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Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2013
My poetry, which knew it was
the cry of a lonely bird
on a solitary tree
in my village,
asked Spring its name.

Spring began to speak –

The fruit laden Vayyankatha, her thorny pangs, hijab-wearing  Guf, her minarets, Thondi  blushing red with kisses,  her moist lips, orphaned Adalodakam, Nellippuli in a polka dotted dress, Pulivakawaiting for the breeze, Anjili   head towards the south, yawning Cherupuuna, Pera with the names of grandmas scribbled on her leaves, Ilantha blowing into the hearth, Ilapongu rubbing his eyes, Irippa, Atha laughing noisily,Cholavenga in tattered clothes, Irumbakam, Padappa catching his breath after running, Pattipunna wagging his tail, bare footed Pattuthali, Thekku the noblest among them, Thekkotta, Neervalam  recollecting her last birth, Neeraal, sobbing Neelakkadambu, Pathimukam, lazy thanal murikku, Karimaruthu, Karinkura, Asttumayil, Velladevaram, Kattukadukka, the gluttonous Badam, amnesiac Vazhanna, boredVarachi, Nangmaila, Eucalyptuswith a sprained back, viscous red Rakthachandanam, saffron robed Rudraksham, Vakka, Vanchi,  Parangimaavu nostalgic of his ancestral home, Vari, Nedunaar, Marotti with a hundred offsprings, Malangara, Malampunna ,Nenmeni Vaka trying his luck in a lottery, Nelli with a sour smile.

Kadaplaavu doing sketches with leaves, Kari straying from the queue, Kattuthuvara buying things on credit, Kattutheyila boiling over, Kattupunna with a pus-oozing sore, Kumkumam putting a bindi on her forehead, starving Ventheku, Vellakadambu making a missed call, Kattadi standing aloof, her feeble hands,  flowering Ilanji, her fragrant trunk, sighing Aalmaram, Pachavattil, Pachilamaram  gossiping with the chameleon, Panachi,Pamparakumbil, Kadambu memories adorning her head, Kudamaram carrying provisions for the home,  Punnappa,Poongu, gray hairedChuruli, Chuvannakil  singing a folk song, dark skinned Vattil, Kulaku, Karinjaaval, sozzled Pamparam, Chorappayir, njama, Njaaval  tempting the birds, Njaara, Alasippooscratching his palm, Ashokam  humming a sad song.

Ezhilampala chewing on a masala paan, Peenaari wearing a tie, Peelivaka, Pulichakka with a broken leg, Pezhu demanding his wages, Kumbil, Kurangaadi, Kasukka with a dislocated elbow,Valiyakaara, Vallabham, Chavandi, stunning Chinnakil , Chittal with a failed brake, Vidana, Sheemappanji, the loan shark Odukku, Oda  on musth,fatherless Kadakonna, childlessShimshapa, Sindooram with a flushed face, Karinthakara singing the thannaaro, Vellappayir high on grass, Poothilanji showing off her blossoms, sour faced Kudampuli.

Wet in the rain Kulamaavu, Kudamaavu circling around himself, Pari from the netherworld,Poopathiri in a priest’s robe,  Poochakadambu on all fours, Kulappunna covered in a blanket, Kundalappala checking his astro forecast, Pachotti, ******* Perumaram, Perumbal  thinking of the sea, phlegm clogged Anathondi, Anakkotti, Cheruthuvara, Ilavangam, Thanni,naughty Thirukkalli,  Karappongu, embracing Kattadi, Thudali, Thelli, Kara, Malayathi,Malavirinji, shameless Kashumaavu,mud slinging Karuka, Vedinal, suicide prone Attumaruthu,Attuvanchi  who glides on the stream like a fallen shadow.

Mandaram  dressed in white, Vanna, brazen Mahagani, Karivelam doing the accounts,Jakarantha, Koombala, friendless Koovalam, Kattukamuku with his hands around friends, Kolli, Paruva,Krishnanaal with a crooked smile, Cocoa with no one to turn to, Cork,Palakapayyani, Pavizhamalli wearing necklace and bangles, a lonely Mazhamaram, Mangium, Mathalam exposing her *******, Chemmaram, Pashakottamaram, Malavembu, tearful Chamatha, Vatta, Vattakoombitired of running around, smoking Pine, Porippovanam, Kaaluvnthatherakam, Thembaavu, grinningDantaputri, Narivenga, Navathi, grumbling Mazhukkanjiram,Arayanjili,  Arayal playing a game with the wind.

Choola kissing the sizzling wind, Arinelli, Maavu reciting sadly the poem Mampazham,  Chandana vembu, Peraal stretching its back, Pulivaaka, Unnam, Naythanbakam,Karpooram in a slow glow, Naaykumbil, trumpeting Pongu, outcast Pottavaaka, bursting Poriyal, vagabond Ponthavaaka, Plaavu lost in some thought, Pootham  head covered , Ethappana  greening while yellowing, Manjadi, Mullanvenga, Mullilam lifting his dhoti to expose his genitals, Mullilavu hopping around, Moongappezhu, Neermaruthu saying enough is enough, withered Neermathalam ,Moottikkay, Ithi, Ithiyaal, Vella velam, Kalppayir, Kallar, Majakkadambu singing a lullaby, Choondappana wary of fish bones.

Stooping Punna, Matti scared of her big brother, Paarijaatham watching the midnight movie, Paalakal, Paali,Paarakam doing cartwheels, Viri, Athi showing off  her seeds,Ampazhammassaging his chest, Ayani inlove with her son, Manjakkonna, Manjamandaram in search of something, Chullithi with eyes closed, Kallilavu like an oozing rock, Malamandaram eyeing the vultures,Velleetti cursing the thunder, Venga,Veppu, Vraali, Akil, sighing Acacia,Balsa, Blanka, Beedimaram with a rattling cough,  Agasthi, Cherukonna with a sheepish smile, Kambali, woundedNagamaram.

