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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?
FEAR TO PART...
ASIF SULTAN MATTA
Monday, 28th September 2015


Once more the fear engulfed my heart,
the fear to part, ever abides;

The fear, that makes my nights cry
and quivers within me intense tide;

Once more my eyes may leak the tears
And drown my world, wrench dry inside

shivering usual and rest just rare
Is dread of death or love's chide?

forlorn and fearful seems my fate
no one to share no one is guide.

Should I once more console my wits?
snub  the  dark  and  show  it  sky?

passion to stand and zeal to fight,
but heart is chained and hands tied.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.


it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.

   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.


- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
of the muezzin & the iqama.

i really did find refuge in the chants of the templars, and any other christian music, esp. forging a templar chant alliance with the the *adhan
... and i have to admit: there is a compliment... oh don't worry with me being a jihadi by the name of: matta al-britanni... i'm just your typical music freak... plus daesh forbids song... so... that begs the question: you speak the adhan? you're a bunch of losers, aren't you? how can you strip islam from music, how else will call for prayer, via the catholic satan-esque mantra of reciting the creed? i denounce you, you *******, wahabi kafīr!

you just renounced the name: al samī...
you have made the 99 names into 98...
shame on you!
   shame! shame! shame!
    you *******, wahabi kafīr!
         you think christians celebrate
music, as you celebrate it,
unto the one, and only?
                    that deserves hearing it?
so why sing, and close your ears
turning them into oyster shells?!
that you may hear the passing sea
of humanity?!
      you already tasted the competition:
the chants of the templars,
  but i am already a convert riddled with
tears upon hearing the *adhan
...
but you can't, can't, can't, can't tell me
these barbarians will ever fathom the mere
basics of prayer:
the adhan is sung by the muezzin -
for his voice is worth the greatest joy unto allah,
which is why the iqama recite their turn
in silence:
  to imply - your words are worth
equal share in use among other trades:
but not that of a lark's call to spring, bringing forth
the lunar eclipse of day,
as moon be man, so too the sun be woman,
    (księżyc)                          (słońce)...
thereby­ reside silent,
   hear and at the same time do not
hear the muezzin...
    be the iqama, and say your prayers under
your breath...

blind wahabi kakīr of syria and iraq...
   to obstruct song, to obstruct the highest grace
of voice: as that in song...
bring forth your theologians,
and tell me of the sin to obstruct
a single name from the 99 names...
bring them before me!
   to obstruct al-sami...
          bring them!
             you recite your adhans like catholics
their creed, you wahabi kakīr!
  you pig-flesh-eaters, confused,
dropping amphetamines in night raids!
i know you, as i know of the dealings
of the luftwaffe!
               there isn't even a name
to state your sin, of forgetting al-sami,
26... i'll just call that: sin no. 26 for the eased
paperwork...
      speak your adhan! speak it!
and don't think you don't sound like
a catholic reciting his creed in church,
that doesn't sound like a satanic mass...
     you wahabi kakīr, think that obstructing
song, and thereby crafting heresy against
the adhan will make, a difference?
    this... a message from your shia brothers...
to make you understand:
you're, wrong!
   to abandon song in the adhan is to have
converted to catholicism unconsciously...
to have disrespected the spirit of music,
is to have disrespected the songs of birds,
and therefore the claims of paradise,
and it is to have subtracted
  a name from the 99 contorts of allah,
namely? al-sami.
        
what days are we living in, when kakīr iqama
silence the mumin muezzin:
by merely shouting, rather than singing!
who are these people!?

you want to know how this verse began?

so i'm sitting there "thinking", is it doable to
scratch your forehead with your big toe?


a few moments pass...

apparently so! and unorthodox yoga pose
coming your way
:

via watching a youtube video -
  and as hannibal lecter might have added:
i'm sure, she didn't come from new jersey, y'all.

so i did what my right hand would have
done, performing the sign of the cross,
in the most unorthodox yoga pose:
i just used my right foot instead.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
It aint the same everwhere
I know it took a man
To stand and stare
Down them gallows
In Zebullon county square

Lil Mae
age of 21  
saw her man with another
moaned
"I'm gonna make you pay"

now  some of you wanna say

"Lil Mae get a gun make that man pay"
To mad to see
to hurt to care
Lil Mae stormed her way down to
Zebullon county square.

Bobby Lee wasn't  a simple man
to proud to be dumb
could read and write
Yet he never let no one know

Bobby Lee workin late
bumped into a drunk,
back on that old alley

Bobby Lee took a beating by four whites
the blood poured out into the streetlight

Soon enough the sheriff came a runnin
"whats the matter here!!"
white men shouted
"the boy had it coming, he took my money
try to **** me, sheriff I had to do something!!"

12 days later 12 men had a shine
sentenced ***** Lee to hang
Saturday morning half past nine
sun be coming up behind him
so his shadow
would grow tall on that line.

