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Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
Toothache Sep 2023
I’m rocking back and forth against the hull of my loneliness,
Stuck in knowing it’s goodbye
But not being able to say I love you
or I’m sorry.
I’m crying with joy and longing as I lie in the love and conversation around me,
Wishing it were mine.
I’ve been high so long my heart rate stopped going down with the sun.
Going over it all all over again all the time.
I feel like a child again, terrified by the the dark, the wind, the eyes of men.
I’m breaking down in the line at the gas station.
Looking out the glass wall at a Lovecraftian highway,
Flickering florescent lights like the ones from The Exorcist.
On my way to a cavernous husk of a family dinner,
Most of them gone now.
Just me, my mother, and my widowed, bereaved, great aunt.
There’s a stupid old cardboard cutout of a mascot next to me grinning too widely, holding up its product.
I scream and tear it’s head off it’s body
In my mind.
I have work on Monday.
This is life.
Edna Sweetlove Sep 2015
I can't ******* believe it
it's enough to make you want
to blow your own ******* head off
it really ******* is.

Crueller than cruel are the women
who make my life a living hell
lurking like Lovecraftian monsters
in internet chatrooms and forums
waiting to break my poor purple *****
on internet site after internet site
hiding their ugliness
under a ******* bushel.

I must be a dumb *******
but I really thought yes maybe
this time yes maybe just maybe
finally after more ****-ups
than a cut-price ***** has per year
and I one more time fell for their lies
and another date went wrong
and my poor bleeding heart
is broken like a duck's beak
hit by a twin-bore shotgun cannonade.

It was a warm summer's evening
with a humid atmosphere guaranteed
to make my nuts sweat freely
and we had agreed to meet
at a quiet spot in the city park
down by the old public lav
where the **** frolic after midnight
leaving the place littered
with filled ribbed condoms
after indiscrimate **** love sessions.

I eagerly re-read the print-out
from the new internet site
(www.fuckabroadforfree.com)
where kindly ******* fate had brought us
together like lost souls in a hurricane
seeking solace in hot ***** *******
and I felt sure your byline
'I love banging ugly strangers'
coupled with the open-crotch photos
could only lead to good times for all.

I hoped you would be a looker
even though the snapshots
you had boldly posted tended
to concentrate on the other end
where your twin holes
were in evidence big-time
so my readers can imagine
my intense ******* disppointment
when I finally saw you
with your tiny bald pointed head
peeping hopefully out
of the ****** rags you were wearing.

I think I was probably justified
in using the claw hammer
I had wisely brought with me
just in case and I must say
in my own ******* defence
love isn’t just a matter of aesthetics
and maybe I'm no raving Adonis myself
but you really have to draw the line
somewhere and you were on the other side
by a very long chalk
so very sadly and reluctantly
I gave into anger and let you have it
and please believe me when I say
that the sound of your death scream
will probably not keep me awake at night
as I drown my sorrows
in solitary *** and single malt whisky.
*******, brave new world!
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
it's...
listening to metric - clone (2012)...
sipping a whiskey...
pretending to smoke a cigarette
with an unlit cigarette in hand...
the feel and the texture...
the scent of unlit tobacco,...

and then it's... contemplating...
british and "british"...
              and the caves... and... speaking
a language lacerated...
loan words...
   music of corvus corax... katrinka...
i would never...
listening to such music...
attire myself as: bwitish...
technicalities...
              the prefix will do...
                 anglo-slav...
                         like... those anglo-saxons...
but less specific...
because: you'd have to also call them:
   anglo-pseudo-germans...
          or quasi...
                        i'm not being
specific either... an anglo-slav i am...
a patchwork of guesses...
         serb? croat? slovenian?
       the yugoslav? ukranian?
           russian? czech? slovak?
                    i've just been listening to
some videos of nostalgia...
from the natives circa 1978 and...
nik nak paddy... old man... something...

to associated with the british...
to be british...
  do you suppose... there's a turk these days...
that would associate himself
as... an ottoman?
         i wonder...
         maybe the concept of empire being...
domino... connected by land...
and not scattered like the greek diaspora /
empire...

           the empire of roman?
weird... isn't it? to be surrounding a massive
salt pond...
            while the constant chance of having
your back turned...
seemingly protecting this salt pond...
yes... sea...

- i found the stare of love at first today:
but i was numb to it...
deer eyes of an indian girl -
darkened / riddled by the equator...
while i was... picking three kings of chillies...
some fresh coriander...
cumin powder... kashmiri powder...
and black cumin seeds...

    - i saw eyes and i also saw two
nuggets of charcaol...
   my knees left nothing of the sort of iritation
fo drop everything and swim
against the current like a salmon...

- come mid-thirties and...
   i'm starting to feel comfortable...
with the solo-project... the dodo-project...
looking for signs of: waking up
to what could have been an abortion...
or a genocide into a tissue, flushed down
the toilet: the horror of being circumcised...
without jewish or muslim...
social structures...
         it could be much worse... i could have
been circumcised...
i could have been born with
both a ****** and a strap-on *****:
seeking the ****** st. of tic-tac-toe and
a skipping rope of:
  that i have kissed a man...
that i have gorged on a *******'s
****** like a wrath and love of god...
that suckling to the **** didn't
pose a problem: got choc tinged teeth
and bitter-corn in between...
oh i'm pretty sure she wasn't in love
with me:
             a wry smile while i didn't
speak the "proper" native...

mongrel soul retaining a weird question
about who's who and who's a token
postcard on loan from...
lost from former forged empires...

on my way back home...
   i was... once upon a time...
that sort of guy... loitering... waiting...
making waiting... a ritual...
worth smoking a cigarette...
patience is a religion that's not invested
in peace to all: for all...
     first comes first...

nearing the magic number 35...
it's very sensible of me to state:
it's quiet impossible for me to share a bed...
with anything or anyone except
my shadow...
considering how when i expose
my shadow to sunlight...
mindless shadow pretends to have
eyes... when it crawls into my head
at night: when i sleep...
and tells the alternative story of
the day...

    to be wedded and with children...
one would most certainly need to be coupled
with prospects in one's early 20s...
after the mid-20s... well...
the boat's about to sail...
the solo- / dodo-project is...
  a bit like... with writing being concerned...
one's hope for a career in...
    a chemistry lab...
or the selfless-acts of hippocrates' students...

all very well to love children...
but... ******* them up...
never really becoming that...
nobel prize winning psychologists
with a break-through...
when the whittle cherbus... gremlins...
kritters arrive...
an over-zealous cat meowing / moaning
about curfew is one of those spin-offs
of madness...
talk to me about a babe crying...

- and yes... some people shouldn't drink...
their genetic disposition: ah ah...
their individual metabolism...
they never conjure up the amphetamine
(metaphor) ***** from the lullaby
zombied-out death-cult of sedation...
- and these same people shouldn't pick
up smoking a ritual tobacco stick...
even i venture to call it:
a bullet to the head...

  how is it... to become... selfless?
when... one... has become...
self-realized... past the groan of:
the facts... aged 25 and your brain
should stop... window-shopping
function suffixes... no?

i had an idea for a glove...
with a rubber-band...
to... restrict... the natural laziness
of the hand when walking...
but because i drink and only jargon
poor poetics...
in rage i ripped the rubberband
off my arm... lost to history:
lost to the void...
oh i know how that it feels...
would it have been of use...
i guess not...
     a bright idea in a bucket
of maggots and maggot ****...
is... about as much worth as...
a screwdriver is to a forest of nails...
chisel... n'est ce pas...
i was... asking: grit teeth...
soul... clenching... bizarre objects
of gradations of sharpening...
the obvious square-headed axe...
pulp...
      a whole rainbow of objects...
perhaps a scalpel is the last resort...

i smile because: i've turned angry into
funny...
who doesn't have the monopoly on violence:
well... i also do not have the monopoly
on c.c.t.v. -
   little help from coming from
under the iron curtain...
the local seem to be... all ah...
oh so detached... missing las vegas cousins
and...
if i could only allow you...
to allow myself... to fathom...
the maldives of my mind...
a drag of a cigarette... a bottle of whiskey
35cl... you start the bets...
who's about to...
      find prison in solipsism...
solipsism as a mental illness...
as an altruism: as a atheism as a...
genius maddy: spezial neds: youz callz
'em... quivering folk?
what'z that phra-phra-puccino?
    autist-spec:   ah yes! those rare breeds!
spazz-taculars!
i was one misunderstood for one of them...
i took the insult to the grave...
well... i took it to her grave...
by the god of the hebrews and by the mythology
of cain... from siberia came the huns...
the turks... the slavs and the mongols...
only germans ever came from
       afri-*******-ah-hahaha!
they skipped the toll of sanskrit:
the birth of writing...
why? it became complicated...
when beijing was founded...
but sure... a replica tux of skeleton came out
out... fringe kenya and landed in: old delhi...
as many consonants if not more:
down to the core: with the spices...
the unfortunate indians of north
america...
the somewhat fortunate indians
of: south america...
brazil: post-racial mecca...
argentinian beef and...
                             myths of nazis
living to old age...
                 no... oh no... i will not die...
first comes ol' lizzie then comes
my sodden sorry ***...
envelope of a missing postage stamp
of a world: we've been to the moon...
via new york and the leviathan london...
where's afghanistan cave fighting...
the pashtun women of... glorifying
copper and cinnamon / cumin and coriander
ash... and beauty...
how doesn't it sound:
the day the music died:
we sang dirges in the dark...
                 bye bye: may-pole luck with
christ: the advent of...
the crucifix is hanging... ornament piece...
but the... iron maiden isn't...
           it's enough to identify a god...
it's quiet another matter...
to torture him... and... sorry...
but if i were to be crucified...
   sooner me and the comfort of hands...
outstretched... than... hands-tied...
pushed onto a pole: to impale...
lost advent of etymology: slav...
and the lost "e" of paul...
to remind... the crucifix... well...
            to impale...
                       looks like...
the crucifix is missing limbs... it would take...
days... the arms that would be
flapping... agitating an imitation
of a swan breaking into flight...
the two lungs... imitating drowning...
while hanging... extended...
     to crucify... hardly: the affair of...
being... impaled...
perhaps joking: slav(e) gave the clue...
germans: whether orthodox
anglo-ßaß - celtic mingling...
    germs... who's eating what... "leftover"
etymological clues...
we can play this game... forever...
it's hardly the hebrew the original:
indu- prefix of... roaming... or not...
                      
guise them up as the exodus as the fomer
lands of Jagiełło...
the battle of Hastings: blip...
             who am i... but at least in england...
i can speak the language
like some conrad of masovia:
readied to sell the "lesser creatures"
for the... encouraged...
integration to the *****: kneel...
of the baltic pruß...
who weren't... coddled...
the welsh weren't coddled...
they were "told" to... brighten their
day to day... expand...
fathom the easily accessed seas:
expand...
who owned the monopoly of
the baltic sea: as if it were
the bosphorus...
beside... the danes?
expansion of: ****** come together
with a ******: breathing
h. p. lovecraftian h'america...
loot maine and call it... start:
bittersweet apartheid...
not me: i'm still half of Vilno...
and the most remote aspect of L'viv...
no... crusader songs... no crusades: per se!

i used to play video games...
i became... more fascinated
with the romance of: a lost year...
that the school re(a)d... it wasn't in any
fathom of an iota of red:
or a synonym in burgundy:
for the worth of the burgundians:
leftovers of the angevins...
that richard the lionheart
found a love for england...
the island... an abhorring testimony
of youth and no solance...
that old age never found him:
akin to: the needle never found
the mystery of the haystack...

i am not! lithuanian!
common practice of exodus polacks...
paul-lacking:
slav and "e" dribbling...
      like the germanic peoples:
who aren't lingua franca revisions...