Pathiri, touching his forehead to the ground, his eyes heavenward, Ankolam ruined by debts,Kattumarotti, Kundalappala, Aattumaruthu,Poovam, Erumanaakku, Karingotta, Vediplaavu his salary still unpaid, Venmurikku, Manjanaathi, Manimaruthu jolted awake, Mathagirivembu, Karaanjili  escorting his daughter, Karakongu,Karappongu, Ilippa on her way back, Ooravu half-awake after a dream and with a sucker smile, Ennappana about to immolate himself, fattened  Ennappine,Azhantha waiting for someone, Chorapatri with a cracked head,Sheemappoola,Poovankara, Malampuli, Puli with sharpened stakes.

Obese Theettipplaavu,Malambongu, Chorimathimurikku, Irippa bailing out his friend, Irumbakamwho lost his job, Kunkumappoo, Karinthaali, Scoot, Rose Kadambu, Aamathali, Aarampuli,Attilippucaught in the crowd, Irul  blessed by the elders, Vellavatti, whistling Mula, Kattukonna in a hat, Kaniiram learning the alphabets, broker Cheru,Kattuchembakam exposing his arm pit,Thandidiyan, Neeroli, Ezhachembakam waiting for her bus, Karimbana in a newly constructed house, Karivenga,Karivali writing a poem, Ungu in a baby frock, Udi, Plasha, Elamaruthupromising to meet later, Chembakam dying to hug.

Vellakil who bathes the kids, Vellavaaka who forgot his umbrella, Attuthekku who failed the exam, lustful Aattunochi,Malanthudali with her legs spread, Malanthengu with chest ****** up,Malamanchadi who is learning to count, Malambarathi exposing her *******, intoxicated Aval, Arana reciting the poem Karuna, insane Alakku who dashes off to the temple, Cheru who cannot stop washing clothes, Kudappana ready to elope, irreligious Jaathi, Silver Oak laughing boisterously, Kattuveppu waiting for the kids, Sumami ******* on a toffee, annoyed Parappoola,frightened Pinar, Ithi stopping her ears at swear words, Ithiyal with lots of smiles, Kovidaram with music in his mind, Ilakkali showing her belly, blossoming Ilavu, Chadachi who ***** sadistically, cool fingered Chandanam.

dominating Charakkonna, office going Cheelanthi, Gulgulu glued to Kochu channel, Gulmohur with dyed hair, Irul with a fuming face, early rising Kanikonna, Kanala who has a sound sleep, Karingali  who pees standing, Kambakam with an ***** *****, Kallavi  beseeching to stuff her up, Karanjili  quivering in lust, calm Karaal, Kaari who hums while *******, Kaavalam who naps after the toil,Thannimaram showing off her petals, Thambakam kissing the ****, Thellipayar savouring a *****,Neerkurunda in post-****** languor, Malaya breastfeeding her kid, bullying Kathi, mad hat Eetti,Cheeni  not remembering his mom,  Kunnivaka showing his gums, Kuppamanja who laughs in sleep, Othalanga swallowing poison, blooming Poovarasu.

Spring went on,
reeling off names to me.
The rain the sun the wind and the cold
Rolled in one after the other.
Spring kept pulling out
names from its memory.

People got scared of
my poetry gone wild.
They stopped passing that way.

A snake goes slithering away.
A hare finds its own path and dashes away.
A poothankiri, from a bush, flies away.



(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
1.      Mampazham (Ripe Mango) is the title of a famouspoem by Vyloppilli.
2.      Karuna (Compassion) is the title of a long poemby Kumaran Asan.
3.      Poothankiri – A white headed babbler.
4.      Thanaaro - An obscene devotional song.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
finding gravity on a bicycle...

surely... given that most people
don't write a ******* hemmingway...
and there's no william buckley jr.
doing the interview...
and there's no norman mailer...

and that: no one really bothers
with kierkegaard and that:
kant "famously" didn't marry starry crap...
why didn't i have kids
and start a family?
uh... dunno... mother's best lie...
or the best lie a neighbour brings
with her... whenever you're
being a 2nd witness without
the 1st witness being there...

and she says an "also" with regards
to her son having the same luck
with women...
when the comparison comes:
a koala bear versus a gorilla...
bonsai tiger!
like a koala is a ******* bear
to begin with...
cuddly soft-pouch toy-ah-thing!

but there's that great feat!
finding gravity on a bicycle...
my mother helped me with that...
and that famous fail of
a rotondo... well... more or less
a cricket ground egg shaped, oval...
or a rugby ball...
the shoulder on the salto bike
hard... rammed into a car....

as a child you were supposedly well
loved...
and this is modern poo'etry i hear about?
here's to: john sounding like johny...
will sounding like *****...
richard sounding like: **** and not richy...
it's cute... matthew... matti: finnish...
leonard is: leo oh leo...
why art we all not named: Li Lo Po!

of course everyone managed to spot
the tetragrammaton vowel catchers that's
hey'zeus! no... not the bloke strapped
to the mannequin of tailoring...
oh no... not the crucifix pendulum
"for us all"... by blood... by cross...
who is to exfoliate on the crucifix...
better than some well scouted for materials
on a mannequin canvas for tailoring
a suit?
the guilt?! oh the guilt!
well... thank god this metaphysician would
never address the material realm of
enjoying a... dabble with... wool...
when donning a suit...
or leather shoes... or any presence of suede...
beside the crucifix mannequin: replica
and pittance!