Sun rose cool that day
Folks lined up to watch Ol
Bobby Lee pay.

Soon they all began to scatter
preacher man shouted
'"whats a matta"
Lil Mae had come with blade readied
for her last stand

"Preacher man" Lil Mae shouted
"you goin to hell, no doubt about it"
"Im gonna send you there by my hand."
silver plated blade glistened in the sky

"lord my soul , dont let me die!"

Blood sank  from the preachers throat
Lil Mae watched  til his last choke

Crowd screamed "NO!!" but it fell on Gods deaf ears

"Lil Mae" came her mans voice
"why you do it?"
She reckoned "I had no choice"
"I love you but you put me to it.
you and this preacher man ripped me apart."
Lil Mae's man stood in the middle of the square
tears draining life, sobs stealing air......

Bobby Lee innocent as he was
unwrapped his noose
and slowly walked away

Lil Mae stood her ground on them gallows
but it gave way
half pass nine
she fell in line
the sun made her shadow tall
dead before her body
went through the gallows fall
i havent ever written anything this long and i am sure it needs major revision its a song i hope but would like feedback.
Kay-Ann Aug 2019
I am chasing this thing that
always
eludes me. In the day he openly
embraces Man.
See, they’ve known each other for centuries,
shoulder to shoulder,
unrelenting hand in unrelenting hand
as they dance betwixt the world of fantasy and pain.
A universe I know all too well.
A courtesy we could never have.

Matta still in my eyes, limbs sore from just being born,
naivete radiating from my skin.
I trail, inquire, plead—
he laughs in my face before evaporating
observe.

I have a plan.

I could forfeit my mind, let ambition and sense
seethe through my temples. Knees the color of
my behind from crawling through the mud.
Pungent fertilizer gathering underneath my nails
as I plant hibiscus, mint and poinciana in a Man’s
garden. My body falling apart and together at the
calloused hands of my oppressor.

There must be another way.

I turned to the sky,
they know us Women well.

Every thirty moons, I offer up a sacrifice.
Take this crimson sea between my anchors
that Mother ordained.
Take it and give us strength.

He eludes me still.

I fight and I protest
and I bawl and I break down
and I stand up and I smile
and I make love to anyone capable of loving.
I am still searching.
Tactile, hard and brown like an egg’s shell
you can’t see this soft, permeable mass
yet it lives, survives.
*But the chase is over.
Ottar Nov 2013
Just a little ditty, not too witty,
when my youngest is now of age,
in the United States,
but has been for two years in Canada,
                                   it doesn't matta,
                  so Happy Birthday son
as of midnight you are twenty one,
in human years
not dog years
you speak of dreams
        and you stream
   ideas   of a   better world,
while I do NanoWriMo
you talk of Nano Technology
where you will go to University
                           in Ontario,
after you go to Australia,
I hope we don't fail ya'
by casting love clouds of doubt,
or just stand by and shout,
like some cheerleader,
but really listen and hear ya'
    for you have leader ship skills
and intutive creativity with a proclivity
that will help you sail for years
in the world where small is becoming huge
if you can just find the wind
if you can just find the wind
Mrz Sketch Nov 2012
So much **** in my head/ this exact feelin' i dread/ if it ain't one thing it's another/ can you hear the faint sounds of thunder/ betta run fo' cover/ cuz when it rains it pours/ so betta be prepared for more/ stack up your sandbags, reinforce your levy's/ cuz all the payn, can get so heavy/ don't let the water, rush ya/ it has the strength 2 crush ya/ i know you feel the pressure/ don't let it stress ya/ if the water starts 2 rize/ don't be surprised/ just be aware, the current might take waves/ don't be fooled by the size/ it's the force beneath/ that can pull you off your feet/ and take you 2 see all life in the sea/ if you lose your balance don't panic/ relax and treed water if you can manage/ try 2 stay afloat/ hopefully you'll see a boat/ and you can climb aboard/ it may be over now, but stay prepared for more/ there may be a leak in the floor/ and once again, fightin' the force/ bail out the water and find a plug 2 stop the faucet, thats pourin'/ try 2 see what caused it, though it may not matta/ it might help save you from diasta'/ then in your last moment of dispair/ you look and land is near/ try 2 make it there/ jump ship or try 2 make a repair/ paddles or not/ sometimes the boat you must rock/ pull up your anchor, don't jus sit in the same spot/ once you've reached shore/ your not done, be prepared for more/ different obstacles are awaiting'/ don't spend so much time debating/ make a decision, either way consequences are waitin'/ which way 2 go/ we don't always know/ look 2 the stars/ yeah their far/ but they can help show, which way 2 go/ North, South, East, West, i truly don't know who knows best/ Storms will come and go, and some will be harder then the rest, but just remember always live your best.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
i don't really know why the dub-step genre died so early
on, i mean: there were some truly authentic,
atmospheric artists residing in London,
Burial from south London for starters,
Benga - but **** on me, nothing ever came close to
DISTANCE, songs like: night vision, my demons...
the double album Repercussions -
     but the genre died a premature death... i guess all
that ******* regarding "the drop" before all hell broke
loose...