    ⰏⰑⰣ     ⰔⰑⰂⰑ...

lingering "blame"... darwinism via
the default...
the monkey skeleton left africa...
arrived in india.. left a schism...
some went to хины
             some went to:         чeнa..

   anglican via: the great mother siberia...
is a mother...
beside the zenith advent of: mother...
muffer: af-af-rye-c'ah'cah!
******* twins to mind the rhodes!

the skeleton left africa...
yes...
   but... the hindu morphed the genesis...
a second time... into writing...
what... phonetic encoding...
beside... the primodial...
   hieroglyphics... from africa... would have...
ever... arrived at our...
emoji internet advent... door-step of
extending democracy / demographics...
central?

the wheel and the square also
left africa with the skeleton:
the arithmetic of bones and muhammad...
but the triangle settled in greece
and became pythagoras...
and the letter: Δ....

    the inter-racial violence of north
h'america... is not... beside the wery bwitish
advent of ****-stan... as... imaginary
loitering of a border: coming to survive
with Belfast-Kashmir...
           that's making priority of...
the written word...
over the skeleton jump-start...
       bypass...
              and the emoji... and... grafitti...
clue out of africa...
never met... the sub-continent of india...
or... the chinese ideograms...
or sanskrit...
but... ******... *** and bounty...
the mongols never made...
crimea... their capital...
hastings was forever a washington's
survival guide...
       that theatre gave the birth
of lincoln and... whitman was...
everything any other poet: including
homer and dante always dreamed of...
that europeans invited themselves
toward: finding h'america in a can
of sardines...
and that the h'americans believed
they found europe... in kent or essex...
or... in books...
or... in loitering... or being...
allowed to be obnoxiously loud...

            like that **** would still stink:
100 years from now...
but yes... the libido of a genghis khan...
i trace my libido to:
how i imitate the people who
check their blood pressure when i *******...
i... genocide my... fractions into
the moloch couldron that's:
beside... the prayers of a...
        tele-evalngelical church of praises!
h'america is nothing new...
it's just better: regarding...
what remains... a solid old.
Pearson Bolt May 2019
the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.
Douglas Harrison Apr 2019
Your profile doesn’t have a picture but you have been good conversation
Working retail has reinforced the mindset that people are snowflakes in all shapes and sizes
This doesn’t help me, I literally have no idea what you could look like
Or if you are even a person
What if I’m chatting with a scientifically enhanced hamster
If some Lovecraftian being is mingling with me through the cosmos
I asked for a pic 5 minutes ago and the outlandish ideas above have humored me until you replied
Do I read it and force the universe to give me an answer
Do I delete this whole app and live my life never knowing for certain
What if you say no
Then it must be some tentacled being wishing to unravel my very being
If only they knew that if left to my own devices I’ll do that on my own
I got the pic and now as predicted I unravel myself
Why would you like me
Why would you think I’m cute
How in the world would you find me worthwhile
You have a college hoodie on and it only serves to remind me that I am still in my rut no matter how good things have been going recently
You are the breath of spring and the other shoe at the same time
I guess I’ll keep typing, I’m glad at least the void has a face now
S I N Dec 2019
Standing on the edge of the world
Is quite different from what you may've heard:
It’s quiet but with toneless droning of as if
A swarm of bumblebees in striped adorning
Buzzing relentlessly and aimlessly;
No waterfall or chasm or nothing it’s
Just, well, you know, reminds you of a list
Perspective: one step ahead and you
Are back again; no wonder it is so
Decrepit and shackled and you may
Not believe it but feeling of something,
Like, you know, of everything and nothing
At a time; something Lovecraftian;
Indescribable; inexpressible;
You just stand stranded and derive an
Energy from this darkless-though-lightless-as-well
Being in nothing at the edge of something;
Edge may be a little bit far-fetched;
You may be’d rather prefer a rim;
So be it so
A rim of the world; no end and no
Beginning, you know, just it somewhere
There aloof from everything and still
So close to all you know and feel;
Dunno; you just stand stranded on the
Sand as though at the edge of the ocean
No motion though is visible or tangible
But breeze you may feel tinkling on your
Face imbuing droplets of sweat but at
The moment of realizing of thinking
About it it drops and vanished and you
Again just standing stranded on the edge
Of the land abandoned on the rim of the
Horizon of events as reverse gravity’s
Rainbow is arching the other side of the
Universal plate where nothing at all but
Everything
Patrick McCombs Sep 2016
The clouds, low, thick and suffocating
Made the world feel compact
The airport has normalized
The strange metal beasts
That fly unhindered by gravity
The clouds hang low
The beasts fly high
The sounds of Engines
And Trembling Sonics
Are now heard without context
An otherwordly screech
By some lovecraftian horror
About to pierce the veil
And plummet into our plane
Paul Donnell May 2017
And you are the ocean aren't you?
This ceaseless undulation,
This orb of brine,
That floats in the speckless expanse of my other mind.
Your depths are unfathomable.
A planet of its own to explore.
What lovecraftian horrors do you hide?
What bio-luminescent wonders wander your depths?
Even in the darkest reaches, life pulses.
The transoceanic transmogrification that I partook in allowed me truth.
The salt ate my eyes, the wind burned my flesh, water choked my lungs.
Seagulls picked clean the remains but still I stood.
A ribcage still with breath.
No eyes to guide me,
No lies to see,
The ocean had drowned something already on the fringes of life.
As my bones marched a perceptionless place,
muscle soon formed around my frame.
Then skin,
Then eyes..
I found that I was whole and fresh.
Into still water I looked at myself anew and said
*"Hello."
Lilies May 2020
Perhaps you’re made to be the perfect mirror for the sky:
An earthmade object of vanity, dazzling and bright.
I think it’d make me far more comfortable
If I could just see through all this reflected light.

You’re cold, sharp, and shallow at the edges,
Even though it’s half past July.
I must dance atop of your mossy stone
Then stop when a familiar dark shape slithers by.

And when I finally reach the point
Where I have to desperately flap my arms
Like freshly plucked chicken wings
Just to stay on top of your unbridled form,

You’re strong and steady
In rushing past me to the right,
Pulling me along
In a current that is difficult to fight.

All the while I am forced to think of what is beneath me,
What can fit in all your space between me and your mud covered ground?
A scaly hand of some lovecraftian horror reaching up, up!
And grasping my left ankle, and pulling me down, down, down.
school assignment :^//
Paul Donnell Feb 2017
I remember fondly,
breathing fire with you,
your soul whispered softly
resonant red tunes.
Your depths had me drowning,
in deep briny blues.
Salt burned my eyes,
I was lost in you.

You told me you had to go.
You had your bait, you got your kicks.
The line was cut loose, the tide ripped me back
Smashed on the rocks,
hooks still in my back.

You deep sea monster,
I was entranced by your light,
I missed your teeth.

You siren, you sea witch,
You lovecraftian horror.

You got what you needed,
The gulls got the remains.

Yet here now I stand,
Stripped of my flesh.
Bones moved by the wind
My ribcage still with breath.
So I built me a tower
Fishbones and stench

To stand on your shore,
White as the moon
To stand on your shore
To watch over you
Because despite all of this.

I'm still in love with you.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
( either thrown beneath the trodding gods' apathy
and higher, rising, contempt -
or having to squalor in man's pyramids -
myriad grain on a heap -
consort or meander in the dung heap -
the mouthful of maggots -
      in this flesh eat flesh and the ******* of
bone-marrow of a couldron of human intrigue...
either...
          mad-riddled among the gods...
or castrated and shamed among fellow men...
in my cusp: a tenderness of beauty -
an imitation bowl or at least 10 volumes worth
of tablespoons - as that:
a ferocious gulping down of water...
               and at what point is death merely
a translator of the three factions...
                        of the harvest: a perpetual presence
as one would say: one born every minute...
what personification what mythology
      when... one is always oh so busy... ) a lovecraftian
                                                       pre-scriptum...
                                  
   interlude: thomas and timothy take to dancing
in limbo... thomas wears the stilletos...
timothy dons the straitjacket...

          and for lack of a better word...
when the jazz comes on there's no one wearing
corsets - or anyone who has any stoicism
leftovers... no wise-up maxims no other
in-depth and later let's call it life...

       some call it lazy - some call it lounging -
some even dare call it
an ottoman safina in a harem -
because... that better things to kneel on
when there's a required: height difference...
i can't imagine it otherwise...
the jazz comes on and these words
become: a blob of custard imitating bubbles
as it bubbles away...

                      a stoic striptease of language...
some have it in them...
the raw edible parts that become
a steak tartar...
                          red garland anywhere
but here... a miles davis quintet
playing ascenseur pour l'échafaud...
lift to the gallows...

        it has become a terrible, a most terrible
regret of mine:
to be somewhat easy on the eyes
and having a firm belief in education...
too bad this ambitions doesn't
translate into mandarin and back...

not gifted with an a priori outsider status...
i have to compete for...
what my father didn't beat me...
but i do remember that one time
my mother taught my a thing or two
about leather and belt...
but that's a non-contest memory...
you need to be the christ
and the father is asking for you to be crucified
thus becoming the
greenwich mean-time for over 2000 years...

shove a lovecraftian god into the affair...
although i haven't read any of it,
what's the worst that could come out of...
language that will not end up
being scribbled onto a postcard...
or made into a conversation over beer...
it either has to bloat and bamboozle my ergo-ergo
into a pop:
stray bullets... clinging into unwashed
dog hairs dragging along...
sweeping the cemented tiles...

the smell of a wet dog...
    the minor affairs of washing cats...
the screetching and scratches...
biscuit for a moon - a bite into the scythe...
crumbling and slowly melting chocolate...

two engineers came to my house today...
i greeted them with:
i'm sorry... i forgot how to speak...
i can write this: can you take this umbrella
and braille?
         the t.v. was sorted: somewhat...
i'll still have to phone up and deal with
the nitty-gritty woodcrawlers...

              a testament to: how to writer an,
autobiography, any alternative to this...