- but finding gravity on a bicycle is one thing...
finding gravity when swimming is another...
it's called gravity...
but some heretical circles call it:
balance...
after all... it is both gravity...
and balance... given that while riding
a bike... or swimming...
you're pretty much sure, assured:
to not be falling...

you can find gravity with newtonian hindsight...
of sure...
that's there... it involves the magicians orbs...
copernican mathematics and...
target practice when it comes to
propaganda spew...
and Steward... the lesser... Stew...
cousin of the house of Stuart...
not Steward... Stuart...
which is (again)...
a McKiteit and MacCoddlewit...
some Glaswegian *****-donor clinic
"miss-up" mix-it: tend to...
lounging busy... which is of course...
besides the "look"...

5 bazookas cleared for a salvo!
hip hip! burger-pound!
hip hip! boom shizzle shoom!
hip hip! hooray!
oh now we'z getz uz best
partay birth doy wishy-washy
"protagonists"!

but given the current Persian affair...
i couldn't help to notice...
love actually... the narrative...
the u.s.a. and england...
the Z-spezial re-la-tion-ship...

so... who's spastic... and who's fantastic?!
spaz: B-bristolian-esque joking...
never aside...
who's the spaz and who's the frizzy-fuss?!

spe-zial mother russia talks down
to dog Kiev: yes, it's in (the) Ukraine...
spezial iz not what iz?

h'america... kept a yorkshire terrier...
media leetches of england
firmly in its grasp...
cuz onez we woz: once -
the militia contra the crown...
of north virginia...

coz b'rah: a 79-year-old man
who lit himself on fire protesting
against russia's language policies
in the capital of the volga region
of udmurtia has died;
name? alberto raisin...
which sounds terrible in its
non-native spanish...

but there's something worth of gravity
without debating
the heliocentric model...
finding one's balance on a bicycle...
a posteriori events...
but... the same balance can be
translated into a swimming session...

my god my father tried to teach me...
if i was supposed to learn
to swim in the sea...
with the fear: of not seeing the depth?
isn't that like a thesaurus
congestion of: acrophobia?
isn't there a word in the borrowed
lexicon of the ancient greeks...
concerning... fearing to swim in a body
of water... where you can't see the bottom?
i could learn to swim in a swimming
pool... thankfuly all because and due to...
moi...

i also found gravity in water...
i could... lie in water and become...
the antithesis of: the body consists
of 90% of water...
yes sherlock watson & sons... ltd...
but in water i'm mostly fat...
if i find the right balance...
i float...
which is why swimming is a bit
like riding a bicycle...
you find: the center...
or gravity...

again... in this special "relationship"
of bruv-love...
between h'america and whittle brit-pop interlude...
oasis on the continent...
my my... blur, even...
breakfast at tiffany's back in the dough-dough-us...
who is the ******* SPASTIC?
in this "SPEZIAL" relationship?
i guess the english must be the SPEZIALS...

a bit like watching:
go-go-gonzales trip up on a spelling mistake...
which is all i care for...
like a comedia...
a deviation from the informal, later,
subject of language implementation...
and all this peacocking prior...

where else does gravity allow itself...
a presence of the multi-vector?
up and down... left and right...
it's not as easily explained as:
on a ledge... with an apple...
drop it... newton with a header!
a 1-all equalizer in stoppage time
an F.A. cup re-match!

gravity on a bicycle...
it's hardly a drop affair...
gravity in water...
it's hardly merely swimming...
there's that aspect of finding... buoyancy...
there's not need for you to swim...
to exhert so much effort...
that you might as well drown 10 meters
in after swimming the 'undred...

no buoyancy: no chinese fortune cookies...
i still don't know which is more grand...
beside the acrobatics of... olympic level
acrobatics...

it's not bound to youth via lifting weights...
or supreme mao tse tung's winter olympics
of: hunger strikes in Vinter...
the gravity bound to a bicycle...
or the gravity bound to swimming...
after all... the latter is a bit "funny"...

"levitation" and buoyancy...
the dracula soundtrack:
only because of gary oldman and the composer
wojciech kilar... and the given, current...
b.b.c. spin-off and how...
yes... it's that terrible...
i don't even know where those five-stars
came from!
the archetype of feminine romance novels?
the syphilitic lover? the "vampire"?

yes, no? two guesses as good as: nein - keiner...
and, quiet honestly...
nothing could make this exercise in:
not engaging in any of all the available
comments sections on any website...
any worse... than it already is...

it comes as no surprise that: i write this poo'ems
not because i don't write poetry...
but because i will neither write
a poem by standards reserved for
pedagogy or demagogy...
or write identifiable puzzle-bog-trots of...
language reserved for politicization:
and not for... counter-marxist...
"psychiatric" post-...
hardly modern or... "today's journalism"...
eh... pushing it toward a Beckett-clause...
concerning language that is not expected...
oh but i certainly do know
a difference between formal language
and... this... the informal language...
the cognitive extension that does not
require a "free speech" protection bias...

none of this was spoken...
it was seen...
weaved into "thinking"...
that's the difference... isn't it?
from my end of the tenniscourt "promenade"
i've heard nothing but clickick...
off this dead-end replica piano
of a qwer
asdf
zxcvbnm

unless my shadow spoke... or there was some
telepathic connection
with the schizoid "group-think" of me
sourcing my sometime odd...
cognitive-murmors of "thought"...
"hallucinations"...
so be it...

this defence of a freedom of speech...
how does that even extend into writing?
i will never know...
and to be honest? i don't want to know...
writing is an extension of thinking...
which is also an inversion of speaking...
but it's never speaking...
where's the audio on this piece?!