i must say, you tell me to move a tonne of brick:
i'll gladly do it, hell, it means that i don't have to do
100 push ups...
of course i'd rather ******* and do some cycling,
it's a passion, i never cycle for vanity,
i cycle for the thrill of traffic, i love to loiter behind
large vehicles moving to the right of them
so i don't find myself lost in the blind-spot...
right in the middle of the road...
large vehicles, esp. at roundabouts...
   momentum buffers...
always: the nearer i am to death the more of life
i draw... and perhaps it has always been like this:
while men feed off adrenaline,
women feed off anxiety...
how many times did i grunt beneath my breath
when approaching a roundabout and there'd be
a nervy driven afraid to join the traffic:
move *******! move! go!

- you will sooner find my dead than at a gym...
i'm still thinking about going swimming...
then again... the Thames at Cold-Harbour looks
very enticing... the Thames... a river that doesn't flow...
just sits there, like some weird *** elongated lake...
perhaps even a Loch... must be the tide in tide out...
yet... i always wondered...
what the hell happens when the river enters
the sea... is that some sort of inter-aqua osmosis
buffering dynamic or something?

gym bruh vanity projects my ***...
yeah, had this one "friend" who decided to loose some weight...
went to the gym... lifting weights?
when you want to lose weight?
bad idea... a very bad idea...
why? excess skin leftovers... you want to lose
weight: ******* for a swim or get on yer *******
bicycle... do the cardiovascular...
it's all relative: you're engaging your entire body
rather than parts of your body...
gym ******* comes after... for toning...
it's like art... first you paint the canvas:
the cardiovascular stuff... then if you're going
to have a couple having a picnic on the canvas:
that's when you go to the gym... or like me...
you do push ups... move bricks around or...
whatever...

if you're fat and hit the gym? expect to later have
problem with excess skin, like some ****** tattoo
of an ex-girlfriend's name on your buttocks...
and... time, patience... time, patience...
cycling or swimming... nothing else beats it...
- ha, the current climate of cycling while standing still...
Mr. Big's death on his peloton: peddle! peddle!
but don't go anywhere! ha ha...
i'd rather watch paint dry or buy myself a hamster
and a hamster-wheel in all fairness...

alpha-male ****-boys...
                                    hey, i'm not going to brag:
get it while it's cheap, but to hell with dating...
i dated once, but i was already ******* her...
went for oysters... and scallops... she was so desperate in
her hypergamy to stand above her fellow peers /
student flat cohabitants that she ***** herself into
my flat... bypass all the *******... there's only one thing
i feel like eating most of the time...
a fat juicy ****...

- but there really an art concerning the ironing of shirts...
i don't know why i didn't realise this prior...
it almost feels counter intuitive but i managed to get more
done than expected...
rubric:
1. collar
2. the yoke of the shirt
3. the sleeves
4. the cuffs
5. the lower front
6. the upper front
7. the entire body back

   i hate ironing shirts... but finding out this hierarchy
of what's to be done first... it has become
almost as pleasurable as shining my shoes...
arbeit macht frei: *******...
weird, isn't it, how that motto has changed in recent
times under my supervision...

- i only noticed... wait, what was i writing about?
well it's easy to get 100K+ views on a video,
people can ingest a video passively...
   i'm looking at 42K+ for one poem, given that i am
an alcoholic but also a workaholic:
maybe that's why i don't dream...
i just sleep... i fall asleep and "dream" of
a great amass of nothing, i wake up:
oh, look... a bunch of sparrows...
a pair of robins... perhaps it's different on the content
but if you've lived long enough in England...
it's eerie... watching crows fly past in pairs...
Huginn & Muninn... plus... it's not like you
get to see crows courting each other like pigeons
might... watch some ******* is a bit like
watching some pigeons try to get it on...
99% of the time the male fails...
do crows mate in the night, away from prying eyes?
they must do, they're very priestly in their daily affairs...
they not exactly prostituting themselves for
the eyes of man to peer at...
but i can understand videos getting so much views...
i watch videos passively,
i'm usually drinking or smoking
perched on a windowsill with my cat i've started
to nickname Rousseau... he has more nicknames than
is necessary... oh, sure... if i'm about to leave the house
and he's in the garden: QUORUS! the 10kg maine ****
starts dribbling his shadow home...
he sniffs my head... we head-****...
eh... i suppose having a child might have been
a fulfilling escape route: a completion...
but then again i had no siblings:
i was raised alongside an Alsatian and a Dobbermann...
i sometimes talk to my shadow:
what's happening in the underworld?
mein kleine: kleine betreffen...