           i'm going through my jazz phase...
i've had my blues phase...
                   even by my current standards of
laconic - i didn't write anything better...
i just imagine all those autobiographies
that manage to shorten the passing of a year
into a single paragraph...
then allow the ghost, and writer...
to swoon in and scoop up some other
minor detail to throw back into the juggling act
of... a passing of a minute...

chip-on-my-shoulder! that's what "they" call it!
being educated is probably my single most
biggie of a regret...
            should have learned **** outside of school...
it's almost a sin to have loved learning...
but i never learned to be a terrible person...
a con- and that suffix -artist...
which is bad from the get-go...

               here's to drinking and interludes
with a lazy bladder!
   or not drinking and pretending that hours don't
double when everyone else is alseep...
and quadruple when the cats are sleeping...

because these words could somehow become
an event - an informal get-together when
the suits and skeletons are where they should
be: closet bound... but no, again: but no...

some variation of diatribe ensues -
and whenever you get a chance to exfoliate...
to don language like peacock feathers...
like some second to Konrad von Wallenrode -
not the right history...
or not...         tare here: a tier above becoming
better tailored...
improv. sequentials...

smoking  cigarette... feels less... less of anything...
esp. less of anything health related...
when listening to someone... healthily blow
out a tune from a sax or a hornet's needle: a trumpet...
the smoke is just the salt & pepper of
adding to the mystique of a listener...

imitation of writing and painting...
the nervous composition - tapping tapping tapping...
in any case not a frivolous amount
of "something"...

                jackson ******* met...
nikita the cossack... and.... cubism was left to
a fate akin to christine chubbuck -
that infamous myth of the immediacy of death...
when you shoot yourself in the head:
unlike Kafka who prescribed -
stabbing yourself in the heart...
too bad for the urban-myth of the cockroach
dying of starvation when decapitated...

the great injustice:
Kafka asked for his books to be printed
to enlarged scribbles...
they enlarged Bukowski's writing seeing just
how... oh but so little...
i call this: the statement of the nag...
the nagging daughter of a father-in-law
that would never allow...
            circus of words...
they still print books by Kafka by people
who are expected to read braille...
while they print Bukowski's books
expecting his oeuvre to become that of a Dumas...

i'm about this close to catching moths
and sneezing bookmarkrs made from
a dollop of dust... fingerprints and all...

a recurrent "theme"...
akin to: perhaps he's wondering why someone
would walk him into an empty prison
cell... and shooting him in the back of the head...
if he wasn't expecting him to lie
in that cell for a forthnight to come!

to better respect the bass...
whether in guitar form or: that sucker for
the plucker and:
no one was expecting to explain
a bow readied for a cello to him...
so... that's jazz...

                           i'm no better or: not exactly
worse... whatever this is...
i keep an immaculate list of affairs when
it comes to the confines of a living space...
i own two cats but my house doesn't
smell anything related to the scent of their furr...
or their **** or: god forbid the scent of
cat ****... it really doesn't take away from
cat's **** even if the male is castrated...
apparently the pungency of feline male ****
is not related to them owning a pair
of testicles...
i learned that... when i started to *******
by the tender, ripe, age... of being
unable to produce any *****...
so much for the dot dot clues...
                                        spasms of spam...

gregory corso had the voice...
but unlike a bukowski...
he wasn't doing a stoic striptease for:
the most basic forward of minimalism...
the lottery... and what's "better"...
before the mirror and how one would
begin to fashion beards and distinguish
them from a moustache...
the mullet from the comb-over...
and the focus came in the shadow
rather than... the pale ghost of the mirror...
or the lake... before the mirror started
to shine its sheen: snake shedding its skin...
no leftover boots to walk in...

beside the bedtime 20th century ref. -
that there are "too many poets"...
not right now there aren't...
well... there's enough of the rhyming kindred...
but what i'm looking at is...

                what if i had a fine peach ***
to go with the whole: golem affair?
thank god! there's "not enough" of us...
wording misers... but there's plenty of...
dissected body-parts clinging to the mirrors...
i'm content...

one more for the jazz fetish...
     and no more for the otherwise...
the "king" dons dawn as this crown...
and the night for his shawl...

                    in a language that only children
will understand... or borderline with...
the image...
                there are scratchings on
the wood... some believe them to be
the schematic of a future table, or chair...

the interpolation of:
soul as synonym of breath...
                         plato's reincarnation...
it was once upon deemed a lowering
of the "caste" should a man be reborn as a woman...
plato's take on gender dysphoria...
idle words thrown against the wind...

i almost wish i were about to striptease
into a stoic with a marcus "bukowski" aurelius...
but my tongue starts licking
the peacock and...            i have to forget whether
i'm moderately read...
or whether i have read at all...

           come to think of it...
for those that despise doubt...
       i much appreciate this plethora of feeling...
it's almost akin to being in love...
a darker, love...
how can one live with two certainties in life?
one being the impeding death of all mortal
itches... and the other: per se negatio - i.e. negation?

to be in love is to fall in love with
teasing and with doubting...
            to be reminded of it is... a labyrinth
of ecstasy!
             faith and negation are just
extreme certainties...
science the paradigm...
           but doubt... the plethora to
hercules' hydra...
                                      queen of thought
and the mind stuck to a pole...
peddle the wavering quivers of the winds
united...

then again: my words are not needed for the many...
or the better excuse:
insubordinate failure of a man...
reaching a grandfather status and a...
jolly ol' christmas to boot!

children: that one most prized asset of excuse...
to every other subsequent fancy of
events either being: to one's expectation...
or... lacklustre... sodden with grief
to sink into the depths of a watery grave...
of not having met expectations
to have given "it": the original investement in!

we could almost... unanimously ascribe
ourselves to a forgiveable wanton of:
raised in a nunnery... raised in an orphanage...
raised without psychoanalysis
or gender dysphoria to mind...
raised feral...
                            oh me... and my current concern
for a jazz fetish.
Overthinking concepts then,
Conceptualising my overthought thoughts,
And being wrought with Lovecraftian insecurity,
Words stumble out like it’s three at the club,
Thoughts confused like it’s three at the club,
Existential then small; then harrowing then disparagingly normal,
Repeating points and the still being lost from the point,
Frustration as we weave around the point,
Where’s Wally-ing the words I’m looking for,
A million in one,
I wonder what the exact Wally statistic is,
Am I bi?
Or straight?
Or confused?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I happy?
Or sad?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I loved?
Or lost?
Or alive?
Or real?
Every problem upscaled to reality,
An anxiety manifested in universal proportions,
If life is a story, then why’s mine so close to not being boring?
Like a film with the wrong director but the right script,
Through hardship and pain,
you would hope I became,
Something more,
Or learn a lesson,
Yet every lesson I learnt is being rewritten,
No solid thought,
Just liquid existence,
It’s all in connections,
Nature is woman,
And harshness is man,
The link exists I’m sue,
But finding the words I’m lost,
Scores of wondrous ideas with no real reason,
Life has no reason,
Life’s full of reason,
Life is the reason,
I’ve never truly lost,
I only get kicked from group chats or families,
Without family we lack identity,
Without reason this poem lacks footing in reality,
My reality lacks footing in reality,
Is this meant to happen on the daily?
It’s three at the club,
Waiting for the taxi,
Writing on the memo app,
Hoping that when I wake up these words mean something,
Or if they don’t then at least they read well,
In the morning,
Where I’ll be ***** and yawning,
Forgetting these events as they’re fleeting,
I’ve been theorising that all people fantasise about dying,
Pushing ourselves till we destroy it all trying,
Die an icon,
Or a *******,
Either way end up forgotten,
Controversially, I would call myself an optimist,
Not traditionally, sure,
But this longing is the purest,
Confused.
For me.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
i kept but one name-given namesake -
finally!
now it has become clear:
the german definite article -
die: implies definite article plural -
der: implies definite article singular -

i've become prone to german songs -
more than i'd like -
but i'd sooner die than have to recount
'hej hej sokoły' -
as the only folk song my ear was lent to...

an hour well spent:
a sudoku puzzle and some workhorse
germanic folk -
or listening the pearls and wisdom
of shane macgowan:
point being: the words come from
the tooth -
but only the french and the irish girls
can pull off... wearing short hair like
she'd be a boy...
perhaps those physiognomy details
of shy and porcelain:
faces that were only ever kissed
by the moon - the hair was was only
ever combed by the wind -
and she can come among the brothers
as a amber nectar gem ruffian in disguise...

sinead o'connor, alizée jacotey -
how the hell does tuba büyüküstün come
into the mix? ever so slyly...

bbc4 : 'when it was unpolular and unfashionable
to be irish in england'...
"unfashionable"? the drunken paddy -
the respectable ireland and its own...

conrad - conrad of masovia -
perhaps i just liked the names given unto me
that i chose not to be confirmed
at the brentwood diocees -
all whole lot of it: with a bishop clad in thistle -
the surname was always insignificant:
paperwork -
but at least the names allow you derive
meaning -

poor you alexander -
no minor roles to attach yourself to -
beside the glaring obvious...
st. levi: my former...

- i have only met one woman who ever
wanted to fiddle with my beard -
does it matter that she's my grandmother?
itchy fingers reach in and
pluck out a quartet of violins...

lie eines tambours:
die toten, die toten des regiments
(the dead, the dead of the regiment)

der tod in flandern:
der tod reit't auf einen kohlschwarzen rappe
(death rides on a coalblack horse)
in flandern reitet der tod
(in flanders death rides)
der tod reit't auf einem lichten schimmel
(death rides a pale horse)

teutonic marching party hum:
no wagner! murmurs and mumbling of disgruntled
baritone:
rataplan don diri don!
back from the east and there was
no cleavage to the british ways...
there was always the old one,
the alles vater of germanic roots and rot...
even in multicultural Loon'don...

but now know of the definite article distinction
in german:
der tod: definite singular...
die tod: definite plural... ja! jetzt isch sehen!

fa'lalala... fa'lalala... tamtaradej! tamtaradej!
niemec norweg duńczyk szwed!

a television - a phone no one rings -
all the blessings of the age -
better still - ghost in a skeleton suckling off
flesh - or staging: no soul welcome...
congested and freed from the loitering of
labour -

i would hardly imitate the irish as the dogs
of the british - sinking teeth into gaelic -
i would -
but since i do not have to...
i'd lend my ear toward speaking:
father german - of what this british brat
is worth...
father... alt-vater ßaß!
tease him, or tickle him...
give him a peacock as a gift for the missing
eye...
watch the crow zeppelins come knowing
how to knock...

i very much believe in a linguistic integrity
of a people - a language is beside the waving of
the flag - perhaps i am inclined
to skin of the supposed irish that do not
speak a word of gaelic: more so...
if they have tatoos on their skin?

the welsh have been given a strict overlord -
even though the english claim they
are the one *****-slap shy of donning
a gimp suit...
loud mouths from scotland...
but nothing in their native spreschen!
exfoliating "orthography" glaswegian...

oh but i would be willing to succumb to
this leprechaun sing-alongs...
i'm a workhorse of folk -
i need the drums and the vocals will do the rest -
no need for bagpipes -
or fiddling or dread the banjo...
old continent yawns...

who is the father of the english?
when the english start to... become too over-confident...
arrogant and atypical islander mentality that
doesn't borrow anything from the isolationism
of the Faroe Island people?
the forbidden fruit of the same language
being spoken "across the pond"...
unlike island dwelling people...
who want to be left alone...
strange... that so much media attention must
be given to a people:
that clearly do not want to be left alone!
who said the british didn't just generate
4 years of journalistic pay-cheques for
newspapers and other outlets?
stalling tactics... feeding tactics...
feed the propaganda hogs who will
gobble down anything and regurgitate with
an alistair cambell at the fore...

i was expecting to read some keneth koch,
listening to something beside german folk songs...
solving a sudoku...
and finally deciding... it would be worthwhile
to invest almost 30 quid in a complete works
of this poet...
one thing i've noticed...
the price of books has gone up dractically!
i once thought: paying 30 quid for heidegger's
ponderings VII - XI and II - VI is a bit steep...
but not all the poetry books i want to buy
cost just as much!

