness ed.
by w. f. bynum, roy porter and michael
shepherd - tavistock publications:
1985 first edition: cheap... at teasing
30 quid...

  rule 12: pet a cat... when you see one...
sorry... that can't be a rule...
oh today... today was just one of those...
american beauty: sam mendes is dead
sort of days...
  the air was cool in the evening...
it still felt like spring...
and i was walking back with a bottle
of scotch and some pepsi cola grenades...
and this ginger and white did
dance with me...
in view of traffic... clockwise: decently
understand in english terms...
but then he changed "lane" on
the pavement... so i changed...
then he changed... "lane" and i did too...
and we met up at a point when
he knew the "stalker" and i knew my:
forgot to bring a leash...
just my smelly fingers from...
just having roasted some pork ****
on the barbie (bbq) to a proper...
tender and juicy...
            yeah... i "petted" the cat...
more like: ****** felt it was necessary
to make me... obliged... to pet him-her...
mouth agape: snorkling / purring...
tease of the nose... grap of the tail...
stroke of the spine... sniff of my fingers...
but... rules for life...
                        it's not a given...
to pet a cat...
                  it can't be made into a command
that you should: when... chances are...
you won't be able to... not every cat
is a gambling addict: gambling on...
universal trust...

           i guess i felt right and the cat knew it...
i have two alternative rules...
but they would be deemed heresy...
one about attempting to pet a fox...
and a one about... sticking your hand
in front of a rabid dog let loose off his leash
chasing a more tame: yorkshire terrier
cowering under the bench i was sitting on
drinking beer...
with the free hand holding the terrier's
collar... and outstretching my hand
for the rabid dog to attempt to bite...
two conflicting parties came...
the owners of the yorkshire terrier...
thanking me for keeping the poor shuckles
in safety... a girl and a boy... zenith: 12...
18 for the both of them...
and the owners of the rabid tongue...
an almost feral family...
       i still have my arm and...
                       so sorry from the mother...
and her daughter...
with a straw in her mouth...
going to strut along like some illuminated
buddha: so... that's how you do it?
yeah... if it's not a hand on the iron...
or into the fire...
chances are... hand into ice...
or... between the affair of two dogs...
outstretched hand and a choice of 5 sausages
to bite off...
i don't like to gamble... unless it's with
my limbs...
or my life...
                  i enjoy money for the authenticity
of a transacation...
prostitutes in a brothel...
supermarket cashiers: the whiskey...
  i will pretend to not have...
when i buy a jazz vinyl...
      i wouldn't pay for...
people go to restaurants to talk... hardly places
to eat...
   well... good! i like to cook my own
food... and i don't like to talk
when eating it...
                     i like to know i have my hands
cleaned and the food is also readied
for cooking: clean...
i have a distrust for restaurants...
and for people... who'd want to talk
******* when they should be eating...
sorry: simon says olvier wants more...
plus... all those riddles of... complaints...
when someone paid to cook...
can't get a well-done or a decently rare:
bleu stake out...
                           what's the point?
a look of dis-satisfaction works so much
better: when it's no worded: Karen towing...
via... ******* a lemon and doing
the cooking yourself...
not that... shopping will open any time soon...
new clothes?
   for clothes you'd require to have arenas
to be seen in them...
yeah...             slow burner...
chew and choke on coal before you see
         a bonfire from that cul de sac of events!

     - it's a... william styron account in reverse...
well... he noted: he only wrote when sober...
or having a hangover...
and he reserved drinking to listening to music...
and then... melancholy creeped up on him...
romance of melancholy: depression...
michel de montaigne would tell more...
probably cite you a horace or an ovid...
while he was in a slump...
and if: the gods would provide...
snap his fingers and his quill... and spark
a joke of crown prince of terse:
a dead-end of rhetoric: a ridicule...

       a one most prized... self-deprecating
ridicule of the whole situation:
or none of it...
   to have quit smoking...
      i don't want to write because...
               i have quit smoking...
to have quit: yeah... when you see the remnants
of former you: smoking while walking...
smoking when waiting for a bus
at a bus stop...
   smoking when standing outside of a pub...
smoking when you might as well have been
eating a carrot: or a stalk of celery...
or chewing a gum...

whatever happened in the 20th century
for the benefit of man and the intellect of man...
and... what has become:
most probably... very ****** ***...
            nothing new: very ****** ***...
no ***: is better than: very ****** ***...
              the  neu-nein-neu regel...
  interlude between... shaking a glass:
look of inquiry: refill...
         and... jumping backwards and forwards...
the illusion of deviating from
the cold definition of a transaction...
   the pomp and circumstance...
              your house... your car...
your x, y, & z... the brothel... her pepsi...
your whiskey... no one's bed...
   the... love this part...
gloating of the winning parties that came
out of world war II...
gloating... israel is established:
peace in the middle east...
              the gloating of the winning parties:
communism bad... capitalism good...
the soviets launch a robot probe
that lands on mars...
all bad... the yin and yang and... now...
capitalism has to... cannibalise itself...
    fun times: pretending the competing side
to be wrong... when the competing side...
can also... out-compete you in scientific
and technological ventures... fun ******* times!
we have: zee bomb! shitz! they'z 'ave zee bombz twoz!
fun times... cornflake march
at the crack of dawn!

oh yeah... that 12th rule for life... really helps...
written by someone who...
well some cats will allow you to pet them...
some will shun you...
get over the rejection... treat them like ****
or... objectively... not as a photographer's
******* in visual media arts college:
the "subject"...
        