           speaking English wasn't going to be enough:
it still isn't... i use it casually... i use it proficiently...
but i'm not satisfied with using it...
i need some etymological rooting... i need to go elsewhere...
English culminated itself into existence
from a range of sources... German, French... the Norse
Brigade... i'll go down the Germanic rabbit hole...
why wouldn't i have a fetish for some Deutsche?
oh ******* with the Russian... Cyrillic was always the ugly
sort of Greek... the alphabet looks cheap...
if the Russians are going to use the Latin A...
but invent some ****** version of D... to counter delta...
no... of course i can read it: but i don't want to...
yet...
         even at work, some coworkers tell me of the time they
spent in the USA... why isn't it called the FSA?
the federal states of america?
it's not like California has the same laws as Texas...
united, by... what? flag alone? support for the Olympic team?
i'm going to start calling it the FSA...
even though: it would clearly make the Bruce Springsteen
song sound less pop... born... in the eF! eS! A!

- am i somehow emotionally stunted for not having
children?
i've come across the people will children...
the plums of their eye... whatever the metaphor is...
very trust-worthy... when you bring children into
the world you showcasing a level of trust goes up...
it's almost an unacknowledged bias...
then again: this is England...
you have two factors to consider...
the over elevated concern for common knowledge /
common sense...
but there is that undercurrent... of common courtesy...
two-faced *******: but polite regardless...
i like the Thespian overtones in English society...
at least there's that fake middle-ground anyone
can grasp...

cats are not children... but if you can get a cat to
greet you with a head-****...
you're onto something...
           i don't think i could **** up a cat...
but i could most certainly create a Frankenstein's monster
from a child... that would be disappointing...
i sometimes across children: most of the time they
look mesmerised: by my posturing...
sure... the next generation is coming...
but i wouldn't want to put my gene-extension through
the washing-machine whirlpool of leftoid *******:
to begin with... trans-gender issue blah blah...
i'll go as far as to say... born on the Eve of Chernobyl...
my offspring might grow a third arm or something...
i know that i was born is a mark of Cain on my right
shoulder at the back...
some tissue was removed... intelligent body...
now i have excess muscle growth on collar blade arch...

to be a father, would seem like fun: it's all fun...
until you arrive at the point where the child realised
they have full: individual autonomy...
the happy to go to parents... i want to see them
as tired old people in about... oh... i'd say 10 years...
i'm patient....
not that i'm writing this nefariously...
but reality usually bites back...
what's reality going to bite me back with?
i can't go mad twice... you usually go mad once...
lucky for me that it happened in my youth, when i was 21...
now i can just sit back... watch a little:
ignore most of it...
i'm not even going to mind stating a: 'i told you so...':
shh... it's a big surprise... i don't want people missing
the great surprise...

on the market? women with three children
from three different fathers...
right... and me going to a brothel is a b'ah... bad "thing"?
even among my coworkers i tend to stick around
the women... football hooligans and their ideas
that just by being women: they can calm a crowd of rowdy
teenagers down with the words:
i'm your mother, your sister, your grandma all in one...
because i'm a steward... listen... love...
just let someone who's 6ft2 and 100kg in mass come in
and you... ******* somewhere... watch the moon
or something...

i couldn't be a surgeon if i didn't have a steady hand...
but when **** hits the fan... i already brought it up...
we're not here for an easy, wage...
we're ultimately here to prevent another Hillsborough tragrdy,
no?
that message didn't even recoil with a positive affirmation...
i stand around these female coworkers and they
might want me to feel intimidated...
someone, very much elsewhere might be reading me...
i might add... you know i felt less intimidated walking
into a brothel and waiting to choose among
7 different prostitutes who i was going
to bang for an hour? so what's this?
a ******* raspberry doughnut and a hot coffee scenario?!

am i bragging? i don't know... i tend to attract a lot
of ****** males and females just feel "hugged" around me...
i'm still thinking about Gemma...
yeah, i know that i mentioned that she was
on the defensive: she was on the defensive...
but then my parents are going on holiday for two weeks
and i'll have the whole house to myself...
last time that happened i brought back a Thai surprise
that i picked up from a park bench...
i played her some jazz on vinyl and ended up
******* her in the garden...
she gave me some memorandum items... rings... what not...
she disappeared into her size when i
put on one of my jackets on her...
******* Thai surprise became a Thai ******,
hobbit no less... walked her home... blah blah...

i need to bang Gemma... if i don't bang Gemma in
the next few months i'm done for... she's a 39 year old
single mother with an ex that brought her into 8K+ into debt...
she had a kid with him, the kid doesn't want to know his
father... i want to **** her as much as i want to teach the kid
to play the guitar... appreciate Ezra Pound...