30 quid... em... that's almost a carton
of cigarettes...
and i've been hoping to save up to visit a brothel
and forget something:
of no immediate concern...
but poetry books were never this dear to buy...
i was rather spontaneous when
making a recommendation: kenneth koch...
perhaps i should read some more
before i buy this kilogram's worth
of compressed forest of a book...

but that's all the way into a tomorrow's
sitting before: this will never become
a Balzac 14 coffee work-ethic output...
writing: making sure the reader
has no chance to reflect -
nothing to introspect with or for...
then again:
what's any of this supposed to do
with: beside the reflexive?

man's transcendental love will never compensate
for the pragmatic love of a woman
in need for a, kettle...

shady lots of the unforgiving blue-snippet
of jazz and all the better:
that could happen that didn't originate
with british punk...
1960s screaming girls -
1970s and the boys could come around...

yeah, i've been to Ypres - where as pseudo-children
we played hide-and-seek trade-offs
in the trenches...
where the anglo-spreschen graveyards
have signatures: names -
and individual graves...
the german graves? the german graves
of 1st world war?
wilhelm! are you listening?!
apparently the jews were also
trafficed into the slaughter camps...

i have stood in the graveyards
of the germans - the en masse graves sites -
i have witnessed the silence of these graves...
camaraderie of the dead...
nothing of which the english
would ever learn...
in the graveyards
of a "communal"...

the mass graves of the fallen german
"hitlerjunge"... alles im schwarz...
keiner im khaki: senf hinter abendessen!

i stood in the graveyard of the world war
german en masse graveyards...
no sparrow will sing: when the dead sing among
each other...
i will not visit the slaughterhouse
of auschwitz... the cow-towing...
i will not bow before those that were naive...
but i will nonetheless...
succumb to the idiots...

and the Helmut: die eisenhelmkopf: knock-knock...
echo? echo?
among the english...
one is supposed to reach toward
loving the german
(then again one isn't);
feeling indifferent to this lot...
not being quiet the h'american expatriates
they could have been...
old father sax...

the world can heave: settle for the concentration
camps...
i must savor the bounty found in
german en masse graveyards from
the first world world war
if any slaughterhouse is willing to open
its gates to an esque auschwitz...
so be it... but the graveyard
to the youth of germany, wilhelm youth...
camaraderie: freundschaft-im-tod

mutter-tod!
i need not see the concentration camps,
i've seen the graveyards of germany from
the first world war...
if you've seen one sardaine crammed closure
ground...
and the silence...
what does it matter, regarding the people
so naive?

vier! 4th! alternatively: fear!
the mass graves of the youth under Wilhelm
in the vicinity of Ypres...
that acidic silence...
piquant...
and i am supposed to visit the concentration
camp the slaughterhouse?
what will always die
with being naive... trust... and love...
and disinhibition and...
lingua franca ergonomics of
selling stale wood in the form
of antiques...

i know one way of failing to integrate
into english society...
look down... learn some german...
learn what the old father spoke when
he started to brew these unforgiving children
of the chandelier maze...

i'll be singing these germanic folk songs...
x-ray flag of cornwall -
teutonic - black cross upon the white flag...
muslims nearing jerusalem -
old pagans of lithuania
remnants of the golden horde having settled
in ukraine's crimea -

best felt: of what it feels to be alive,
in england...
tinging the old ****** with a dalmation specker
full blodied worth of:
zee ols: germanicus inhibutus -
because there's not need for *****...
as far as the british go...
in... ***** first: welcome! the conquering
par'tayh!

******* soft-ball dodgers and ****-*******
pinzetteblödsinnausweichmanöver:
ease a coming... you *******
weiser herr misers!
lovecraftian video vermont
aenemic *****-liquor...

poetryfoundation.org poet:
is he / she dead?!
they're dead? they're dead?!
oh thank god there's a dead...
and body worthwhile to **** with...
because safety... safety...
and no bit of h. h. holmes
will ever grace the pish-poor pasrty...
party... oops...
******* yankies...

horror is a fetish...
poor croat poor yugoslav...
unless you mention
the serbs and the balkan "muslims"...
high-brow expectation -
until i am willing to meet
not meat...
my fore-bride... death...
honk honk!
i am more than willing top die
via the swizz affair than all this,
******* fawty towers agony...
pristine and puritanical...
the living better excused to live...
enough to buy them life insurance...
and, otherwise... the remains of
dead willing to pop the cork...

the sane always have their: two pence shave
worth of flip: they know-it-how...
the sane will alway know what to write
about insanity...
problem? when the insane write about sanity...
and the mole-hills and whatever it left
becomes the windowlicker down-dyndrome
chop-suey "oops"?
retro-****: or simply: re-...
the sane have authority over the insane...
what happens when the insane have a crab-bite
on the concept of "sanity"...
people elsewhere also die... no?

sanity that requires grey-matter peep-show
peoples to run miles for:
the dying auntie and her cancerous loved-up
"french"...
the sane speak of the insane
i almost forget: the insane would never
speak about the sane... because...
it's nostalgia: papa roach:
between angels and insects...
as dostoyevsky said:
for angels... the sight of god's throne...
for insects... something associated with
succumbing to soap opera and itchy ***
disinhibitions...

why would i visit these concentration camps?
living in western europe first world war
was more important than the 2nd world war...
i've visited a german world war I mass grave...
why would i subsequently visit
the remains of a concentration camp?
a site near Ypres where no sparrow
will cling to branch or to song...

for no reason: don't tease... stop teasing...
if you life is all mud and mediocre and
soap opera... stop teasing!
i will not visit a concentration camp...
appeasing the hebrew...
only when... the graveyard of the en masse
dead of german youth is visited from
the 1st world war...
where... bullet, mud...
fingerprints not welcome...
citizens non-anon...
auschwitz and death the addressee...

the sane and their stipends concerning insanity!
but then one diagnosis falls foul...
and the straitjacket jack starts speaking...
oh! oh then!
the usual story...
the usual *******-become-bells-and-church-uvulas...
and the rest is just a cry, a sigh,
a boring reminder of the british raj...

learn some german...
the peasants will retain theirs with some velsh...
and that's how you
react to be... "leisured with a caption
of being measured via
the focus of having a father"...

liebe: zu nicht lassen gehen...
liebe: das alles ich können behalten!

i rather speak some german on these isles...
this is not ******* h'america...
this is the old continent..
england serves for *******'s worth of nothing
when it is excused to speak german...
while english is relegated for chinese tourists...
and... the faroe island farmers of sheeps' **** and wool...

it's not like you'd expect to become welcome
these days, or any other days...
as a tourist or as a ******* trader...
of "goods"...
made in chine is the broker's deal to begin with...
on the broken bone signature...

i too thought the english were prized on
giving stipends on how:
how to best keep things cordial...
champagne, oysters... the eton mess...
a good round of polo and ******* wacking...
no?

i do admire the early exits of the suicide prone...
i would too...
but i do crave... for the platic 20 quid banknote...
and what would become of charles III
should he chose a different name...
and i really wish that lizzie lives her most...
but then... her current grin is already
tombstone... and she...
well... she's bothersome in that she's pradictable...
and that's boring and bongo-bongo boorish...

****'s sake: two popes teamed up to try
and topple her off the throne and play snooker
into a dead-8 with her crown...
better speak some german: for jokes...
among... the british... that did live through
the 60s of the 20th century...
but... will never relive the same cushioning
of history to somehow "compensate"
the rolling stones dinosaur of the:
most welcome pensioner rock & zimmer framers...
roll with that sort of shaky stephens
park-on-eire-n-son?

just drop the delayed nuke...
we're all done and b.b.q. readied
recounting what's interpreted as "trauma"...
superiority / the messiah complex
of the english...
but you speak a word of german...
you think a word of german and...

do these people care, to, remember,
their, natural, neighbourly...
competitive streaks with the fwench?
it's just like "us"... the polacks with the russians...
with the germans...
i too thought that the ukranians were
better represented by competing with
leftover mongols of crimea.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2023
there are all these street references in modern
American poetics as if
anyone would or should give a ****
where Coventry Road, Ilford
or Beehive Lane, Gants Hill
   or Havering Road, Romford ought to or not
ought to be...

mind you: if there's anything i'm in awe of
i'm in awe of modern... post(?)modern
American poetics...
since no other people cry out: democracy!
and then shelter into under a poem
to salvage some realism of:
outside of the ballot box: the truest frenzy
of expressing freedom and individuation
and... what else?

ah yes, capitalised on discovering how
atoms can't be manipulated otherwise
to be used for boo 'n' 'mb...
so no great philosophers' stone unearthed
when the boo 'n' 'mb touched ground
on the keel of Hi'row'sha'mah shamanism
for clouds get "*****" with plum hues
when gathering water losing salt
when it is about to become a draped drenching
like a wrath of god and genghis khan
making coded eye-twitch-signals
because that pile of chalk is bone
and heaped as it was in Baghdad it wasn't
exactly: Pisa leaning...

    stacking bone-heads (bein-köpfe)
is stacking bricks, somewhat not but if pyramids
are concerned:
    Christian "mongols" did the same
to the library of Alexandria:
books were burned and later gold was revalued
at double its worth... since knowledge:
or simply knowing how to hack a faulty plumbing
device was passed down for two generations
sober until a drunk fetish for revelry...

the Baltic sea stinks of herrings...
hear-says i say i hear: sometimes it's not worth
hearing anything but a lover's snoring
with dictation of: i don't mind...

i won't be writing an equivalent of
"for my people" in the vein of Margaret Walker...
to me English is a language of commerce
and some off-shoot locals
like Cockneys befriending Essex groundwork...

i can't dispense my intellect to do
neo-colonial or post-colonial politico lingo jar
jar jargon...
i can actually excuse myself and it seems i must:
i must excuse myself from the concerns of
the English and what the hell they have done
with their "heritage"...
it's all very reminiscent of the 3 partitions of
Poland... one of the few instances
where at least 3 languages congregated
in a communion of a state...
at least ****** Litha and Ukra...

   not that i'm hot on my heels to return to the land
of hobbits and orcs in the middle of
the funnel continent that's Europe...
but if the common Englishman was
"robbed" of his laziness then
his laziness is a robbery in and of itself...
sure: to make life so expensive that it does
require the import of foreign labour for menial
tasks...

ask Leibniz: the librarian...
i'm a security guard at large events
and it's almost a simile in terms of how deviant
ambition can be(come)...
the concerns of the English are no concern for me...
notably?
  ah... this lovely chestnut...
why is Whitechapel spelled in Bengali
on the station entrance?