           even with this: i don't feel like writing...
or giving fictional credentials to the story...
i'm finally freeing myself from
a... 13 year old addiction...
      and come to think of it...
                  it wasn't so much an addiction...
as... a circumstance of obliterated willing:
or... un-willingness... the dimension of choice...
choice being: either the global curfew is
lifted and i'll get the usual cheap trickle of
moldovian cigarettes...
or... i'll cough up... the price in england...
which is... blackmail...

             no wonder i don't feel like writing:
maybe i should draw a schematic of hand
placement before the altar of the keyboard
so that... you're not looking down when typing?

ha ha! pet a cat when you see one...
because... all of a sudden...
see... that's a strange scenario:
what sort of a half-bred human do you
have to be... to conjure up...
a stray cat? how boring do you have to be?
stray dogs? i've seen how it's done...
a guy ties a dog to a park fence...
***** off...
   someone the dog escapes being tied...
joins a dingo pack and sleeping beauty: the end...
how ****** up do you have
to be... to... issue concerns for a stray
cat?
         it's like: the mind of the solipsist
never... bothered you?
the cat probably thought:
i be the solipsist and wander: **** knows
where...
than deal with this cookie-milk and sickly
sweet sort of *******...
solipsism i can heave...
i know of the hippocratic oath...
there's no sisyphean contract obliging me
to stay with this "camouflage" of mundane...
you'd be susprised:
cats tend to sleep... when and where
life happens...
a stray cat? is probably a cat with insomnia:
because: there was a "when" and a "where"
that supposed itself to be inclined
with all the geometry of dasein...

the lived life is better than voyeurism:
or a leeching off of life...
           that's also **** without *****
envy and: should i be jerking off...
to... photographs of people being tortured?
the ****** contortions of being skinned...
or being ****** like a duracel ****-it-****-it-****-it
bunny?
you tell me...
from ***** envy i came away with...
beard envy... mmm.... choke on this giggle i will...
b'lahahahahahaha!

  it's good being a man and growing old...
i'll know when to turn into a tree or a tombstone...
lucky for me i already know what it is
to become a genocidial maniac armed
with *******... a toilet + flush... a still brain-riddle
    (photoraphy of a blink... movies? no go zone
of stockholm)
of peaches... cow ******* and the anatomy
of a woman... the mermaid and the ***** ****
and the b.j. but otherwise the avenue of ovaries...
and salmon godheads with all our
children being named: bubbles and bob...
oh i do wish there was a *** life for me...
that invited me to the... to that other playground
of latex... and... the better sort of games...
past the music and the movies...
from scratch... the sandpit goldmines...
the... hidden bedrooms with bloated
barbie and ken's anatomy classes...
she's in her tattoos and i'm donning
my latex...

       now her ***** is my... one cigarette:
when there were 20 to begin with...
for the day...
              to smoke... when waiting for a bus...
at a bus-stop...
to smoke... at a bar... to smoke... on a bus...
i'd love to revise smoking marihuana while
drinking... but... i don't have the luxury
of the 2 hours it would take to reach
the nadir LD50 and the zenith of ecstasy...
of imitation ****** *****...
  no point seeking Parsifal and the glory
of objectivity when... any drugs or ***** are
concerned... so much for the objectivity
of the argument: the persuasion...
the persuasion is already lost...
to the argument for the subjectivity
of the "individuated" / placebo solipsism
of the solo- / dodo-project encounter...

i quiet like... schizophrenia... a word...
a metaphor... when it isn't a true scenario of...
low i.q. premature dementia...
when one is... misdiagnosed with it...
psychosis osmosis... i like that phrase too...
i asked to be: left the **** alone...
lucky for me... i'm the new age
cindarella ****** with a glass stilleto and
a kiss of judas to boot!
i may... oh: have the looks...
clue: what's a schizophrenic and also
    napoleonic hydra?
            my style of quizzing...  (9)
b-i-l-i-n-g-u-a-l...
           does schizophrenia exist...
           within a bilingual dynamic?
            no... out of curiosity... just asking...
perhaps i'm a case of the quadratic?
                 is there a known case of a bilingual
schizophrenic?! a quadratic?

well yeah... while those solid *****
over at mini-apple WHY-WAY...
charlize theron: gwoo YA novella wake me
up when september comes
and there's an iraqi farm of...
infidel pigs... blah blah...

riots happened whole i was... concerning
myself with... the "ad hominem" of...
gary glitter versus roxy music...
for the sole focus of a single song...
rock & and roll (part 1 und susie: deux)...

****... giggles... i'm even sporting the vogue
details... shorts... slippers...
day-two-ago smelly socks... a lebowski
robe...
   the day can seriously... happen all and freed
of me... even the cricket!
hell... i'll boycott drinking tea:
just in case the cricket players run out
of it!
always the best alternatives!

this is... best... oink oink: equpped with:
schadenfreude convening with
ridicule sort of jokes...
send in the orcs! no... SEND IN THE MONGOLS!
lest we forget about the middle-ages
framing of a looting of Baghdad!
SEND IN THE MONGOLS!

               or send those wheelz and tire-tracks
to... that humane... fifth assumption...
when capitalism had it so good:
two: towing each silly...
ideologies...
two: the germs and the slaves...
the day: when... ha-ha-h'america
rediscovered europe...
pretntious *******...
they're not native h'americans...
but they're still: dutch: all quizzical...

   capitalism never had it so good...
so much for the lost arts of breathing false...
when the slavs had communism and now...
if only mongolia was in the news...