of course i'm a loser by all modern, cosmopolitan standards
of dating... i live with my parents...
not exactly an Ed Gein scenario...
but... i do the gardening, i do the housechores,
i do the cooking, i even iron shirts... i hate ironing shirts...
but as i already mentioned...
i found an extra left hand in how to best get it over and done with...

i pay rent, i pay for food... otherwise, who would i live with?
flat share with some fellow milenials?
someone needs to inform the 60+ crowd about being
hip throughout... obviously they're not going
to listen to the music i listen to...
no: MATTA: chaos reigns... but... hey...

i love the idea of not telling my backstory...
i already know so many...
no one has yet managed to cough up the courage
to ask me anything personal at work...
would i tell them?
yeah...                once you've been in the presence
of 7 prostitutes all lined up showing off...
what's 3 female coworkers to you?!
a Victoria sponge cake, by my estimates...
something tame, something that would gladly welcome
being caged...

i like to wander the streets at night, sometimes
i come across a fox, sometimes a harem of deer without
a stag... sometimes i wander into a forest and start hitting
a tree with a branch imploring:
let me in! let me in!

chaos, regiert! die nacht regeln!

once more! einmal mehr!
English is not enough, tourists speak English...
Wankees speak this filth of a zunge!
follow the flow of history,
from the word up! anfangen!
hier! uns! jetzt! schnell!

                    vieh für ein art auf ein menschen...
das beste gehalten im linie...
  schäfer-von-menschen...
         alt.: hirte-auf-männer...
              
English has become... undermined... calmly said:
"plagiarised": that's somewhat elevated...
useless when it comes to its own affairs...
a lingua of / for visitors...
beside the accents... what is there for the origins: folk?
if Heidegger thought he was lucly writing at the time
of the National Socialist Insurgence...
where, the ****, am i?

   perhaps i speak a barbarian tongue from my...
mother's side, and my father to tow...
purity... what's that word in Deutsche?
   REINHEIT!
EINIG! GEHEN! SCHNELL!

******* linguistic  "mongol" mongrels!
ich reflekiert.... for a while..
the ungleichheit: the disparity...i almost joked...
i scribbled something in my notepad... seeing a commercial...
you know how English is spoken
is very much different to how English is written...
French: Fwench is even worse...
well then..
this one adcert stoood out...
it wasn't exactly special...
  
Licorice Pizza... that's what it red: read: reed..
right... so... first hurdle:
not thirst hurdle(s)...
ZZ? stop... you don't have the capacity to speak this...
just say **** over and over again:
Hugo Boss attired them blah blah...