       হোয়াইটচ্যাপেল

palagi wordsmith... that's samoan for:
people from heaven donning cloth sheets to capture
the winds...
my concerns are not the concerns of the English...
i think "my" people have kept intact
European concerns...
Russia is sort of off limits as is Romania
Poland Lithuania, Bulgaria,
well: beyond touristy English no one is going
to live out a lingocide...

veit-shapel?!

            but i feel not allegiance to the "threats"
of what the natives speak of...
given the natives are still most intact
as the Welsh and the Gaels and the Scots
even though: beside the notable Welsh linguistic presence
the Scots reduced themselves to
scribbling phonetically
rather than linguistically...
so the theory off of Darwinism emerged just
as much with the advent of:
crazy idea European stranglehold
on the universality of the use of fork and hammer
and toilet... beside the brickwall of chopsticks
stone head and ******* and ******* into
the sea...

        lingo vs. phono

                 splits two brains into one and revels
in two tongues blinding one eye
with one ear honing to the sound of the migration
of bees...

i remember my origins in this land
and i am clearly peeved that what CONSERVATIVE
once meant... also meant:
deportation... also meant my father and mother
being handcuffed while i punched the wall...
so banana boat ahoy
so banana boats ahoy...
i'm still a furious pro-recyclist
in that i like to keep this island clean...
but i defer when there's a complaint:
oh illegal this one, not illegal that, one...
comes with orientating oneself
when there's clearly an ethnic nepotism...

how else was mass illegal immigration
into England made feasible if not by ethnic nepotism?
those already here
ensured they could prosper even more
by importing cheaper labour and pay them
droplets and breadcrumbs
while stashing their legal papers while
abodes of the Sheiks' were erected...
seems that smart people are a bad judge of liars...
because liars get freebies of innocent tickles...

i reimagine myself starting again
on the islands of Hawaii
concerning myself with: i'm not American...
and you ******* came all the way from: Taiwan!
sure... no horses like the Mongols
to transverse the plains of Siberia...
row row, row your boat...
   admirable... truly...
England is saturated so that i can't make excuses
for it making excuses being strapped
to either a straitjacket...
or rather... who invented the first straitjacket
if not Odysseus when encountering
the mermaids' song?

i can't be moved since i too am an arrival...
when applying for a job at Fulham's Craven Cottage:
being all hard-on for diversity and inclusivity
i put down my ethnicity as:
ANGLO-SLAVIC...
well in school i was taught about the Anglo-Saxons...
that's Anglo: Welsh, Irish, Scots... and the Saxons...
anything wrong with my assumption?
out of all the football clubs they pay the best...
am i not an Anglo-Slav?
well... i wouldn't put it down as a British-Blackpolack
because it just doesn't sound right...

all together... since the referendum
a marked disinterest from "my" people to settle or live
among: the Romanians fit just ever so slightly
better with the Asian demographic,
almost indistinguishable...
so after the referendum eastern europeans ******
off back home and
now we have confused locals siding with
political marches pro-Philistines
like it really matters, not...

                            shock-troops of the right
are still only yobs and psychiatric clues to the wonk
of anything worth being debated...

but as i dropped my mother off at Stratford
and was coming home...
well... so much for loving this piece of land...
and the language...
i can't get all fired up about heritage...

bo i tak mogę pisać po Polsku...
bo i tak: mogę myśleć po Polsku...
oddly enough, not really...
i don't need to be involved in an "culture war"...
which is? less a war and more:
a cultural exhaustion...
       an exhaustion of and a lack of expression of:
since everything has become a microcosm
of politics... a shifting zeitgeist rots
like a Lovecraftian anti-deity...
even the summations of borrowing Darwinism
for simpler explanations of:
not everyone is getting laid blah blah...
the war bride answer to why oh why...
blah blah...

            i can actually step back and refrain
from any panic... mingling with the Muslims
and the Hindus like this island was for partitioning:
clearly it's not...
but i'm just somewhat suspicious...
the whole world is here...
with the odd two dialects missing...
and? nothing spectacular is happening:
there's no Beatlemania...
there's no Britpop reinvention revolution...
it almost seems that someone has taken
the reins and said: whoa whoa whoa...
shh... slow down... let's find gravity again...

that's the plus side of being an immigrant among
immigrants and faking it being English...
only yesterday i had a revelation of:
but... i was faking being English, all along?
i couldn't learn the Essex accent...
so the London cosmopolitan educated type had to do...
but still...
mind you: before the current wave of immigration
there was that one little pocket
of resistance: no. 302 and no. 303 Polish fighter
divisions in the RAF...
less spectacular when the plumbers came:
i gather...

            but if i had to bend over backwards
and walk like a cryptic anti-toddler
in a circus' act of gymnastics: or some freak accident
in a horror movie... just to be supposedly
"anti-racist"...
  make more fetishes and unrealities of
individuation and self-sovereignty:

up to a point... until i'm a passenger in a bus
and i require a bus driver...
or a baker... or a shoesmith...
for ****'s sake... nice theory:
put into practice: leeches of the monetary dynamic
akin to usury and then thrown back
into the reality of 7 billion people and
we have tasks... individuated tasks:
specific tasks... yet such frank opent bluntness of
these people and their money...
yet somehow lacking the skills to perform
open heart surgery on themselves! hmm!
odd... why not?! divinity atom-ego?!
you get whiffs of their lack of schematic of politeness
on the basis that money touches anything
and ergo it transforms is done
by the magic of materialism of:
but money per se is not materialism per se...

money is like water, it is transactional...
it is not a stone...
         enough accumulation of it is a bit like...
a limp ****... it's the ******'s fetishism...
of ghost *****...
    ******'s 1% club... or rather...
the impotence of riches...
                 a strange kind of hunger is born thus...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
let's start this impromptu on the ugly side of "things"... i sometimes watch social-commentary videos... of note... the expatriate black pigeon speaks living it out in Nippon... Joy on a Frying Pan... ferrying pigeons to the gut... along with some squid... he showcased a sample of a mad crowd chanting: WHITE PIG GO HOME... well... PIGS becomes the acronym P.I.G.S. in the northern batch of You're-Epic... all that's Portugal... Italy... Greece and Spain... last time i checked... pig meat is unlike chicken meat... you can actually eat it slightly raw...  it's not sushi... forgive me... but then sushi is no raw Baltic herring in a creamy dill sauce...

clearly i was outnumbered in Venice... i used to take weekend
excursions in European cities by myself
and stay in hostels picking up random conversations
with strangers...
not that many... there could have been more:
Paris being the most memorable...
but Venice? Venice was something else...
i stayed in a hostel that started to resemble a nunnery...
i was outnumbered...
beside the other male who was sharing duties
of upkeep with a female...
i was... outstripped in the ratio of 1 : 10... at least
ten... there was a girl from Argentina...
a timid mid-30s Norwegian...
some others... but esp. these two...
travellers from the afar of H'america...
a Jewish Italian Leigh... and...
oh god... she was a mixture of plum and cherry...
and some peaches on the side...
they were taking a road trip around Italy...
both had some alliance to the heritage...
if you're sitting down at a table and
you're outnumbered...
and this peaches and plums and cherries
takes a fancy for you:
she doesn't disguise it:
'as handsome as you'...
hello ******... bad boy attitude implies what?
being unbelievably irksome?
Hannibal Lecter bad boy i.q. testing is
too: shudder flinging... vide cor meum...
the men women find attractive i find
simply annoying...
was i supposed to gloat in the paid compliment?
after dinner we took two or three riverboats
to Venice beach where i prescribed some
absinthe shots...
i was too drunk before the girls were gearing
up to giddy-up...
drunk's GPS... like that time in Athens
returning from a striptease-bar:
burrowing my face in the *****
of at least two strippers...

mythological blonde Australian girls...
yeah... they were in the mix...
next day a dispute arose...
a bunch of girls wanted to do X...
the H'american girls were split on decision
making...
i felt bad for Leigh... no one wanted to side
with her...
was i going to peacock myself ***** around
with these bunch of girls
or take up Leigh on her fancies?
of course i chose her company than have
to deal with a makeshift harem...
so me an her ended up sightseeing Venice
like a couple...
we ate pistachio ice-cream... St. Mark's wasn't
flooded... the blackshirts weren't there either...
she wanted to take me to the synagogue...
we went to the synagogue when it was just closing...
but there was still some activity in
the student centre nearby...
that's when i learned about the 613 (mitzvot)...

we ended up talking to some orthodox
men... one had a SHOFAR...
i told him to blow into it... he did...
now... i said: call it...
all of a sudden Leigh started to dart around
in chaotic vectors of ego...
i was being a tourist one minute...
the next i was keeping a wild thing...
she even paid for the water-taxi on our way
back to the hostel...
she still had about 2 weeks' worth of sightseeing
the Italian peninsula with her university friend...
all of a sudden
she decided to fly back to America...
she was gone before the makeshift harem
came back from their sightseeing...
i was sitting in the corner reading snippets of:
the Little Apocalypse...
- where's Leigh?
- oh... she decided to go home...
silence... it wasn't even awkward...
        for me it wasn't...
two girls that planned a tour of the Italian peninsula:
oh i'm pretty sure they still had
their sights on Rome...
then i came across their path...
i don't remember what i said...
i really don't... but this look of resignation
is still burning in my mind
like an epitaph might overshadow
the dates or birth and death on
a tombstone...
the female caretaker of the hostel
made me some hamburgers the next day
we sat in a makeshift scrutiny of silence
while she admired my way of eating
with a fullness of hunger...
she only made some hamburgers...
did i make an off-the-cuff remark about
Hey-Zeus in a museum?
don't know (dunno)...
my first girlfriend's father called me a charmer...
am i a charmer: self-love...
all that i am and...
               in a world bound to the poetic
of Je-Suis... a shade a tad bit more tiresome...
perhaps the Lebanese will throw in
historical antics:
apparently all the nations that were invaded
by the Mongol were given a sentence:
100 years behind the ones not invaded by
this: flea-infested.... ****-smeared nomads...
a tragedy: literally: a tragedy equivalent to
how the Christians burnt down the pagan
library of Alexandria: the Mongols did likewise
in Iraq...
as ever: crab-bucket mentality...
somehow: only "now" are we receiving
concerns for: what happens if certain people
are not allowed to properly state their prowess!
but that's only: vaguely...