SEND IN THE MONGOLS!
where are the mongols?
  not in dover... for sure...
             nugget of (the) ukraine...
known as crimea...
their capital: Sicz...
          and Siecz...
   "too many" consonants...
the Z is replaced with a H...
cheap: ****...
       чeap: шit..
                 "too many"...
                "consonants"...
oh i see how competing with communism
was always...
your... "thing"...
beside... exporting the capitalistic:
saves moneyz builds hou-hou-sez...
  and they do! somehow!
           but this... summons before
the court of the egregious...
             the fire... the cold-cod-blaster
events of: indiscrimenate... solace
of eventually tier upon tier...
lots of looted attributes...

glam rock: to see it... rather than merely hear it...
that was the prime concern...
glam rock is tamed punk...
glitter... roxy music...
                                 t-rex... bowie...
one song of glitter: is enough for me to forget
anything by roxy music...
t-rex... harder to confine: reproach...
and bozzo bowie remains:
intact: dulwich... born...
                                    brixton...
glitter was: but not when you hear it...
you need to see: glam rock...
to "know" you're listening to
glam rock... overwise...
tamed punk... trans-gender schizoid:
mohawks...
or... that one time when...
john wayne won an oscar for playing...
a one-eyed... drunkard
bounty-hunter...
when... the panoramic loot of time...
and avenue of scene was...
synonymous...
because: just because...
  40 circa 30... years later...
bon jovi was a ******* cowboy
sing-along loitering son...
or a trailer seller! type... typo...
sort of... th'ang...
  
          your st. thomas your st. peter...
never your ******* st. paul!
the newly wed:
   greco-heb propaganda machinery...
but i still write in sold the death of
latin... by god: ha-shem alone...
let's leave the evangelical avengers
of the stinking new continent
to their own wide-breath of hope...
own a car prior to being told: you're drunk!
says...
           the greco-hebrew conspiracy
of the new testament...
to counter... the match... the former...
glory of ancient greece...
with that... rome borrowed...
as troy...
            the hebrew helped:
hesiod minding folk...
       but the latin script...
the dead: unsaid... became...
revised... reinvented... became...
typos of coding transporter and terminator...
no... i minded to look...
no further than the archeology
of nebuchadnezzar's cuneiform...
              
wake me... this desired woo
of history revised...
the brilliance of the wake:
as cited by

the "failure" of casimir III...
point being: the nazis... either... existed...
or didn't... i much like the idea that they did...
i feel less obligated to ingest them
into my own shadow...
notably the amon goeth quote:

/today is history. today will be remembered.
years from now the young will ask with
wonder about this day.
today is history and you are part of it.
six hundred years ago when elsewhere
they were footing the blame
for the black death, casimir the great - so called -
told the Jews they could come to krakow.
they came. they trundled their belongings
into the city.
they settled. they took hold.
they prospered in business,
      science, education, the arts.
with nothing they came and with nothing
  they flourished. for six centuries there has
been a jewish krakow.
by this evening those six centuries
will be a rumor.
they never happened. today is history.
/

yes... today is history: today is also a past...
what past is clinging to these...
helio-centrists of vain... rekindle...
impromptu?
these... valkyrie: kyrie elision woes & woos?
this... multi-cultural german...
this franco-phone... "oops"...
this... sorry-saxon-cousin
of the pomeranian german...
the english the pseudo-german
having mingled with...
the welsh the irish the pict the receding
celt...
bigmouth h'america'ca'ca'nah! no?

       i'd sooner drink my own ****
and gorge on oral *** of a *******'s
****** and **** than kiss your:
ms. h'america... your guess who's h'american
woman... race war... ***** envy...
forget me so it's so...
12" envy and all that african woman's envy
of **** anything worth of as as ***!
burn... baby... burn...

federal s.a.
                    sounds like south africa...
sounds like... what... the banana republic
of ukraine...
   and the costa rica of bulgaria...
the ancient chore... the lore the lore...
the "taming of the dragon":
the rags to riches...
and all that... canadian bullshitting
the bulldozer... n'ah! gnar!
hell! summon the runes!
for the rottweiler!
   remains of: first invested in bark!
gnar! runes!
                ᚷᚾᚨᚱ! and that's when...
you last you "hear" / see the glagolithic
script...
                     so much for...
tattoo: cheap pork brides / prides
with chinese ideograms...
no runes no glagoliths...

                           gnar! ⰃⰐⰀⰓ!

how can you: write... a dog's digging...
a cat's climbing? for the former: barking...
for the latter: meowing?
A career path

The fireplace is full of ash and cold spring is here
walls full of soot time to either get someone to clean
or paint the room.
A cleaner came she refused to clean the wall, a painter
wanted to paint the whole house since that was not
needed, he left in a huff, something about time wasting.
I called my friend from Krakow he has got a steady job,
but is willing to earn some extra the money he saving up
to send his daughter to university, the locals do not see
beyond lunch.
The slow thinking painter came back offered to do the job
painting after five, too late the man from Poland was
coming he left in the darkest of moods.
As for the cleaner, she is selling herself at 30 euros my wife
has got that news from the hairdresser; when thinking of it,
an easier job than cleaning soothed walls even if she has
to unplug rusty pipes.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i head-**** the window frame,
tearful
as if reclaiming
land: https: //goo.gl/KrQ4VB,
when i transverse the skies
and land in Krakow,
i'm only met by beggars and inhibitions,
and this is my homeland
i dare defend...
head-butting the window with each
drum-beat as if crying before
african export of american or european
mahogany or auburn...
then i not allowed tear because of irish
or pain faked because of the irish?
well, the irish, are hardly the halved scots
of care... the irish are irish,
strutting turds of thought, and that's about it;
next time you make me mind them
i'll sink that island of theirs with an array
of bombing potatoes peeling their scalps when they
thought they were getting a haircut.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
the english speak of multi-cultural
integration
like they are sellers of
ice-cream cones...
they're selling barbwire -
      and they're selling the *******
with smiles...
          i'm done...
   let's be honest..
back in Poland,
in a homogenous capital,
i feel less nostalgic and more
        nauseated by a slight prominence
of multiculturalism -
   not in a negative sense,
i'm missing the Sikh turbans and
and the African skins...
                       i get sick from
all the monochromatic
nausea...
           bu then again i was raised
in a "polyglot" society...
               i have no pledge or
ownership of a post-colonial nation...
and i have the authority
of whom?
   your own people attacked
grammar,
i will not make a grammatical
attack legitimate...
you can have the nouns...
but when you attack the grammatical
structure of a language?!
no...
nein! nein! niet! nie! NO!
you've pushed me...
     i way integrating into your language...
speaking it,
ensuring a chameleon stature
to encompass it...
  you change the *******
categories?
  no...   no...                NIE!
read your ******* harry potter elsewhere...
freedom, my godforsaken ***,
saved from not having encountered
homosexual *******...
******* ***-monkeys...
no!
                          no!
you could have been allowed
a monopoly on the nouns...
      i would have bleached myself...
become the de-organic ******
embodied in the English tongue...
but did you have to attack
the English grammar?!
  really?!