liquid rice...  blacks for vinyl...
lick-or-ish...
     lick-a-Rysh?!
or an EE combat vest?!
you write one way, but speak another...
standard ******* from either the French
or the English... no phonetic clarity...
i'd better be suited learning some:
Hungarian, if i were to be terrible honest...
but now... i'm here.... this is now...
i'm enjoying the whiskey... *******... hello tomorrow.
Gorba Feb 2020
Man får säga ibland
Att det finns skönhet som inte går att beskriva
När till och med en himmelsk strand
Skulle se gräslig ut om man skulle jämföra
Så länge jag bor här
Kommer det inte finnas något att klaga på
Vi är som ett par
Med två partiklar som möttes och blev oskiljaktiga
Jag har varit med dig i tre år nu
Och kärleken brinner fortfarande
Det är uppenbarligen jag och du
Och det är inget erbjudande
Det är hellre ett vackert oundvikligt löfte
Som skrevs med outplånligt bläck på ett häfte  
Du ser ut som en mångfacetterad hydra
Som står ovanför en blå matta
Det känns så skönt att korsa dina broar
Och att gå vilse i kurvorna du har
Jag måste också prata om din gröna klänning
Som man inte kan undvika att smeka
Den absorberar solsken, släpper syre, får oss att leva
Och gör mig glad när jag kommer kring
Du är ljusare än solen under sommaren
Men mörkare än ett svart hål när vinter spränger dörren
Som regnet som får regnbågen att dyka upp
Uppskattar jag mörkret för då ser man norrsken
Samtidigt, brukar snö bygga upp
En vit rock som försvinner sen
Du var inte mitt första val från början
Men nu står du högst upp på listan
Jag behöver erkänna att jag är kär i dig
Trots att du inte ens är en riktig tjej.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
can you conceive of an in-built: a priori "gender" gratification "ontologies": i.e. the male ontology, the pre-deconstructive focus of a willing change? well... what's the canvas like these days in academia? i still hold a door open for a woman, among, the, "plebs"... i'm a pleb too... woo hoo! so now i have to conceive of the gentle trickle of an ex-built: a posteriori "gender" counter-justification "ontologies": i.e. the... she-man ontology, the post-/ pro-deconstructive focus of unwilling change to the reminiscent continuum of circumstances... oh... you know me, academics just love, love verbiage... this is just one exempli gratia... it does mean something per se... but, hush... on the privy? it can mean, whatever you want it to mean... once upon a time: a man used to find gratification in gender "stereotypes"... there really was a gratification process subconsciously working its way into moulding a man... now? eh... the sort of tom waits' elongated eh from glitter & dust live: live circus... that one... this is a great kandinsky-esque verbiage collage... academics will probably focus on the isolated meanings of words, mumbo-jumbo them back together in a pale replica of voodoo brainstorming and: ici, voilà, alors... à savoir, voilà, c'est-à-dire... which makes heidegger's pedantic schemes... well... da-sein counter... there is such an indefinite article... reducing words to conjunctions borrowed from AND... then applying the article category... da-sein: there-being... there's being... that's really an indefinite article of... sein: being, very ******* ambigious... i have to curse... i'm writing an oath... if "offended" you probably say worse things in satan's synagogue of ****** *******... where you should be speaking vowels and syllables and onomatopoeias rather than full sentences... no one is a saint... here! i'm giving you something on a platter... i'm not using hiedegger's temporal mentality of: across the seven seas, the seven mountains the seven rivers motto for hope... here we are... here, now: hier, jetzt... you figure it out... so am i! oh sure, now we know there's (an) existence to be had, lived, experienced, closed... it's almost a cosmic joke that finds its genesis in: voilà! while the exodus is much more painful... since we're not exactly looking at a magician, or a gymnast... we're looking at... a science school-teacher... we're looking at... a clerk, a street-cleaner, a bus driver... oh sure, sure... voilà! the insurgent immediacy of the awe-insirping rush... then again... perhaps Heidegger implies... the sort of validation of voilà! via da-sein of... the sercret affair of: mundane job, but a kick-*** hobby? hier has no potential beside the collective awe-numbing: oops"?", while da-? there? well there is a vector, a linear framework of ABC (0, 0, 0) confined to an end of: (1, 1, 1)... da-sein is a look into a future, it's not the hier- voilà! -sein fatalist approach of inspection... it's a look into the future... i'll always read philosophy in polish, look at german words, and reply in english... that's how my bilingualism works... two firm pillars... and several loose cannons... i hear one academic speak, i tune into bbc radio 4... i swap my tongue for 9 itchy fingers... mostly index, middle, ring of either arm... sometimes the pinky, sometimes the thumb... ballet of the fingers... and always regarding imitation amphetamines... how can you keep a tornado in your head, without your ego spewing out shrapnel... cohesive sentence structures, narratives? that's long gone... it comes, it goes: just as the whiskey flows... for all its worth: i can vow a true statement with reiteration... once upon a time there did exist a stereotypical a gender-defining ontological-gratification, and exclusivity stratum - of the only two tiers in existence... most men probably miss this gender-defining gratification of... pseudo-malaise... it felt comfortable performing banal res-extensa-theatre tidbits... the simplest of things (acts, etc.) always brought out the most selfless joys... the grand replacement of the Muses and the Furies... ex-pec-ta-tions... morose social norms... and we as men complied... now? how about a song... matta... chaos reigns... how's that? if i was in this game: which i am not a part of... who wouldn't be tired?! to have courted the general splendour of the ramped-up polar opposite ballett via mediocre instances of ****** differences... now? this... fiend... this figment of everyone's seemingly sleeping faculty of imagination... of recurring dreams... of nights without dreams... i am a foreigner and having made the utmost utility of this language... i cannot speak for it, with the sort of biological stigmata of an english caste system...  very much apparent come the Royal Ascot... as i also not a foster parent, or some ultimate-******* example of a surrogate mother... oh believe me... i bring redemption for prostitutes... i've paid a tenner extra for 110quid an hour to show you the hydra in my gob... redemption is all prostitutes deserve... there's a tier above them... surrogate mothers... a bit different, ******* a harem of a single ******... quiet another to be a surrogate mother for two homosexuals... that's another level! prostituting your ****** for an hour? em... prostituting your womb for nine months?! there is no "relatively" speaking here, it's not a rhetorical question... this comes when the women disgrace prostitutes, calling all pundits: slavers... girl likes to ****, and she ***** in the most face-to-face fashion... but i'm pretty sure, that same girl, doesn't rent out her womb for nine months so Jim & Joe can have a ****-up of a toddler's worth of a leather napkin... to wipe off the otherwise apparent ***** from them gobbing down a perfect baked alaskan lolly! but you'd have to visit Amsterdam for that sort of perspective... away from England and that perverse Carry On! *** humour that states: we're all nuns! under the omnipresent scrutiny... and then... 1960s shameless ****... that's what i learned about the English... two-faced nymphomaniacs... or whatever decree... why didn't Henry VIII decide on a harem... or polygamy? i don't like the way the English concern themselves with ***... using terms like: joke, naughty... all things crass... infantile... i hate it... it actually creates a brimming spectacle of boiling water in my head and heart... pretending to be this puritanical could only take a hypocrite to craft a performance act... seems the english have only one form of escapism... ***... which would explain why they need to dress it with as much innocence as possible... which in turn translates into unfathomable depravity... perhaps not in the en masse sense... but at least a few thousand seances... akin to those *** acts... that would require a ******, a dajjal... to be looking... for the man to get an *******... or the woman to be aroused... the third party principle... otherwise? within the confines of the "so-called" privacy? dry cookie crumble - meet limp ****.