i don't know how this slur came to be in my possession...
the word itself almost sounds Chapanese...
sorry: Japanese
KARAKAN...
not kraken... KARAKAN... (カラカン)
perhaps the Mongols brought it over
when they did their knock-knock party trick
of... the best party the world ever saw:
the expansion of the Mongol empire...
later known as the trumpet call of
the Cracow Hey-Now: Hejnał (mariacki)
st. mary's trumpet call...
the mongol arrow piercing the trumpeter's throat...
well... it's not Hejnał (maryii)
last time i read a newspaper
the Czech girls were supposedly glad
to have toppled the patriarchy
by losing the -ova suffix in surnames...
a bit like Mr. Kowalski becoming Mr. Kowal...
and a bit like Mrs. Kowalska becoming Mrs. Kowal...
Ms. Kowal:
language has most certainly become
a diseased hollow-house that once
entertained brains and tongues...


at best U2's angel of harem... is the closest i come
to Van Morrison...
can't just forget the M.O.P. (most oppressed people)
of the world: behind the Irish... running double
sure doubly blind...

tell me it's not true... the whole idea of romance:
as stated by the flick of: beautiful woman...
that a prostitutes' lips are niqab prone
sanctity... i don't remember how many kisses i have
stolen from the lips of: the lips that
willingly shared... more than mere lips to crease
themselves on...
drinking red wine: i don't like the numbing...
i add some pepsi... hey presto! kalimotxo...
the drink of Mayan gods...
feathers of peacocks and macaws...
tossed around for a joke of dice...
towing: bone...
by a macaque pirate: primate...

not all from Africa... i find my heart in India:
how i became morphed by mother Siberia
i will never truly know...
how much of history has to be forgotten:
lost... undermined... almost all of it:
it would seem...
the genesis of a game of tennis...
even in high-school we weren't interested
in girls... a game of cards...
and some slap-ball...
the "concept" of woman disintegrates
any further mention of the solidarity of man...
let alone brotherhood...
it's a sorry-*** affair of not being
as pristine as the ******* of swans...
live among us: in harems...
teasing the yawns of lion waiting for the growls /
roars...

good to have these bonsai tigers on a spare...
even as a man i adore these creatures...
i brought one home today...
holding its hind legs...
i brought him
hanging upside down:
to add to the concept of giving it:
added perspectives...

- i once sat in the same bench with a Thai girl...
during a biology girl...
the teacher: Mrs. Cowell asked each of
us to look into each other's eyes
and tell what colour our irises were:
sure... she's wasn't a Thai ssurprise
of a timid *****... she looked and looked...
*****: GREEN, GREEN... see a *******
leprechaun steering a tram into your soul!
Green!
so solid with these monochromatic
peoples are ****-smear skin, brown irises...
raven hair...
once upon a time the ugly head
of a ginger Pakistani beard...
some other beside the ***** Khan...
some blue-eyed of Afghanistan not sacrificed
like some Albino demon of...
whatever is to be leftover from Africa...

- カラカン (KARAKAN) it's hardly a racial slur...
did i insinuate ******* lemons for the proper
squint of the eyes?
the Japanese can reach a suntan status...
they're also very eager to showcase themselves
ski-jumping with the Europeans...
it's not a racial-slur... it's a slur of HEIGHT...
****** shogun! oi oi!
the man who demanded the building
of a pyramid... the greatest - ahem... joke -
of a celebration of life:
made it crystal clear:
build me a monument to celebrate my death!

i agree... it's not as well fathomable as the Korean
method...
the man behind Hangul... Sejong...
thank god he lived and died so close
to his existence not being undermined:
let's assume Abraham invented the Hebrew sprach...
the Cimmerian Sibyl: Carmenta
of all that's Latin? disguise as English:
now?

oh sure... patriarchy... more wine! more wine!
i need to find sleep!
to hell with the architecture of dreams!
i need to find sleep!

look here: a pseudo su doku
of the disappearing vowel:
the appearing consonant in the schematic of katakana:

カア
            ラア
                           カア
                                           ン

imagine rewriting these syllables as:
suffixes... vowel first...
hence? it's limited... phonetically...
perhaps for some... scarce fetish for exploring
hieroglyphs...
emoticons...
or what Vilhelm Thomsen made of
the Orkhon runes...
out of Africa... beside the hieroglyphs of
owl foster son of river flow...
perhaps the spectacle of ape came out of Africa...
but sure as **** the writing didn't...
the writing came out of India...

Africa can give up her grinding of the fringe...
i'm looking for skeletons:
who can't forget the spices
and the skeletons of writing excavated
from the blue Indians -
the smoky bomb that was forever
the black cardamom... who?
some Halved-African fudge-packaged
fufu?
the **** abhor the Chinese...
the English hate the Germans...
i'm a ****** that abhors fellow Polacks
in the diaspora of Polacks...

Darwinism is great: up to and including
a concern / conceptualising history...
**** similis was well known...
the ancients of Rome acknowledged
the blatant similarity...
of man's descent from ape...
but none would ever tease it as:
somehow a "shortcoming":

pierdolony karakan: azjatycki!
here's my racial slur against the Japanese...
keep them sedated: islander quirks...
Tokyo juicy...
it's not ******* lemons squint of
the eye... it's their ******* samurai height...
you know... you can write white as:
wite... right... whyte..
lite... wha-cradle...
bring on the peddle... later: latest of all:
the stool...

islanders: *** or Eng- alike!
their ******* diet of... fish...
crustaceans: in the houses of parliament
the topic is leveraged surrounding:
can humans feel... apathy?
if snails are being debated convening
their experience of pain:
no tiger would ever **** me for pleasure:
no lion would ever **** me or keep
be tortured: for sadistic ulterior avenues
of expression...
next thing you know:
i'll be bargaining with a foreign
entity of a parasite's worth...
than... convene a human: who's man?

how we have become almost claustrophobic...
disorientated within the provided confines
of ourselves...

i once imagined myself talking FOR these "people":
   oh god...  had some more aplenty prepositional
jargon to work with...
i ended up "talking" WITH these "people":
democratically viable...
i go my way... they go their own way...
almost everyone is satisfied...

to fear the old gods in a h. p. Lovecraftian sense...
who needs any supposition of love
when the emblem of said, "supposed" love
is being nailed to a ******* cross?
only a a Greek might...
but where's the Hebrew in the entirety of
the stated equation to undermine the Roman
Empire?
scuttling like the ******* rat her better be!

of a people that have been so undernourished
that... the ******* guillotine might miss their
necks! karakany: plural of karakan...
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
somehow drunk on language: a jazz impromptu...
nothing is ever to be orchestrated
or read from a script...
    
               and drinking besides...
               a manifesto on the sly?
               i hardly think: or rather:
               i hardly want to...
               compose one...

but i am sure to find some freedom... it's not
that much... it will do: working from the confines
of a dickensian paragraph is all the rage:
of all - but not these days, to be exact...

crumbs from the table of "muse"...
   it's a low-hanging fruit...
   something of the sort of worth than can only
   be worth: merely passing the time...
    by the mortal "adventure" circuit of events...
   this is me: not being present when
   beer, or flour... or ketchup...
   or mayonnaise... or the method of frying
   using oil... or poaching an egg...
   or the litany of respective spices
   being used in a curry...
  something grand... the moderns and their:
darwinistic slyly sliding into every narrative:
ideologues of darwinism...
who are they?
the history of man...
a back and forth:
starting with / from today...
   all the way back to... primodial times...
hunters: we were...
gatherers: we were...
foragers: oh for ****'s sake: WE WOZ!

i'm tired of the monkey veil...
               at least under the iron curtain...
something of freedom trickled through
the sieve, the cracks...
      where to? given this silicon curtain:
freedom on... zee fekkin mond?
apparently very little "history" happened:
or has had to happen...

there's only now: the 20th century...
   and then... nibbles of the 19th century's zenith
of... thomas ddison and george westinghouse,
alexander bell...
       but prior to all that...
the 19th century inventors and pioneers...
the 20th century pop culture...
all those ignorant ***** prior to the grand: "US"...

when darwinism: which is an ideology...
goes beyond biology... and... like leftism...
like communism... spreads its tentackles
into all things unattached with it...
i can hardly see a consolidation argument:
an omnipresent "needle work thread-through"...
am i in denial or do i simply think that
darwinism has robbed history of time...
as a linear motivation for moving forward:
by a poppy seed's volume per year...
on one's knees: up to climb mt. megiddo?

i am pretty sure darwinism...
        doesn't have the capacity to dictate
a branch of history that stresses its presence
via etymology -
how... the word cool: is currently out
of vogue... and in decline...
               back to the reality of:
having a cold beer...
           which is cool... because a room temp.
beer is... choice:
bad-manners... crass... puke-juice...
and some others i'm tired to conjure...

  but this jumping from: primodial man:
to the current, modern man...
and leaving no traces for the middle-men...
a philip augustus of france: the capetian...
      
     pompeii: circa 70ad...
                 sometimes the gods would visit...
hermes trismegistus...
       because it was: so...
                   then again:
the darwinistic historogical reflections are
a bit like saying: we've been hoarding...
there's no brain without a fever to store all
the past claims of vanity...
but a complete whitewash...
a blank slate... to work with barely nothing...
and to dress it up to...
the language and fashionable attire...

    it's like jumping from the big bang:
a lot of banging happens in a vacuum...
              oh yeah... you can hear a needle drop
in a vacuum of space...
what a name: genesis: big bang...
big hole bang black: is the way forward...
let's breed us a middle-ground of
the copper / cinnamon royalty...
                     i start from the north...
you start from the south...
we're bound to create a new equation
for where the equator should be...
on the 23.5°N line...
that story: all out of africa...
                    who brought the albinos?!
but do you come across a copper cinnamon
people quickly?
   it's mongrel of... black words on white paper...
there's even a name for it... tropical:
and cancerous...
    because you were never to witness...
what happens...
when there's a first investment in mixed-race
coupling...
   come the second generation and the bleaching
is continued:
               there pops up a curiosity:
like afghani blue eyes...
              
perfectly matched-up insomniac journalism
and darwinistic historiology...
   oh: everything that came prior...
insignificant...
  but i am sure i wasn't there... when...
flour first came into "being" and when eggs
were first harvested for the mass production
of cakes... and when there came about
a domestication of a mountain goat...
or how the cow decided: two stomachs best...
and a... digestion process that...
well: it's pretty much an imitation
of that of a fly... which is why: let man conjure
up elves, orcs... and let the gods mind
conjuring up: elephants and... sloths...
and... the man who invested in trans-genderism:
consciously ingested a tapeworm embryo...
to feel: what a "foetus" would feel like...
what is the tapeworm... if not the placenta
without a mouth?
                      
    islam and hair... though...
               is hair all, that?
                   what about: the manic pixie haircut...
tomboyish... slanting almost shredded
in look...
                  what about:
a fly in a champagne flute...
    or... there's a hair in my soup!
       i know that some people react to hair...
in soups... with... a... 'get it away from me!
poltergeist! poltergeist!'
          hair... long hair... does it have
to be about hair?
   i don't seem to be lacking in this grace...
                               but a perfect skin...
   oh sure... said the bearded-lady...
or the french: au naturel propagators...
   but why is fair such a must: must... fancy?
was there this 6th century affair for bad
teeth as there might have been for...
greasy wigs?
            