             no... you speak your crooked
English... if it is just that...
       time to take the reins
of the language into my own grip...
because... clearly...
the natives are lost and incompetent in
using it...
                      i can't exploit
the conundrum like an Afghan
or a Pakistani...
                
  whatever might be deemed necessary...
whatever is necessary...
     no... you can attack the usage
of nouns and noun ascription
to become equivalent of labeling...
but don't attack grammar...

            shouldn't a native impose
this curiosity observation?!
  shouldn't a native make this
observation?
   no?!
   guess i'm more patriotic
about a language,
and always LESS, about a PEOPLE...
than some smirk-fusion
of a teenager with a proud look

no... you don't touch grammar...
2 x 2 = 5 exists in the entertainment
of meta-mathematics
of a Radiohead song...
  
      you can have your noun
contra "misnomer" ergonomics -
you leave the grammar alone...
and if i don't implore you...

       i'll warn you...
come to Russia... come to Poland...
i guess mere tongue
is not the same as a knuckle count;
but i want these people
to learn arithmetic!
  i want them to!
         ****... forget the Polish
******* galls running just fine
with their Saudi lovers,
fathers... jealousy priests...
  
hardly the mandible jaws...
  bring me your peasants...
         perhaps the odd dozen in Warsaw...
come nearer to Auschwitz...
Krakow -
                   less, and less...

don't come after grammar -
"correct" pronoun usage -
drunk's goggles?
there's a she but she's a "they"?
am i really that drunk
that i can't even see double
but see multiple?!
**** me...

                 guess the Platonic debate
concerning universals
and particulars has, somehow,
been solved...
           as it turns out...
it began with singularity and pluralism...
there are more than
two genders,
and two sexes...
but only a singular act of ***...
or there are more...

so *** is...
         more than two sexes?
     *******?!
        enlighten me!

           i am always more than willing
to receive a lesson in grammar!
Abraham Mar 2020
Could you be here?
the street sign, trees, puddles of wet snow
murmur Yesssssssss
father and daughter playing a card game
with the woman behind the counter
whisper You could, if you tried
the drawing and origami birds
folded up inside an exhibition booklet from Krakow
urge you
to be here.
John F McCullagh Jul 2017
“I desire to gain wisdom.” said the acolyte to the Priest.
“There are many paths to wisdom, Karol, imitation is the least.”
“In imitating someone who you perceive to be wise,
A false sophistication you display before men’s eyes.”
“Experience is the hardest path , contemplation is the best.
Read widely and love deeply, Karol, and be ready for the test.”
“In suffering there is wisdom gained for those who are devout.
The stony path to Golgotha we cannot do without.”
“Consider the fate of common grapes ripening on the vine.
Some may become raisins in the withering sunshine.
Others will be squeezed for juice or fermented into wine.
The rest will be distilled and become brandy in due time.”
“Each you see is useful, transformed by the Vintners art.”
“Our lives are not our own but each must play his part.”
Father Figlewicz began the mass with Karol as his server.
They were the only souls that day that came to the Cathedral.
Outside, the Stukas bombed Krakow, the City would not stand.
Evil, like a darkening cloud, spread out across the land.
For many years Poles were enslaved, trapped in Dictator’s hands,
But Karol Wojtyla was a most uncommon man.
He would not forget his people, he would work and never cease
Until the day the Soviet fell and Poland was released.
(Wawel Cathedral, Krakow Poland 09/01/39)   Karol Wojtyla ( later John Paul II)
experiences the evil of Fascism as  his city, Krakow, is terrorized by Stuka dive bombers. Poland was occupied first by the Nazis and then by the Soviet union. Pope John Paul II is widely credited with supporting the Solidarity movement that helped Poland  regain its status as a free nation.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
- hitch -
or hatch: a hiker...
counter galaxy.


a terrible case of springtime phlegm...
****... perhaps there's a Japanese ideogram...
oh... look... there is...
痰 (タン) - TAN...
i was thinking... un-protected ***?
row row ahoy... no pirate ships ahoy?!
for every ideogram...
in Japanese... borrowing from the Chinese...
you can find a work-around wording...
symbols that translate into sounds...
ah...
         how... becoming...
the evil of this world is never
at a loss.... it's merely stalled...
   the good is always overcome...
subjected to...
                   i twitch my head...
what ******* waking of a dragon...
the dragon has uncoiled since
overtly-exaggerating Pearl Harbour...
but... that was military vs. military...
Hiroshima?! Nagasaki?
that's... military vs. civilians?! no?!
i side with the ****...
why... Godzilla: for starters...
why bemoan just warfare?!
oh right... just... the Holocaust is
our narrative... but... drop a NUKE
just in case... ******* WANKEES...
       oh... i'll wait...
now that "things" are getting spicy...
it's better than... Nietzsche advocating
for the 20th century...
my turn...
               they were... 6 million Polacks...
secondly: given the alias of Hebrew...
but... as far as Hebrew go...
can't trust them in keeping
an allegiance for their host nation...
ergo?
      