how about... plucking your eyes out,
after fating yourself with the
original curiosity to begin with?
sounds better: than... what still persists as...
not being, said!

this was written, it wasn't said...
this is not a transcript...
this is not a transcript...
if this is censored...
then my... "schizophrenia" is not even
my original thesis of: bogus
mono-lingual parody of bilingualism...
no need to cite **** sapiens
jurisprudence advocates...
lawyers... the thesaurus bargain barons etc.
this is... what's those words they use?
invasion of the tabernacle?
do my "auditory hallucinations" stem from...
these words...
a private investement in internet access...
again: nothing is being said!
because this is a "public arena"...
a "forum"...
and the eyes on the other side of this text...
are c.c.t.v. eyes?!
not private eyes?

what's the point of freedom of speech?
when the freedom to think:
and subsequently write... is bombarded
by being who: see via reading braille...
and read... comments likes dislikes and all
those other ratios?

writing is an extension of a freedom
to think... most people who speak freely
don't speak via a precursor script...
that's not free speech: that's scripted speech!
and just because it happens be placed
in a public "forum"...
that's the argument that this writing
is a freedom of "speech"?!
really?! i guess your average u.s. citizen
is more despotic than the *******
president... then...

again.. blah blah blah blah blah...
blah blah.... blah blah blah blah blah...
blah... blah blah... blah blah blah blah blah blah...

you'd sooner convince a parrot to sing
you a song in sparrow than call this "debate"...
evenly focused on one or neither side "winning".
Courtney O Oct 2019
You said can't take it no more
I bled a stream of painful love
Who's gonna save me from?

Only Matti and Klem there
To sing to my pain
Lull it to hibernate
(I am breaking free,
but it hurts, you see)

Imagination going wild
so sweetly, so casually
When they grab each other on stage
this girl boils and forgets

Getting deep into hell
You pushed me to the pit
burning there because I sin
You left me here
Why did you do that to me?
Only Klem and Matti understand
appease the gush of blood

Only Klem and Matti
to spice up the scene
of my broken days
they did leave at last
but I will always remember
what they did for me:
entertain me and anesthetize me
so I could undergo this hit
Eyes fully open, but it doesn't ache
Hands on deck, but enjoying the place
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
how will i reclaim that forest in the night to walk into...
ah proud birdsong near the edge of the wood
at going past 11pm will clarify my heart to endear
courage against samael’s breath once more.*

the cartesian model of inquir, namely
subtance and spatial extension is unsatisfactory,
unless you’re a schizophrenic,
where the extension is a symptom
of a dislodged narration in pluralism,
it makes sense then;
but what of the temporal aspect of the extension?
it can’t just be two-dimensional of the x-axis substance
and the y-axis of the spatial extension...
that would imply, that the z-axis is nullified, non-existent...
meaning that we would have no faculty of memory,
which is a bit ******* to say the bull charged in a darts
competition hitting the bullseye fifty times out of fifty-five throws.
why did descartes avoid inc. the temporal extension
only focusing on the spatial extension model,
thus avoiding the trinity and instead leaving us with
a blatant dualistic error?
was he schizoid too? i guess so...
we’re not talking about living a full-life
and then doing a van gogh disintegration of the self...
if you’re young, you get to construct a self
that’s defined by a medical condition...
but if you’re old, and the self is fully adequate to
be ready for retirement and grandchildren...
there’s not much originality for you to invoke...
you lived a boring life... you’ll die a horrid death...
sorry - face reality, you didn’t do enough su doku or crosswords,
esp. if you weren’t physically exhausted
like my father roofing...
i wish i could join him, in the solidarity motto my grandfather
tends to repeat (being a foreman in a metal factory
back in poland): zdrowie na budowie (health on a construction site)!
it’s true, tiresome as it might sound -
mature dementia is also the double-veil effect...
you lie to much and your conscience snaps
and starts mining for coal in your consciousness...
you think wet coal ever made it as 27 years of ol’ jimi hendrix?
i don’t think so.
it wasn’t the drink that killed amy winehouse...
proof? me...
what killed her... the inability to engage with dialectics...
too many people you see... the tabloid exposure...
no park bench in the night with a bearded blond stranger
by the name of matti helsinki.
what defines us as people is much more related to memory
(the cartesian black hole) than what’s thought
or imagined...
using this barbie / size 0 anorexic ***** in fishnet stockings
i find that what we come across is a bit like natural seletion:
selective memorization...
i don’t care where my next thought comes from nietzsche...
i’m bewildered why we remember what we remember,
and it’s more or less cryptographic...
i see the scenes... thank god i don’t have the second person
brain haemorrhage scene but the first person spec-savers...
third person is a host i didn’t want to impregnate with my content...
following the flawed cartesian interpretation in
the freudian region... imagination = substance...
extension = dreaming...
and the curious thing is... memory scrambles imagination,
i can’t imagine certain things like being a ***** tadpole
in the pond of testicles...
memory asking the imagination faculty to function
and leave thought scarce scrambles wild wild west imagination
that provides fertile ground for dreams to enter...
i don’t really dream that much... not lucid dreaming...
because i can distinguish hallucinatory memory images
of remembered scenes... and those shadow-consistency hallucinations
that even a 7 year old would acknowledge as unreal.
Lucky Queue May 2016
Yesterday they lined up all the boys to give them a good talking to.
After all, when you're about to ask the head priest's daughter for her hand, you must do it the right way.