                        now wouldn't wearing
a hat like a hebrew might wear a kippah...
notably in those 1950s movies...
    and prior... to have to be always attired
with some headgear...
                and... the trousers whereby...
they reached up... to the mid-torso...
     and would never be... worn like today...
under the bellybutton...
  
   hair... hair in my soup = there's a fly in my
champagne flute...
   i'd probably gag less at the fly...
     spawn of the disinfecting maggot brains
that would sooner feed on dead-flesh
than...

   maggot bullets for every zombie apocalypse...
a maggot bazooka...
maggots grown as g.m. crops...
fused with... piranha d.n.a. branches so that...
they could bite exponentially: quicker...
like jigsaws for jaws: or
                   super-slurper-vacuum openings...

this menacing: over-arching... shadow of time...
if there's no past worth to remember:
or its picked-and-mixed like penny sheets
or like extracts from the goodbook
for the apologists...
                                        but talk about...
the time it takes to boil a litre of water...
and the time it takes to... produce a bottle of wine...
jumping down from a tree:
huddling in a cave...
coming from the ***-side of Versailles...
then moving into... a communist concrete
chicken-shack...

                 and now:
journalistic-insomnia...
                                and... the forgotten fire
with exception to the candle:
               U.V. and poltergeists of neon...
always to be given... reiterations of reality...
while also... attempting to digest...
a thinning ice of fiction: narrations per se...
      
      i call for the federation of niqabs
and foreskins...
              at least a ******* is that sort veil:
that veils the least...
there are those ***** hairs
i call a beard...
and come: the story of the moon...
and there's artificial lightning:
i can actually compete with mel gibson's
"gibbon"...

            otherwise for me: the niqab of the soul...
or: why is he so: "ouch-tistic" rummaging
with his schizoid eyes:
averting the look of what's become:
the mini-skirt: perpetuated *****...
if only i had lived to have lived:
an aborted foetus...

    thank god for bulgarian prostitutes!
than god for bulgarian prostitutes!
a whole lot of them that just want
to ****!
the double-twist of: there's a ******
tux for every uncircumcised male: waiting...
liberal socialist democracy has:
zilch on the matter...

i'm still more bothered about how
darwinism made its plug-hole manoeuvre...
an apple a day: keeps the doctor away...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist at bay...
for such advances in medicine and science:
that these branches still allow
sadists armed with pharmacological weapons:
calling the brain a... chemical soup...
i am not that much half-... Brian ist tod...
but i'm also hardly the
cucumber schumacher...
                 when skiing: just because:
and the snow forcaste is like what?
a burning tire exercise?!

                    if i was truly angry: i wouldn't be writing...
to invest in a boxing duvet wrapped up
in clingfilm... not my thing...
i like to see anger... evaporate at my fingertips:
rather than clenched into a fist
for a knuckle arithmetic...

how can i become: silly / angry about
english girls groomed and gang-***** by pakistani
men...
   remember: i'm the abortion that didn't
happen that somehow wrote this:
i wouldn't be touched: or ****** or...
                    all because: this one time...
at band-camp... there was a girlfriend and i
should have known better...
and for all i know: roulette and blackjack...
and if not mine...
then his... and that's 5 children squeezed
out from her ****: when i would have
advised for a caesarean section because:
a toddler's head would not be anything:
quiet close to... my ***** envy of...
a 12" **** of a roach...
and a kim kardashian ***...
which would be necessary...
                   to... wade through all that
gelatin bubbling and trembling!

my ideas concerning homosexual ***:
thank you, the kiss was great
is the gaybar...
but... i am confined to...
enjoy taking a ****...
esp. diarrhea consistency type:
i sometimes catch myself with an onomatopoeia
of a groan...
    something is always supposed
to come out... rather than in...

i'm still not angry... if i weren't an abortion...
then i'm expected to be...
eyes-darting autistic...
hardly able to read into
a physiognomy...
   i must be: unable to: interpret a smile...
i am drying up on finding new music...
so i must be outside the compensation
parameters of an "in-crowd"...

                i have to... most probably...
start working a genesis with a niqab...
or i have to make donning sunglasses
mandatory for men...
like... oh god: don't invite stiching
the eyes shut and the cenobite Butterbite...
what's a butterbite?
a butterbite mistakes oral *** performed
on a ******* for an oyster...
sooner: rather than later...
the **** becomes the oyster...
the oyster becomes a tulip...
the tulip becomes a slab of butter!

because: we're expert at this...
schumacher is still a ******* cucumber...
and it's not like, death:
this instant... a tweet...
or a telegraph...
it's a bureaucratic "backwards and forwards"...
watching paint dry...
or catching a snail on the nod...
an itching spider without a web:
a very abled... sportartenspinne-mann...
     spandex galore: clue?

hell... i was thinking about...
how more agile:
when darwinistic ideology would come
to ruffle the feathers and sieve...
and what became of existnetialism...
headaches and minor indigestion faults
from the 19th century: Denmark
would: or could become more apparent...
ruffle the feathers...
pluck them from a chicken...
poach it for a soup...
       perhaps roast another one...
skin the pig and cure and later
curate the skin that would become
a leather for a belt...
                
   darwinism and historiology...
heidegger might have summoned the term...
but he wasn't "battling" with english:
islander-thinking...
           "solipsism"... or for that grandiosity
of: the great h'america:
our best kept: interlude...
constantly revived: beside the confines
of Idaho...

          and the modern "question"
of islamic religiosity...
i call the same...
the mind is less obviously tinged
with... markers...
akin to... isoprene and atomic chlorine...
after chernobyll:
why was liquid iodine prescribed
to pregnant women?
markers: like dyes...
  to invigorate the "sedation"
of... an otherwise invisible reaction taking
root: or place...

islamic religiosity is...
very much akin to darwinistic historiology...
the study of history via monkey-dough
and brains and somehow also the ****:
the building block of aztecian flat-top
pyramids...
                islamic religiosity is...
the 17th century looking at 21st century...
darwinistic historiology is...
the 21st century...
looking at totem and the primodial man...
encompassing him in the present...
the 2nd through to the 18th century
are a bit of an amnesia...
better call it a lobotomy...

               there's knitting! there's picking!
there's the apologetics...
history taught from the perspective of darwinism:
is very much akin to history:
taught from the perspective of communism...
i'm sorry: one ape one world...
i do see the fullness... from the perspective
of a microscope... that becomes
the bottle-stump... once i'm finished with it!
having drank my fill!

to romance the vampire is to also
romance h.i.v.
                how does darwinism fare against
the backdrop of: orthodox: strict...
since there is no true darwinism in nature:
and nature: vetos... whatever are the opinions
of the ideologues:
the sieve... the harvest... and the discarded...

there's always an alternative:
etymological... in that...
prior to the written word...
there was the reasoining abounding in...
what came thirst:
the "d" of Δ... or the Δ: a triangle?
               can a sound akin to "d":
occupy... a sound... geometric tool for
exploring... O... omicron...
what came first? "o" and oh...
the phonetic encoding: O...
OΔ...
                      just a suppose...
                                  
   what letters: from greek... could have been
borrowed from the natural world?
O: moon and sun...
         Δ: the mountain...
                 β - a ***** and an ***...
          ζ and ξ - a serpent...
               ι: the fraction stick... and arithmetic
counter to a • or an apostrophe '''''''''''
                waves of omega and the mu(se)...
   prior to the key and the lock and
a door: φ (key inserted)...
              θ (key turned)...
            ψ (door opened)...
           i.e. Ug (Yγ): a tree...
                         applied to the key and door?
it's not a hammer... there's no nail...
                      eta (H): rugby goalposts...
    
etymology doesn't suffice...
      the words will become morphed...
the letters are a priori...
   as numbers are...
but... whereas numbers remain intact
within the confines of a priori:
letters take on a posteriori meanings...
notsably eta (H): the rugby goalposts...
or the "vector":  (φ, θ, ψ)...
rho implies: an amputee sysiphus...
but rho is a P... hence...
the lost thrill of a R put against
the wall: and shot to a trill!
a rattlesnake ramble! mein gott!
what loss: in english and tarantula
numbed! i walked down a road:
that almost became: woad;
sly little *******...
give me a universal language...
and i'm pretty sure that it will not
be one... with a skeleton of ancient
roman to master and craft with!
donkers... plump plums in "origin"...
a Baghdad...

since the full mechanisation of the key
and lock are not represented:
but rather: insinuated...
                        
                        but there is a door...
imagine, to boot...
that there's, also, somehow...
a necessity of a doormat!

- because in vestern europa: it's about time for:
"zee... pudding-reis-poodle-tops!"
much easier laughing at german
with some "vikings" in tow...

i just abhor how darwinism has become
the neu-ego of history: "abided" by...
like... this be the zenith and 100 years
from now... people will not laugh...
or... i much prefer: scold and frown at...
because i much prefer to be baptißed
using boiling...
         using water... that might allow
me to escape... the confines
of a couch: the comforts of a skin...
and all matter of leather: thus concerning...

i am happy to allow myself the following
sentence: the rats and the moon will always
tell the better "story"...
  liberal hard-ons that are hardly quantified
as matchsticks...

you're looking for communits in your current
"conundrum"...
looking for "them" leeching and lurking
from beneath the eisenvorhang?!
          ostenberlin?!
                       i had the impression...
that... your comforts... your dickens...
your semi-detached bogus heavens...
and that's what was required...
for you... to breed your own...
without having to...
outsource the idealists:
                     your... 'aggis neeps and tatties:
roots of "origins"...
you have your own sort of communists...
mostly t-shirt print enterprises...
and... whatever...
looking for communist from under
the iron curtain...
is about like scounting for both
rats and cockroaches...
and a honing idea of the hive...
because rats wouldn't eat roaches
and the two could, somehow...
fashion of symbiotic vogue affair...

you know what ****** me off...
the most... about not being english...
leverage of pompous audacity to state
the most: infantile opinion...
worded: i know:
you cough... i sneeze...
we'll reach an equilibrium, at some point:
to make references to:
and a past...