- Today is history. Today will be remembered. Years from now the young will ask with wonder about this day. Today is history and you are part of it. Six hundred years ago, when elsewhere they were footing the blame for the Black Death, Casimir the Great - so called - told the Jews they could come to Krakow. They came. They trundled their belongings into the city. They settled. They took hold. They prospered in business, science, education, the arts. With nothing they came and with nothing they flourished. For six centuries there has been a Jewish Krakow. By this evening those six centuries will be a rumor. They never happened. Today is history. -

Amon Goeth

as unlikely an alliance as it might be struck by...
a person of reasonable intelligence...
there, are, quiet, simply... some...
boundaries... that... are... not... to be...
crossed... before... crossing them... entertains...
vile... powers...
   and these... boundaries...
have been... crossed...
   CHAOS!
              CHAOS!
              why? for... the fun of it...
simply... for the whimsical... oops...
oh ****... history happened...
                   now bite... *****: now bite:
later chew...
               something terrible happened?
sure... a lot of people have been left
unaccounted for...
while all the Nazis were placed under
scrutiny of the Nuremberg Trials...
seems... rather... unfair... don't you think?!
yeah, sure... the victor ride the wave
of the narrative...
**** them, whatever... just let me die
a second time before i clock in:
(like) i (might) give a ****.
Peter DeSpirito Feb 2020
Let’s talk about cops shooting innocent black teenagers, woman and men...let’s talk about racial profiling....disorderly conduct..and ancestor slavery again... About 600,000 slaves were transported to America, or 5% of the 12 million slaves taken from Africa. About 310,000 of these persons were imported into the Thirteen Colonies before 1776: 40% directly and the rest from the Caribbean, but let’s not talk about religious liquidation...4,450 Jewish men woman and children are killed in Krakow ghetto from March 13 to March 16 1943....20 million murdered by Nazis in total.....families surrendered so that they can stay alive and strive but are burned and gassed alive so there’s that drive....let’s not talk about the invasion of Italy...on September 3, 1943 2,009 killed...7,050 wounded...3,501 missing...let’s not talk about the invasion of America...and the removal act of 1830....16,500 native Americans lost their lands and lives.....how about the Spanish Inquisition.... In 1478, the Catholic Monarchs began the famous Inquisition to purify Catholicism in all their territories. The Inquisition was established to act as a tribunal to identify heretics and bring them to justice....1,250 were executed...that’s 1% of 125,000 that were tried by church tribunals under the King and Queen of Spain...instead let’s repeat that I can’t breathe line...I’m not resisting....black comedians Make fun of white people....white people look around before they make fun of black people...Chinese, Russian, French so on and so forth....being rude by the way that you talk and stopping police from doing their jobs...is not making anyone on this planet think that it’s wrong to treat you like an animal....no matter what color you are...how you act and project yourself should warrant the treatment you get...let’s not forget: Joseph Stalin has 62 million Soviets and Germans under his **** count....Mao Zedong 75 million Chinese lives...so please let’s talk about all of us that strives...that climbs corporate ladders...we all bleed the same color...So All lives Matters....
-Peter T. DeSpirito
What I’m saying is stopping the racism...and feeling held back because of the past...move forward...
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
a raw challenge of words - not some tartar genius -
it's a "question" or not - and it's a roulette -
it's a gamble -
it's: words not roasted -
words not roasted in an oven of academia -
esp. oven roasted via a masters in arts:
english lit. or jane austen studies - majors -

i can't exfoliate just yet -
i have to catch the midnight train into tomorrow...
because - "something" needs to be tended
to - and i'm about to become
a very responsible nouveau adulte...
i have no time to talk about philosophy -
how i found the time to read it
is another matter -
but talking about it...
seems pointless if... not also weilding
a hammer - heidegger's:
can we talk while doing something else,
menial - and escape the banality of breathing
by on the side - supposing thought?

the crux of the hammer and the nail...
and this talk - or no talk - escapism of sorts...
the isolated words to be "thought" about...
"representation content" and...
what... "what": "reality" is made of...
a speaking that has to return back
into the yoke of thinking -
and not something as practical as...
hammering nails in... ad infinitum...

knock knock... who's there?
Descartes who? Descartes i doubt the table
but not the chair i'm sitting in;
ever knock knock on a leather chair?
there's no superstition of "jinx" associated...
or i could just as well be drinking...
my "thinking" is already
on the train about to leave: come midnight...

raw tartar steak of genius -
words not baked via an oven of an academic
degree in the direction of... modern linguo?
my way all the way back from:
esters RCOOR'
aldehydes RCHO...
carboxylic acid(s) R-COOH...
all that but above all this...

the austrians really do know how to
make the best coffee...
something a christoph waltz would say...
the austrians are (a)
the germans are (b) - high, low - whatever
floats your boat of comparison -
and i do only have an address and a name...