But of course, they'd only line up the boys, and not the girls who glance and flirt and trail the tips of their fingers along wet gowns when bathing.
It's known that Victoria will kiss anyone who can tame her curls, and Alice leaves violets for those she fancies.
Even a pig recognize that Jacob and Peter have been making eyes at each other for about two summers, and that Matti only longs for books.
Harold's true love is venison, and though he could be won over digestively, Emi is really trying to move towards vegetarianism.

So they told the boys how to carry themselves and some listened in desperate eagerness and earnest and a few planned pranks, and anyone worth their salt could tell it was a disaster.
This morning, the local girls dressed the boys in flowers, as is strange tradition, but then a few joined the line and fairly glowed in their blue linen and lemony cinnamon licorice hair, dripping with petals.

The king laughed and the head priest smirked in bemusement, as it is every year.
And Emi gazed, bored and silent to every proclamation, gift, and oath.
Yet a fourth year had passed without a chosen suitor.
Courtyard emptied, and I drew near her chair as well.

"I have no strange and beautiful art to exhibit or exotic sweet to taste. I do not seek what you will not eagerly give, and I will not ask you to be my wife, but I'd very much like to be your friend ifthatwouldbeokaywithyouthanks."

After all, who doesn't fall in love with Artemis.
5.31.16
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
. lately, i discovered myself: drinking more than writing, and reading even less, which is a less of anything, but i never expected to drink as much, and forget to read, to write, to somehow keep the Libra balance of: as much in, as much out - out of place... oh **** me... womanißng... i have a hard time petting a cat, or rather: you only begin to learn to pet a cat by "forgetting" to pet it, i couldn't stomach a revolving-door of women, i'd love the chance to pet a dog once more... but my hopes against the Moloch and the Juggernaut of the democratic rite of man: bitter, by the number, ever increasing; it's like when the biblical narrative of the eventual history of man: animals farmed, framed... etc. came across Darwinism and what was spat out was an intra-species claustrophobia... yes: i know... over-worded, " ", i too would like to speak onomatopoeia and limited constructs of words more like syllables, and consonants made into body language, and vowels like distinctions of breath...

while rotting christ became a prominent
band for me with the release
of Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού  in 2013...
my writing...
    or... i should have made a video
variant...
             yes, they would have
made a cover of aphrodite's child
the four horsemen...
           maybe the news of
       the death of matti nykänen,
having to resort to striptease,
dead, aged 55...
               but with all these people:
i feel i am entrenched
in a heart that is suffocated
by a mountain,
   and... that's less a feeling:
                       and more a reality...
i visit my grandparents,
and encounter
the claustro-**** of a scenario
of living for a month
in a town on the death-row...
i return, "home",
and live on the outskirts of
a major global cesspit that's London...
come rotting christ
with the album rituals...
well... the song: ז)ה( נגמר (Ze Nigmar)
                 wait...        
i know some hebrew:
and i do know that they love
to hide their vowels
via a "strange" diacritical method...
that... א‬ (aleph) & ע‬ (ayin)
are... a-
                     -nomalies...
they are... considering
the prefix cut-off rule...
                the story of Eden with
either twin Adams...
           or... two gay Adams...
or whatever it "necessary"...
     look... i come from a phonetic
encoding people:
that, do not have names for
letters...
               a-male... yes...
           b-male...
                            that i am, already...
and there's the whole
                    oo-male (ω):
***** champion -
    a cleft of ******* like
the cleft of the buttocks...

oh... right... z'eh... i forgot
that ה
is the vowel-catcher...
but...    I & A are missing in
        what becomes     NGMR...
and every hebrew word:
looks plainly: ugly in Latin script...
except one...
the tetragrammaton...
because?
   there's a geometry ascribed
to it...
        Y: 3D... quiff: י...
    the vitruvian man's tongue...
H & H...
   a bit like aleph and ayin...
  or... watching a game of rugby...
hence the goal posts...
or... at least plenty of slaughter
and something of a worth
of the content bound to sighs...
W... waves... squiggly lines...
      momentum:
           beginning at one
end, ending at the over...
      cosine...
Y: again... pin-point, crucible...
but all the other words
in hebrew?
   translated into the Latin text?
ugly as **** & god know's what!
but the tetragrammaton?
well... should Allah
be the jealous god?
   notably: and it would look like
LLH... ******* wonky...
     no geometry to associate
it with...
  but YHWH?
   that looks, it feels
    geometric...
Allah... even in hebrew: ל‬ל‬ה...
       looks... weird...
    sure... and the word for god
for the Maltese is also:
   a lend-word from Arabic...
      so... all sigh... ah...
apart from that?
******* niqabs for the vowels...
hidden,
it's almost equivalent to saying:
has anyone ever seen
a muslim woman pray?
on the steppenwolf's
sing-along-worth
of Aladdin?
ever see a muslim woman pray?
i figured:
muslim women do not pray...
i have never seen
a muslim woman pray...
yet here i am...
drinking... too much...
and writing...
what could have become
a sober me doing a harlequinn
take on a novel...
or become a tabloid
newspaper ju-ju-joornaleest...
  (no... not the english jaw
or jew but the french:
     au jus...
                 je suis:    juice...) -
never mind that...
all except the tetragrammaton
of the hebrew niqab for
the vowels
in Latin look like: shocks...
oh but the drinking won't stop...
down a liter of whiskey
per night,
   **** a minimum of
-1 women and find out about
the feel of performing ****
via my hand...
            steel-grip:
   flies to the tip of mt. ben 'evis...
    and i have seen
worse things being written,
and subsequently printed...
            i bet you 5 quid
that muslim women don't
gesticulate
    like the men
   do during prayer...
i bet... they smirk, giggle:
and who's who's
                doggy-position
*****?
   sure, sure...
    it's like kneeling
and the whole *******
antics of the christian baggage;
whoever:
  i'm drunk,
and you're probably sober...
    an subsequent
"conversation"
  will... i assure you...
work out... just... fine.
quietly yelling Jun 2014
closeness without conflict exists only in the cemetery! ~