precedence: to "think" is to:
th(ought i)... and all that's counter-productive of
"i labyrinth" and: thought and i...
or... scalpel: nurse!
grammar! genius! ******* rollerskating chimpmucks...
and... h. p. lovecraftian odes to...
squids... in less than the already:
"murky" waters of... perfect the... widespread
genius of comedy...
via... ridicule... via... bulimia...
via... cooking a steak: well-done...
over-cooking pasta:
the diet of al dente...
                             burning a mushroom:
not being to: not being able to:
and that: to Baghdad... from Loon'don...
                  virtue signalling:
a clap is... 1/100 of a fraction of...
someone... being deaf and having to resolve
the matter: sign-language about to be translated
into... braille!

the islamic religiosity of "today" is about as
mcuh equivalent as the "today":
under darwinistic historiology...

looking for communists from under the once
former iron curtain divide?
good luck: i'm wishing it unto myself:
about to find Mongols in... Kiev!

came across some burden of a sourdough:
and it's like in england:
it's "theirs": never the agony of eating...
a bread... designated to be toasted...
when it just had to be... eaten... "raw"...

what's the fan-base for raw herrings...
within the confines of Nippon...
or these... grandeours of the:
only isles... my ideas to make
metaphors of the crucifix?
a ******'s riddle...

we're looking for communist: y'all!
i'm looking for Belze...
                  and: mādégehirn-verrotten
         und rätsel: ungezieferfreude...
zylinderanziehen: der großartig:
     schwule -            
der: scrumptious...
                                               fladenbrotmann!
bessermann: das englisch...
                   herr portillo... chuckles should
it come to:
   steam-trains and replicas...
and politics: was never really...
about harems and hard-ons...
                                       really?
ask a Baghdadi then: if you pleaz...
Lawrence!

chance of me being spoken to in russian...
and being: reciprocate...
are all yours: slim jim!
  no... seriously...
a ***** of a language that is...
english: i am... most astounded that...
there are some peoples of this world
that have not: yet... allowed themselves
to translate this:
bellybutton orientation of the world
via genus: greenwichus...
to be: unifying versed: et al.

        i must bees the retardedwoz... kin:
and oops some year later...
or: to hell with keeping up...
anything beside the appearing so...
i:  "for the love of the countrymen"...
of which i have none:
are 9 my commuter friends:
and with the romanians...
and the bulagrian ******...
the polish plumbers...
the english... could have their catwalk
of opinions!
who skinned the chickens
and who did what: my shadow lacked
or i slacked over with?

i want to forget because
i just don't want to unravel in...
i would work an honest's day... of worth...
if i could work for a: get together...
or none...
             it's so disorientating...
and... lacking in motivational bravado...
to have to find one man: working...
and the other: *******!

   talk about... having to resort to mind:
the manners to count jack'oh the ol' keeper...
because: abortion signification is
burning a foot in the sole
of my shoe...
and i'm about to make do with
walking a ******* mile...

               and there i was... conjuring
the fetish fancy:
all it would ever take...
was to pretend to... attire oneself /
i.e. make pretences of: pweeety pretty!
i like being governed by:
you have to be wrong...
for the mushroom and tapeworm
and the cuckoldry muppets to be: oinking:
and with a nodding:
the holy approval as: no other route...
other than them being "white".... Rrrrrrridle
no?
                     no -ight then!
You use love as entertainment,
Having none.
You'll learn your lesson in infinite Lovecraftian horror Hell.
All Mormons are trash, as well.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
you wouldn't might not have guessed it: but there's a pagan music revival happening in Eu-rope-Ah...Ew-rope(?)-ah.. eh-ooh-rop-ah... there's a revival in pagan music: an undercurrent... the people have almost forgotten the "great" composers... not so much "forgot"... but if it has to come between elevator muzak... and nothing... give me an Ottoman burak: even the whole of the west's zenith of culinary ambitions... seems pale... who would have thought... stuffing filo pastry with minced beef... properly spiced... cumin... coriander: to hell with Simon & Garfunkel's Scarborough Fair: parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme... what about BASIL? BASIL is the best... scented candle alternative... loner... no **** readied Sherlock... oi! Holmes! where's your ******* Watson? forget your wallet or what?!

seems... eh... seems such a waste to merely drink
and not allow oneself to trickle onto
some page some dribble: some doodle...
it would be a waste of some cider or some ms. amber
to merely drink...
as Horace might have said
in what was once: conversational-overtones in
poetics... when i had a friend still close to me
from when i was lodged in the fabric of pedagogy:
from those seemingly mythological days:
in school...
we banded up... come the lunch break...
one anglo-saxon... pure fella: by breeding...
Ian...
we played cards...
we were like all the stories franchised
by Hemmingway in: men without women...
i tried... i really tried:
i asked one girl for her photograph
so i could sketch it and give it back to her...
per usual... she just giggled and brushed it aside...
what can a boy do'oh... knead dough for
some time...
we played cards and were oblivious to
all that was boiling beneath us...
oh the tirade... is there a better word
to encapsulate the h'american rebellion
against education?
new venture "capitalists":
they'll sell you coffee-mugs and t-shirts...
how's the outlook on a spanner? on a *****?
a dime for a nail?
my my... if i were paid in nails or peanuts
rather than these transcendental objects
of "currency"... i'd stash as many pebbles
in my might and call it: both a mountain
and a camel's ****!
- the rest of us were nomads...
displaced peoples of the world...
the ******, the Egyptian, the Pakistani...
in an otherwise Irish Catholic school...
- prior to 2004 i was quiet a commodity...
the only ****** known to the locals...
i acquired a taste for Guinness...
i gulped it down: glug glug: came the kosher
sacrificial goat...
now i drink some of the goat milk
and pretend to think: i pretend a lot of things...
it's pasteurized... i can't tell the difference
between a long-life milk from a cow
or what's being sold as: goat's...
now that this is life...
i "think" of an afterlife...
no great plans... oh forget the harem...
i have a insomniac libido as we speak...
i can't keep up with a constant hard-on i'm being
prescribed: no Duracell bunny 'ere...
an eternity closest come: Valhalla...
or a Deutsche drinking house...
were songs are sang...
                      sauf noch ein!
which is stereotypical of a Wend...
                       because the Russians are never
jovial creatures when drinking...
they probably never reach
the tickling sensation from drinking...
Stephen King managed to push out another
novel from his cart of apples...
pity me: i never re(a)d a novel by Stephen King:
i never will... it's not out of higher
literary ambitions...
it's because...
well... i started two books about a year ago:
the posthumous papers of the Pickwick Club
was Charles Dickens' first book?
really? well... no matter... a year later...
it was originally serialised...
- and Knausgaard's vol. 4 of the mein kampf...
if you've read volumes 1 - 3...
it doesn't matter if you stop quarter of
the way into... an autobiography that...
well... it's not Kierkegaard... is it?
imagine my surprise at not being
able to test any maxims of la rochefoucauld:
i suppose all of them are true:
true in as much as they best
be "thought-experimented"
in the stated suggestion of said enterprise...
in...
mannequins? no...
when people leisured themselves
into politics: clocks and... nothing to do with
tabloid journalism to gear up the masses...
- all of a sudden a "what if" drops on me...
my grandfather wasn't a child when he
ushered in the words: herr-bitte-bon-bon...
of the two-schwarz-clad dobbermen
SS-mensch: what if... i was...
not on the "suspect" list
some tier above the Jew and the Gypsy...
what if Hittite Leering Herr... Adoolph...
forgot to put his faith in the Luftwaffe
and the miracle army drug as prescribed by ISIS
(amphetamine) and instead
started to *******: PANZER-GRABEN...

what if: Pearl Harbour never took place...
but it was an honest act of warfare...
collateral precision with Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
it's not fair... it started with Pearl Harbour:
not fair: trans! gay pride! it's not fair!
fair in the theatre of war?
it wasn't fair to use collateral as argument...
soldiers fought soldiers...
i will never romanticize the warrior archetype...
no point... i still preserve myself by cycling:
because i abhor running...

i'll walk a marathon from the river Rom vicinity
to St. Paul's ... sort of hiding
like a timid umbrella of a mushroom's worth...
it's England: apparently "summer":
Simon & Garfunkel...
well... it's hardly the *******:
the Beatles...
can there be a point where
these old *******... just... die?

can i take up a whiff of what they
keep on returning to?
the labyrinth glory of the next to nothing
assorted... PLUM- BER...

- because you're not reading tabloid
journalism...
thank god: i was almost making myselv
suspect
guarding the words:
below the worth of currency...
exfoliate: i might...
tragic i might sound...
but you're still not reading
tabloid journalism: you're reading this...

wait... wait... wait some more...
wait: again...
i want the world to come into
coherency of what's leftover concrete when
i'm: properly mummified:
better... thrown into the elements...
into the fire... twice: once as body: twice
as ash...
against the wind...
where everyone might be *******
against it...
into the sea.... no... into the river...
into the lake: against the hammer
or the mirror...
just above the puddle then...

you might read me before you read
what's leftover in the tabloid press..
there's a cat jigging with r.e.m. twitching...
give me death tomorrow...
i guess i'll be content...

- but concerning the "nomads"...
at least the Hebrews prescribe a motto:
fear God...
oddly enough: Allahu-Akbar...
the Muslims have no notion of a fear...
of God... there's no H. P. Lovecraftian:
a deity with a a head of an octopus...
oh how the Muslims love to joke
the inferiority of the Hindus...
the inferiority of Islam is...
it's inability to stress a fear of their deity...
Muslims don't fear their deity...
they have no scepticism...
sure... readied meat for the slaughter...
not now... in waiting...

by having no fear of their deity...
what can earn this... deity...
respect... from prospective proselytes?!
goat is goad: is gweat!
****-smear... half-way between
proper choccie and somewhat
between copperneck...
cinnamon clad-crew...

last time i checked: Muslims have no fear
of their deity...
obnoxious crazed infancy of monotheism:
that's Islam: for me...
i distrust a people with no fear
of their deity...
why? gobble gobble... down down:
'ere we go...

hey presto! i can tell the Asians apatrt!
like wannabe racists can tell
a Croat from a Serb a ****** from a Russia...
a Czech from a...
Molotov... cocktail: non Fwech...

the face of one Korean gymnast... re(ad))d
like...
i own two cats: thank **** that also don't
own two to pair of: leash... or muzzle...
If I appeared before you in flames
Would you put them out?
Or would you feed your soul
With my burning skin
As it falls from my bones.

You'd kiss me and tell me
"I love you"
Before abandoning me alone in the dark
Left alone to be eaten by the demons you left behind
Watching it happen from your moral high ground

You are a predator playing the prey
A creature feeding on souls to feed your empty one
A horror of Lovecraftian scale,
Bringing any person to their knees in tears
Breaking them down and taking pleasure from each second

You magnetic personality drawing people in
Like lambs to the slaughter
Me a fool among many
Slowly being grinded away inch by inch
Your smile illuminating my last moments

And after being broken piece by piece
My soul pouring out of me,
Like blood from my throat
You'd cup your hands
And drink from my pain to refill your heart

— The End —