Der-Franz (Vienna since 1929)
A-2512 Oeynhausen
Sachers Strese 7...
hazelnut flavour... coffee...

hans landa eating a strudel -
is probably the best strudel in the world...
and on all days...
but this... it's also a hugo boss uniform...
it's crisp cut... and...
say all you will...
when a girl might wish for a cindarella dress...
any boy would wish for a hugo boss
that clean cut and readied
for: being ironed twice daily...

as of yet: i'm yet to expect a darwinistic
furore - fever - of the coming of
the close of the 19th century and
the opening of the gates for the 20th century...
second coming of darwinism leaves
me hardly convinced -
oh but it's true - oh but yes yes -
some of us are working in the knitting
of the kingdom of the Brine -

this so-called culture war:
words make bad bullets and sentences
are hardly rifles to shoot them with...
paragraphs like bombs: would do...
if congested into... non-paragraphs...
end of james joyce's ulysses or...
jean-paul sartre's iron in the soul...

the rare events of a postcard being sent by
a philatelist...
or a lepidopterist coming clean
on the metaphor of: the most forbidden fruit...
of which king john of england
would never find out about:
sooner the magna carta...

i'm tired of and i have always never tired of...
byzantine chants...
what can anyone actually remember
of the remains - apart from the chants...
or the bureucracy?
the youth that riddled them with canons
and a library that contained only one
book...

i can't even bother to stomach the correct
grammar -
unless it's a translation...
english: red herring...
french: hareng rouge
german: regenbogenforelle
you wouldn't expect me to succumb to
Ablenkungsmanöver / heimlich maneuver
of a spin-doctor, truly!
english: rainbow trout,
french: truite arc-en-ciel...
german is already given...
polish: pstrąg tęczowy...

nietzsche was right... we are the slavic
equivalent of the french...
we share most of their grammar 1-2 1-2...
why i didn't learn it proper?
they write one thing -
then say another -
i can only see excesses of letters
in written french... once they start
talking... all those letters come
and disappear under the suffix- umbrellas...

otherwise... i'm tired of having the need
to sharpen words -
words: would be bullets -
are not pencils -
sticks and stones and all things
associated with infering information:

otherwise just as last night - attempting to fall
to sleep: giggling and imagining myself...
having walked into the north sea off
the coast of norwich...
shouting: i'm a whale! i'm the beast from
the sea! i'm a whale my primordial
mammalian ancestor! i will swim to Denmark!

talk about living through a drought of:
where the english seems to be the dream-a-lots
having never felt a leash of metaphysics
around their necks tighten and give themselves
unto catholic mantras of central europe -
or how the italians are still christian in name only...
otherwise the go to:
aestheticians and romantics of the fig...

these words are not...
how did i perfect cooking chicken ******* without
the torso or the limbs -
the torso and at least half of the limbs
went into a most perfect chicken soup...
the remains and some frozen goods
went into a **** chicken marinade...
thyme... thyme... check y'er dubliners'
on the surd of H in that one...
it's θyme... otherwise's it's t'inking: time...
not so, paddy o'brian? patrick?

snail-paced grammar:
2 steps forward... 1 step back...
at least in the confines of this leftover:
catacombs of Latin...
we are all the children of Rome -
the hebrew were wrong about two alphabets...
the greek and the latin...
spot on! spot on when it came to...
persian cuneiform and egyptian hieroglyphs!

back-up... the glagolitic and the rune scripts...
somehow accomodating the overlords
of judea... otherwise: really stretching
the history for a personal experience...
what alphabet is this?!

- concept of beauty in the 1950s:
none other than the bleach mingling with amber
that was marylin monroe - the blood of which:
and the modern "beauty?
ava lauren - otherwise i call it:
the mandible jaw of ***-appeal gymnastics -
leather beauty - some worn, torn and -
the jigsaw puzzle that comes naked and
there hardly a kennedy romance at stake...
because even in her mature years -
it's "something" that would appeal
to Rodin's hands...
it's already... it leaves me at ease to ****
like a shotgun into my one "crooked" leg folded
and hunched like a crow perched on a windowsill
of the new-born Papillon -
marylin the icon? untouchable...
ava lauren the limbo montage and:

even this poo'em is proof:
why lament the crux of a would-be Liszt performance?
"views"... if that's anything to go by:
i have an *** and a ****** -
implies... i have more than a head a spine to prop
it on and a tongue's worth of an oyster
dissected between the 32 shells...

that views should count: a fountain of youth!
of a body i am certain...
of a soul: i know what i have -
only after i have lost it -
shared company - rejoice soul! hell doesn't exist!
as they call say: via their slavic proverbs:
the devil is without a soul...

perhaps i'm asking:
are not some of my words infantile?
d(evil) and go(o)d?
do or do not...
come to think of it... what makes people
invite the ****** eye into their ****** *******?
to boast or gloat?
i hardly think so...
from the times i watched...
and from the times i was the protagonist 1st person...
sometimes the third person attitude
is... well... imagine being in a 69 position
of reciprocating each other ******* & "*******"...
faber & faber...

if you have a ******* **** in your face...
and you're slurping and slurping...
what out of body experience can you expect
to have... to really and you really
want to appreciate the face of a woman
pleasuring herself and somehow you
on the side...

bogus and boring the same old
*******...
in that cocoon of: under the bed-sheets...
like two foetuses *******
amphibian bode -
placenta erections and:
the place where no two mouths meet!
otherwise:
she rodeod to the point
of a complete tail turned coccyx erosion!