Matti j. Kuronen
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
a many a great things have happened recently...
hmm (insert a weasle's snigger)...
i was watching a russian production of...
the escape from sobibor...
yes... i know that rutger hauer is dead...
but not unless listening to some vex'd...
citations from blade runner:

    firey the angels fell - leaping thunder rolled
around their shoulders -
burning with the fires of orc...

at least that's what i heard...

    i want, more: life... ******... which echoes...
no not that 1987 tv flick...
the russian produiction...
      of recent years...
          upon this the god's green earth...
        i could watch... schindrel's list two times
in a row... before being subjected to...
escape from sobibor...
                if only i had a toothpick handy
and pickles and some martini and god forbid
the onslaught of yawns...
         only one aspect of the film stood out...
a sort of:

    the death of Matti Nykanen...
the finnish ski-jumper who ended up being
a stripper...

    i didn't recognize him at first...
or "at last" i'm usually good with faces...
esp. those on film...

         i think the film itself was supposed to
be... the need to capture "the look"!
      oh believe me... a cary grant or
a gregory peck would never...
                                a rock hudson?
a john wayne: drawl... yep: that six-a-piece
sharp shooter...
guns 'n' roses: civil war...
opening citation: from cool hand luke...
paul newman eating all those... hard-boiled eggs...
paul newman couldn't give "the look"...
that antithesis of roxette's pop stamp...
the verb that is actually a noun...
when there's someone worth it...

no... they could never convince me of ever
having: "the look"... these major actors...
paul newman or a robert redford...
i'm counting only the men...
this one's spezial...

        from first hearing queen... to seeing the movie...
Karl Frenzel...
   that same tortured soul
of a Ralph Fiennes playing Amon Göth...
i had to wonder...
did they decide upon psychopaths...
or was it already a priori from the words
first uttered in the hitlerjunge?

nope... completely amiss...
is that really christopher lambert?
raiden from mortal combat...
connor macleod...
                 hell: if this be the fate of skin
to be a much later devised
disguise in stretch-armstrong of leather...

but it was all about "the look"...
it was so intimidating in it being intimate...
"do you still remember me"...
i don't think i had such trouble
with val kilmer...
then again: who's the busy body
in my receding memory loop-hole to loot
from?

  they must have used dubbing...
otherwise it would seem that christopher lambert
spoke the very base of german
like a puppet of a ghost...
most certainly a changed man...

he had that look in his eyes that read:
i don't remember myself...
this face is no good: for you... either...
and it truly wasn't...
truly petrifying this enigmatic cloak
of ****** features...
but those two voids like a lemniscate (∞)...

i can X with my eyes when concentrating
on the egoism of the tip of my nose
and see the water inside the aquarium
all blurry and salty and mirage prone...
but not this...
this was a sensation of...
seeing an unrecognisable face...

again: i'd sooner revisit watching schindler's
list: because of it being in black & white...
otherwise cudos for the work
by a yanuš kamińци... that red dress:
"here" and... "there"...

for a russian the poles are traitors...
but thank god for the bulgarians
being the bell-boys of their whole
affair of wounded pride...
given the bulgars frequent the aisles
of st. cyril...
             but it looks like... the mongolians
are having... "counter-productive"
thoughts: themselves... good for them!

so close to the germans:
is it eastern europe west of kiev?
is it?
  traitors... oh god... those minor
denominations of the baltic states...
   perhaps... once upon... a time...
prussia would have been just a pocket of influence
akin to estonia... or latvia...
let's not mention lithuania...

it was a christopher lambert... by god...
sure... he was suited to age...
isn't everyone? but not like this...
in a positive way, though...
incomprehensibly unrecognizable...
a loot of enigmas...
well... if gérard depardieu a citizen
of ol' mother russia...
what doesn't stop a christopher lambert...
being dubbed when speaking german
like a manakin does running...
eyes that scream rather than peer...

it's one of those sad affairs of appreciating...
beside theatre... acting...
of course everything is in the detail
of the edit and the production of the end
product: with at very little hiccups as is to be
avoided...
it's a russian production: nonetheless...

but thoese eyes...
i didn't remember him...
was it perhaps donning the uniform...
or was it perhaps... perhaps of:
    seymour hoffman?
   but why couldn't i pick out...
a b-list actor... look at me... mr. hierarchical prone...
but no?
    chris cooper... bruce greenwood...
sure... no problem...
always the general, the "protagonist" of
"real" life... somehow along the line:
hardly a basis of a shadow meets shadow
compromise...

i think i saw a human being that became
unrecognizable from the burden of life
off-screen! i actually found a conviction from
a thespian... i saw two blinding cauldrons
of ire... which was...
ire... it wasn't fire...
    two blinding cauldrons of ire: i saw...
a blue tinge of flame... i saw tears...
it wasn't a purity of fire that will be later
made into a recycling power...
it was...

a fire that keeps intact a status quo...
that unfathomable perspetive
and an unmoveable object:
even if armed with the binding will
of a sisyphean determination:
where are the demons whipping him
to comply?!

   i was two blinding cauldrons of ire...
i saw fluorescent blue of glowing squid and less
revealing monsters of the deep...
i saw... a face disguised as a mask...
i saw a face from beneath a donned niqab...
more clearer than the glee of smile...
the chubby moon-clip
or the scythe of reasons behind...
the bulging shadow of harvests pending...