.bitter.. or simply... determined?

that's why i like prostitutes,
            it leaves me with
a blank canvas' worth of a narrative...
no cuddly bits-and-bomps...
   just straight talk:
- i get regular STD checks...
- good to know, really good to know.

unlike that age-old scenario
that my father warned me about:
- a girlfriend of mine
tried to trojan horse
   a baby into my lap,
and it was never my own...

   funny that...
i had that happen to me once...
mind you,
i do come from a horrid background...
both the mother of my father
and the father of my father
shoved him into the arms
of their parents...

                 salty... ouch...
*******...
   and i'm his breed...
                       oh, and that interlude
"picnic" of 30 minutes...
when you have just entertained
20cl of ms. amber,
and there's still a bottle's worth
of a sinking ship?
that half-drunk / half-sober
interlude...
                    yeah... those are nice...

ideally in love...
it's night-time,
people are asleep...
    i have to caution myself
from bursting out with laughter
reading some of these poetic...
ahem... group therapy sessions...
i know i loved,
and what i loved,
and i am certain i know
what i ******...
                    because:
it being ******,
replied with the adequate
reciprocation answer...

             the more i listen to incels
the more i'm like...
   this... this is the only "problem",
dating?
              i once took to a speed
dating event at edinburgh
university...
              it went...
as it was supposed to go...
    big L on the forehead,
started digging cognitive
trenches...
      
               the ultimate sign of respect
you have for someone?
eating food with them...
that's my starting line of inquiry...
everything else is just
pretending to tame
******* politics...

                      tell that to
latex lucy... for once in my life
i became an old man in
a young man's body...
               heart started speeding...
the unattainable became all
the more: real...
                  
      thank god that i'm not much
to look life,
so i went among the sort
of women where
upon giving them an ******,
there would be an expression
of anguish, and surprise...

         kanalrattebeißen...
but at least not an english politician's
take on the wriggly **** pit
of a maggot...
          when "god" played
bonsai with rats,
as man played bonsai with trees
and tigers to create cats...
came along the mice...

           latex lucy: everything that's
wrong but somehow right
with this world...
                i stopped myself from
****-**** when i "feigned"
    breeze-'ed...
             oh i'm pretty sure
she's the sort,
the mandible sort of beauty...
     but, clearly...
   i was expecting the typical
******* chub and good humour
akin to that puerto rican in
amsterdam...

              born half a monster,
died... eh... somewhere between:
the polacks never receiving either
german reparations...
  (which the jews received)...
or soviet reparations for
Chernobyll...
       the women were told to drink
iodine, if pregnant...
lovely year, that year 1986
when i was a month shy from
birth...

                but now...
                       if they shut me up on
wattpad... back in 2015...
over a comment which ended:
o.k., great, have a great life;

             well?
     surprises surprises...
leaving one ***** colony,
then finding another ***** colony.
trust? nil.
           hope? nil.
                    faith? nil.
         the chance to encounter
plenty of kleindiktatoren?
   what, whittle hitlers?
          all the time:
all, in, the, name, of, "democracy".
god...
if i'm not going to ****
a latex demigod deity...
i might as well write something
in deutsche:

    as the proverb suggests:
if you don't have what you'd like,
well... like what's readily given.
Bowedbranches Jan 2021
Its either
Chaos, contagion, or comatose
They weigh in
Those
Heavy
Pheromones
find a way to
Overgrow
Almost anything
No Matta what
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
it's vaguely odd, to make this kind
of observation,
but have you ever squinted your
eye (with the other closed)
when looking at the moon?
well, with the sun, when you squint
your eye in a similar fashion,
your eyelashes almost seem to turn
to water, if not tears,
they become soaked in light,
that almost resembles water tricklets...
but with the moon?
ah, bountiful luna
   (in other languages,
the moon is male, the sun, female,
but in english, it's the other way
round);
it is only a day since a full moon,
and i'm drinking my ***
and feeling "bored",
so i turn my attention to
the moon, a day shy from fullness...
and you know?
  squinting my eye, i see a fraction
of the sum of the orb,
and as i do, a distinct ray of light
enters my body, just
above the eye, the forehead;
my eye still has the orb intact,
but there's a distinct ray of light
heading into the area just above
my eye...
as if: illuminating,
or clarifying...
   hocus pocus sort of dynamic
this observation has managed
to produce, but it's there,
when you squint your eye when
looking at the moon,
a direct beam of light enters via
your forehead,
it doesn't travel directly into your
eye,
        rather, just above it...
a licking aspect of a
     better-late-than-never "bend".
just an innocent observation,
and furthermore,
you tilt your head from side to side,
the same beam of light moves
with your observant eye...
   i find it fascinating,
how much of science is depicted by
only the dynamic of polyphemus
(the cyclops) -
   now, in islamic myths
this cyclops, the dajjal is one-eyed,
hence islam will clearly
testify that western science is...
metaphorically speaking: the dajjal.
i'm not so sure,
i already identified the dajjal
from the hadiths...
  muhammad spoke of the
east... given a compass...
    what's east of mecca?
   riyadh...
and when he said: he will be the scourge
upon the earth,
he didn't imply a poor person...
and he said his right eye would
be bulging, like a grape...
and he would be the worst curse
to befall a nation...
looks to me, that saudi arabia
is becoming more and more
decadent, isolated,
enigmatic even, why?
   it's ashamed of the youth
it has produced, it's: petrified!
who is this "enigmatic" dajjal?
ibn-saud...
   ibn-jabba-the-arab more like...
******* arab diabetics:
no no, alcohol is haram!
sugar iz good! hav' a baklava!
go **** yourself, give me
a sand-timer you *******
camel jockey.
   there was once a "thing" called
the iron, curtain...
seems to me, we're living in times
of the sand, curtain...
  i really don't want to think
about the *****-whipping ***-cracks
of men living in these sand-dune
cities that: resemble the most pristine
apocalyptic visions of:
                                     FAIL!
ah, don't bother, start building
these babylon-esque towers on
antarctica... then you can pet some
penguins while you're at it!
come on, you can't have any other
animal in tux serving drinks...
a cheetah in tux? what are you
talking about?
               see, the english didn't pick up
on this, no one i know, or don't know
has spoken about the isolationism
of saudi arabia...
   lawrence of arabia is long gone
along with the: "evil" turk...
       great biography too...
but the sand curtain is there...
    there's nothing special happening
under it... it's like a babushka doll,
but whenever you open one up after another,
the niqab is still there...
        i wish the russian thought
up an islamic babushka doll...
  **** it: let's start with a burqa,
then a niqab... nearing the end we get
a thong and then the garden of eden *****...
i don't have the money to make this:
go ahead, like my idea, made a babushka
doll like that: you'll be... minted!
yeah i know, i'm sometimes like
a forrest gump, i like ping-pong and
i play-along with being innocently dumb...
i was born with the idea of money
as being nothing more than a comparison
to counting pebbles,
given that western "intellectuals"
bark against prostitutes...
     i've given myself to sparingly
whiff off a few grand, here & there,
because...
   if ****'s not broken,
                      why buy a replacement?
saudi arabia is, though, playing an
isolationist game for reasons you might
not suspect...
  hence the hadith quote,
   hence the sand curtain:
the older generations are ashamed
of the offspring they produced,
and their european slavic ***** *** ******...
that's good, i don't mind jerking
off... i can focus on my drinking...
   and yes, i've been to prostitutes,
and every time i get a kiss and she says:
no no no, it's against the rules,
but i still do, and get that girly
wish i was 16 giggle... well...
             grease me another frying pan:
i'm about to make a killer curry;
alter-ego talk...
matta al-britanni?
    got sent to the wrong place,
overshot the ******, sent him to goa,
to cook curries for white tourists...
seems pretty happy to me...
   better not tell him he's not supposed
to be there... like any ******:
   happy when being given a newspaper
to rip in nicely folded rectangles:
i knew one robbie... no pair of scissors
could beat him:
as they say - 'ere by v'ah grease of good:
rubby rubby, chubby chubby,
and out pops a screaming plum's head
mmm' ha ha:
rubby rubby, chubby chubby,
that's a good 'un, dash ah keepour:
talk to an amsterdam prozzie,
she'll tell you the linguo choke,
i mean: joke.
- where was i?
  oh, my, god! you know when you write
something, and keep writing something,
and you're like: girlfriend, you're gonna
blush...
   and it hits you, and it's, like: amnesia?
it's called the cut-up flux technique,
well, it's hardly a technique,
it's not the cabaret voltaire scene
to be honest...
    you don't think up a plot,
the plot thinks up itself,
   you... move along, you... move along,
but amnesia is a great technique
to focus on...
                  god, sometimes i wish
i was yoda japanese:

     squint the eye, you will,
     moon, apparent be seen,
     beam of light
        hit your forehead, it will.

and that's all it was going to be...
     but obviously the european ramble had to take
place, and involve much more,
than the recipe for ink had in store
for me, with the already twice mentioned
observation;
bad luck, hopefully better, next time.

— The End —