*** is ***... no need to bring grammar
into this "debate" with a bilingual "schizoid"...
otherwise: hello Chloe...
is Chloe ready for a circus?

for all the *** in the world...
it's never something appealing for the eyes...
it's numbing for the parts that
imitate ******* snipping...
and otherwise... it's always more fun
casually: in third-person...
very much akin to reading a book...

because this piece of writing will not topple
your below average amateur post
from the free-range harvest of:
and this one tested this *****...
and this one was showing off: how she can
still get frisky when pregnant...
and... this sore loser is hardly going to...
because...
the greater pleasure comes from music...
to me *** is a most:
dyssynchronyous act...

how some people still manage to focus on saying
something is beyond me...
i'm left with onomatopoeias...
half-wit compositions of somewhat consonant
leverages - somewhat vowel expansions
of breath...

never does god even into this brothel...
i show him the "niqab" and all that's visible
is either silence of the hebrew definite article: ha...
why would i somehow
fathom a god in forms? not words?
with a c.c.t.v. focus etc?

- ******* on the roses, eating the roots
and sniffing the ashes -
variations of the modern: fine and lean
cannibal... because none of this invokes
the mandarin: specialz elephant ivory
"herbalism"...
cos if beijing don't sniff it...
we'ez knot snifz it... woz!
n00b wording and "get some"...

ל... find me a F(ucking) in 'ebrew, levite!
kametz = no aleph or ayin...
chirek? "i"?
well... it's и in cyrillic... א in 'ebrew...
but the latter is: an A...
the other gay Adam to Ayin...
and: whenever jeffrey "napoleon dynomite" dahmer
went along...
hiding vowels... and two vowels
treated as consonants...
you'd have to be born in London,
Golders Green to keep up with
the Hasidi...
because wherever they go...
the quarter is followed up with a ghetto...
like a bayz payot caduceus... listening: sparrows
chirping!

would a myth of Eve the prozzie Lilith
even matter at this point?

it only comes down to: integrating
or keeping with the purity of the forbidden fruit
that isn't *******...
but... cousin *******!
i've seen how this old forbidden fruit looks like...
it slobbers... it doesn't speak...
it's wheeled around: it doesn't walk...
the old fruit of eden: ******* your mother,
******* your cousin...
because i know what the next forbidden fruit is...
the circa 16 year old...
but that doesn't invite genetic: non-chernobyll
"status teases"...

inbreed far enough so that no outsider
will ever want to meddle with the ****** politics
of: the first ever niqab ultra...
because the muslims were never:
but really were about... the power dynamic
played out in rumi's *******: sufism...
a tier up from: gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
Lawrence! ***** in the air! adhan!
compensated by the christian *******
at the altar...
religious gesticulation toward proving
the existence of incubuses: a very feminine affair...
when the broomstick stops "working"...
and there's no sabbath to attend...
and high-tier french socialite society
moves to London...
and the Viennese patisserie was always better
than the Parisian yoke-riddled flat and custard
agitation prone...

i poke my head out of my whittle
hermit cave...
and oops is supposed to happen...

or... drink enough cider and a shot of whiskey
at the same time... and...
it's almost like you're part of
the baltic culture of eating... kashubian herrings...
or generally pickled herrings...

why the **** did Amon Goeth say...
casimir the great - so called -
told the jews they could come to Krakow -
well, even history says:
first they were jews...
later they were polaks...
or: no... they weren't polaks to begin with:
not with that history allows us to entertain...
likewise...
"they're" not h'americans...
israel seems to be...
somewhat of a safebet gamble...

if i heard that one palestinian had roots
in saudi arabia...
like all those "pakistanis" circa 2001 that
had roots in saudi arabia...

the subject - the **** -
the tender geopolitics in between -
the 7 year madness of nebuchadnezzar
that never made it into a ben-hur esque movie
****...
shame i say...

of course this will not reach a far greater audience...
ah... what am i missing?
a ****** - a plump *** - a decapitated madame tussauds
monsier de sade *** toy / would be barbie or
an otherwise ripe cucumber...

my agony: extending the *******
into a cusp of a bone hard hand...
rather natural -
not unless - the proper deal is associated...
me and my ******* and
the girls being circumcised...
well then...
that would almost be like me...
being james cook having just visited
the Easter Islands!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
most people in the western world,
i presuppose, don't have this line
of argument,
and as mich as i'd love to argue for
either side of the propositions...
personally? i can't agree
to market either side's superiority...
say... i really prefer Indian
food to all the other cultures,
****, i have a kitchen with
a powerful array of Indian spices,
a pretty impressive arsenal...
and no... no one can fathom
the aesthetic of male
clinging toward a Turkish
barber...
   i don't care if a woman
cuts my hair and trims my beard...
the Turks are destined
perfectionist of, some would say,
a ******-riddle enterprise...
no matter...
i'll take a Turk to cut and trim my
beard over come English
**** fiddler...
         forget it,
a Turk comes prior to an English
******...
   the end.
    which brings me to the debate
concerning nationalism...
see... i'm stretched...
really, really stretched to mind both
sides of the debate...
i grew up in England,
in the multicultural La La Land...
i'm used to it,
but whenever i visit my grandparents
once or twice a year...
a nausea hits me...
   i wasn't born in either Warsaw
or Krakow...
   not many tourists visit my town...
a mix-raced child,
devil hell spawn of some Polish woman
and an African is like:
hell ping pong central
with the index finger...
     which brings to that "other" point...
you ever go back to
a monolithic...
****, wrong word...
   mono-.... mono-...
what's the correct word...
              ah! a homogenous society?
while the old outsiders
are a bunch of travelers at
the town's market on a Saturday,
speaking broken Polish?
     no, i guess the correct answer
is no...
     there's a nausea sensation,
you start feeling that every potential
romantic suitor is:
****** RED! ALERT!
   ******! like you're about
to **** your cousin or something...
i can't help but feed off this crap...
after all... the Polacks are
nomads no. 2, just shy of the Jews...
being nomads no. 1...
Boston to the Irish,
Chicago to the Polacks...
   but these people arguing
for nationalism,
an a homogenous population,
their monochromatic basis points
of argument...
they have been to places where
the collective minorities
are the majority?
  they have, right?
   all the small town rumor spreading,
the refocused attention
away from celebrity culture
and focusing on the friends,
and neighbors?
          i drink, my fault, my pleasure,
my vanity, my problem...
do you think the people
making their nationalistic
arguments, true, fair points...
could adapt to a homogenous society
so quickly and easily as
their arguments attaching
themselves to the vagueness
of the aether?
i'm neither pro nor con
either side of the argument...
   but having grown up in a society
with such a peacock rainbow of
Amazonian butterflies on show...
going back to a homogenous
society...
    it's gut-wrenching...
           it doesn't become
the revamped acquired norm within
a generation...
  impossible...
            like with interracial
marriages...
      the dominant genes disappear
in the third generation...
parents... no chance...
children... it's still there...
grandchildren... one side overpower the over...
great-grandchildren...
the freaks come out...
but i'm telling you...
if you've grown up in a hegemony
of cultures, races etc...
you'll find a homogenous
society...
     a bit dizzy...
a bit ****** riddled by superstition /
unhealthy bias on the basis
of the focus of an argument...