all this... and not much more...
  i'm good with faces...
   apparently not good enough...
was it really christopher lambert playing
karl frenzel in escape from sobibor?
i try to bypass the glamour and all that dry
artifact affair of keeping score...
to denounce all actors as...
the last and the least obliged to put pressure
and fathomability of the concern
for human... "things"....

what sort of a man is a christopher lambert
wearing.. if his eyes are...
pencils and needles piercing me...
that i can't recognise his face?
have i been gorging on too many
digestive biscuits... or something?

    by faking it... but i didn't see a slouch
of wanting to fake it...
given the numbers...
          what are the puny rhymes...
                   i want to see a rhyme
that riddled a blunt hammer-axe at the end
of this... foreboding of "contemplation"...
i want to find it soothing
for man to justify the antics of a slaughterhouse
concerning the wailing pigs
and the... cowering aum litany of the...
sanctity of beef...
            or the lesser kind via
the goat of the graces of riccota...

          i don't exactly know what i saw
in those eyes...
    but i saw enough to make me forget
a face.... i would most, be assured to...
have a memory of...
i was drawn into the eyes...
it's not like brian may aged so badly...

i did see the flabby skin of a pig become
stretched... then contracted...
over a square mile of a Berliner's post-code
"hum and oops"...
    little ******* good that would ever
do me!

              these tires need to be burned...
this soil needs to be shovelled...
this butter needs to be spread on
oozing warmth toast...
this rootweiler requires a leash:
are you the sort of walker
to allow a lessening of tension...
mind you: this "hanz" and "heinrich"
tends to tug along like
a pirañha on a diet...

                 the other head
of... the clamour fest... of feeding of...
cerberus... this night-walker this...
shadow-thief...
                   this... burden of my pride...
synonym coupled with ego...
rottweiler to the east...
       dobermann-pinscher to the west...
get this...
a ******* pop-up head of
a dachshund heading south:
                                        in lombardy!
hey presto...
                    my luvvie-dubbie companion!

for me... give me a harem of 72 dogs...
i'll sooner dog-wrestle bit
and chow-mein
and clash with teeth before...
         don't make me...
preside over the gratification of having
72 virgins: that same number
of the names ascribed to the hebrew god:
you and not you...
"you" hairy-hey-rab! ibin!

there's a barking... i'm pretty sure i don't
hear anything worth biting into?!
i'm quiet unamused hearing barking...
when i'm not entertaining
the convinction to suma summarum
it with: chewing...

              i would most certainly like
to hear less barking...
****** punctures of flesh...
i'd like that very much...

              i'd like filled stomachs of dogs
to be the only precursors...
the wolves are at the gates...
    
           words like daffodils easily
plucked up...
                  is that serious enough of "us"
to have these minor griefs...
as... vectors for what's to become
of the unfolding rest?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.mmm... yeah... that time when i was paranoid about my neighbour killing my cat, and when i went into a cemetery and hacked off a slab of a grave? that time? ugly? mmm... matti... my my... which part? dating? is that like... an english "thing"? can we just bypass the whole fiasco and dive right into the ***? no? good... well... with so many freedoms allowed to govern women, who subsequently tend to want to tame governing man... how about... you tell me what to do, once you hand-cuff me? oh... right... well... here's to the guillotine... anti-immigration... the rights of bulgarian prostitutes... or... whatever you feel like: making up your mind about.

masochism... not listening to the radio...
and turning on
the youtube socio-political commentary...

when...
  Ashley Elisa
could have met Economic Invincibility.

me?
       fold, poker, down,
and a sing-along...
   with a fiddler on the roof staged
take on being amused...
  from the petty jew...
to akin a king solomon...
well: neither of the two could
be held in equally high esteem...
could they?

    but's that's my variant of
masochism...
turning off the radio brimming
with song,
and instead...
(jerking off doesn't seem
as bad)...
listening to "advice"
on the youtube.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i have my regrets, well, observations really:

1. every talk to a medical student,
over a pint, in the centre of london,
who was dissecting corpses to gain
the guts + bowels, and hear him
ask you: if you could be any god,
which god would you be?
hades was my reply,
   which makes internet atheism a bit
redundant -
given that a medical student might
ask such a question...
   do these biology abound atheists
really have a serious point,
can they use a scalpel,
          apply anaesthetic to pull your
wisdom teeth out?
  i hardly think so...
       i found atheism so lacking sensibility
that a medical student perfectly
explained it to me: with that question.

2. ****, we're on two already?
i wish i spoke german,
   don't know why -
        i find that some german speakers
have no grit in their spreschen,
and how my surname is ehlert,
but should be eschlert.

3. unlike most people of immigrant descent:
i've managed to wriggle in
into a hierarchy of sometimes speaking
than the natives,
   whilst retaining my 2nd mother:
der zunge; which means i'm not an
annoying latino female poet having
regrets, and cliches in spanish,
or the ambitions of: the abandonment
(due to their parents) of pakistani
or arab youths (mother urdu wasn't around,
neither was mama mecca) -
so? blow yourself up!
  oh i know how it must feel,
to be completely drained,
to have an utterly mongrel soul -
but, guess what? i, for one,
was adamant in keeping my native
tongue, must come so hard to speak
a white tongue, in an caste of olive skin -
having to resort to accents,
idiosyncratic variations or urban slang...
poor children, a psyche's poverty
drags many more down to your sorrow,
than a physical poverty bound
to a wheelchair... never in my life:
was a mass shooter ever mentioned,
who was bound to a wheelchair.