both sides are correct,
but both sides are also wrong,
personally,
going back,
and being a ****** among so many
other, Polacks?
    i start to imagine myself
as a faceless man,
a black hole event...
******* at a depth that's
without one.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.Poland is getting too much, anti-touristy attention, i don't know what to do with it, i don't like it, that's for sure... this is not going to end up well... just saying... no tourist advertisement, and yet people flocking? i've spotted one mosque in Warsaw, traveling out Western Warsaw bus-station... hidden in the architectural *****...

not a great night for writing,
i feel like...
              can i just drink my cider,
*** and bourbon *******
and write nothing?
     no... not going to happen...
something was always going
to hang in the air...
           and the day they they learn
the language... hell...
i could levitate around
the concept of making you unlearn
English...
what's that?
          really pretty pretty...
i feel prettyoh so pretty
          literature from the 20th
century?
20th century... that's like a bad dream...
isn't it?
go back to... that?
  i'll settle for the current
mediocre...
               no grand war,
and no grand artistic expression...
case sold.. NEXT!
    we do live in the time
of the mediocre...
let, the, middle, speak!
    i don't need to be reminded
or induced to remember...
with great wars,
come great artists...
  responsibilities aside...
            death told me to stalk
my shadow...
  and you know what
my shadow showed me?
something, grander than learning
the literacy confounded to
the constellation of stars...
my shadow showed me the elevated
night...
              a camel walking
through an eye of a needle...
into anti-matter...
oh... you think that... even after
a star dies, the star, dies?!
what about the black hole?
the star continues its vivacity,
clinging to life like...
thought is what ego clings
to,
     faced by the mortal basis
of being... that great ontological
abyss...
                    thought is the ridge...
that the ego clings to,
holding itself tight,
with memory, imagination,
on the tip of the tongue cusp...
before falling into the abyss
of being, as being dislodged from
an accountability....
death and life...
          in mort et in vivo combine...
in the matryoshka doll...
or an onion doll...
    peel one layer...
another layer appears...
peel the other layer,
   another layer appears...
ad continuum...
             or rather, etc.,
    well then...
             VIII, 27, of Heidegger's
black notebooks...
               see...
it's not that you will not finish
a philosophy book...
some books, are like wines...
you need to allow them
the same treatment,
they need to mature,
in you, and... without you...
some philosophy books
can only be completed over
a period of, circa... 3 years...
     you need a ******* life outside
of them, however meager it is,
however despondent...
however: trivial, grey or
alternatively: predictable...
i required 3 years to read
Kant's critique of pure reason...
       now... if i had an elevated
imagination faculty...
i'd write a YA novel... including
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, etc.,
         but i have an elevated pivot
on the focus of memory...
Paris? alone....
Stockholm? alone...
     Athens? alone...
      Amsterdam? alone...
    Venice? alone...
        Krakow? alone...
   i'm already burned with a shadow...
why would i require, company?!
Barcelona? alone...
     the mere fact of
a shadow attached to me feels like
a claustrophobia...
i'm... unimaginative...
which is why i write this sort of ****...
oh... and if you're looking
for eloquent literature...
without words like **** that act
as more or less conjunction words?
Marquis de Sade didn't exactly
spare his fleeing tongue with
an exercise of courtesy...
    i won't either... i might stutter less...
not that i ever did...
by the way...
you want to go to university?
choose chemistry...
30+ hours of learning and...
              practicality of engaging
in experiments...
  funny...
        i'm a graduate, but also a drop-out...
thye chemistry i graduated with,
a silly number of hours in the laboratories,
12? must have been over 12 in
the third year...
        Esters and perfumery...
   like... my love for cooking...
organic chemistry experiments...
            cooking, basically...
and that stood at £1,250 a year,
tuition fees...
         but when i decided to take on
a degree in history at U.C.L.?
and the tuition fees rose to
£3,000+... dropped out, halfway
through year one...
    for what? 6 hours a week?
i was doing a roofing job and...
"studied"...
                 *******...
                   it started to feel like a *******
Dire Straits song: money for nothing...
which it was...
oh but i did meet strangers
in those towns...
   and of the towns i visited?
Paris...
        Paris...
        Paris circa 2004 - 2007...
            that's when Paris... was what Paris
was always supposed to be!
now...
    if i want to visit Tangiers...
i'll ******* let you know, o.k.?!

— The End —