4. point 3 post scriptum -
the parents tried too hard,
   you should have made contact
with your grandparents -
it's one thing to integrate,
but another: to keep your... integrity:
what are you looking it?
i kept mine - i can't read a book
in polish in england,
i must be wholly absorbed by
the native tongue -
it's not that i can't read a **** word
in native, but i need to be wholly
immersed -
and **** the picts for not remembering
gaelic, **** em, they deserve their
(to some) incomprehensible accent -
look at the welsh!
they're already scratching their heads
saying: maybe we should retain
something of our own,
   and not ol' sleuth charlie the third
as: princy!
  to be honest, i really do understand
welsh nationalism:
as long as the nationalism is
lingo-centric, that's fine my be...
keep it piquant, yes?
      in the meantime i just keep saying:
integrate by all means,
   but ask your parents:
is diacritically odd english is all
you can give me?
  nothing native? no bilingual oomph?!
and only the french could ever be
so lingo-proud...
  the english attempt to bewilder their
hosts: oh, it's the most difficult
language there is to learn -
no it isn't...
             the ******* on about?
mighty the brain of a child -
since it imitates sponges -
          and yes, alzheimer's begins
by the attack of the killer proteins -
that **** all the fat cells:
that the brain constitutes as;
sure, a decent amount of sleep -
but stay off those protein shakes to boot.

5. oh right, ha ha,
imagine the lottery of acronyms
within the framework of given names:
matti conrad ehlert -
  looks familiar? it probably is...
via that jewish physician
and that little equation with c in squared
form...
   i still wonder what an equation
with the speed of light: cubic would
look like:
could it be? could it be?! the solution
to travelling at the speed of light?
i'm sure as **** that there must be
an:  e = m c(cubed) -
       i think that's delving into quantum
mechanics -
    it wouldn't seem to be a mode
of travel -
  rather a teleportation -
         i swear there must be some
evolution of the original with
   the speed of light being squared,
to the speed of light being cubed...
          some sort of implosion of either
energy or matter, i.e. to the power of -1
to provide the linear projection?
or is that the √? oh yeah,
well, it would be √e = m c(cubed)
     or e = √m c(cubed) -
               or something or other.

6. so yeah, i don't have any regrets speaking
my gebürtigzunge:
   as i might have, if i didn't speak it,
why? because, i simply: speak it -
so? spierdalaj z mego domu ty spedzialona
krocza politiki!


p.s.

7. now i remember what i really wanted to
write, listening tomelissa lozada-olivia's
poem tonsils i could almost feel jealous
as to how women can write
  poems about phelatio...
      me? i.e. the male alternative:
shoved my face into a greasy lamb sandwich,
a ******* burrito...
   and when i came to it
having finished,
my entire mouth and cheeks shone
in the moonlight from all the vulvic
                                        grease...
     great: ate an oyster, swallowed a whale;
how romantic;
it still ends up being nothing more
than: having eaten a greasy lamb sandwich.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/duma bestia, zwaną pierw, a co pierw, to liczy sie to, co z tego zora, krwawi bez krewnej dumy.  

mordo bitne chopoki
w dzwon,
o kulać i wiatrem
gonie ku szkłu
i szkieletom...
   pyskiem psim przy
fontannie,
  o to co mogło być,
siostry, matti, czy kobiety...
o co mogło,
a nigdy, ni budjet...
chrapać sie tam każe...
z modlitwą o, a nie
na przekór chóru kur
trzesnącym sie pudlem
godnym dziecia
wartym zabaw
zbawieniem, cienia.
widły o palace rąk
donoszą....
       na zgięcie...
wojaszek ty nie....
przed ołtarzem wúja.  
  czarno przez tę czerń...
jako drugi Spartacus...
    jom też sukułka...
           zwanym sowiet.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
listen... i started writing to you personally... but then... i conjured up a lightning flash of ideas... i'm going to make it public... i can't help myself... you're still intact as a private entity... but i just itch when i hit a lightning storm of ideas... esp. associate with phonetic puzzles... and the Hebrew deity... i'm also too prone to being aggrevated by Easter...

well: i am truly grateful that you can share with me your innermost details: your modus operandi... i have two thoughts about water... rain... hmm... rain is my crux... the sound of a flowing river... that's tier two... but... living in London... hmm... the Thames is a strange river... you can't actually hear it flow... because it doesn't... one of... all the rivers i've come across that has a high tide and a low tide... looking at it... it sort of: sits there... like a lake... a ***** ******* lake: but a lake nonetheless... it's a lazy river... it doesn't have any tenacity about it... it seems to have not vitality of a metaphor used by Heraclitus... it has a sea similarity: it is governed by a tide... it's beautiful when the tide comes in and the river bulges to the brink of the Embankment... it's such an eerie river... but unlike most rivers... it's silent... the water ripples... but there seems to be hardly any current... how can there be... if there's a high tide and a low tide? sea... i try my best... to appreciate it... my mother is hugely appreciative of the sea... me? i prefer the vast unknown of a forest... i'm more appreciative of wind (air) than water... esp. if i enter a forest at night on a windy night... i like the music of dried branches... i like the howling of the wind being almost directionless... peering through cracks in the foliage... roughing it up like... if you can an imagine what people get into with ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response)... where you to concentrate water, having a sleepless night... with the tap dripping... funny that... i'd feel a "disgust" toward the audio... or rather: merely an itch... when the expression of water is man-made... i recoil... i can't delve into it giving me any comfort... air... on the other hand... give me the wind in the forest... sudden gusts of force... air... and then give me singing... i'm recently a convert to the Hans Zimmer Dune soundtrack... but don't get me wrong... Brian Eno's original take... esp. the prophecy theme is still dear to my heart... the reinvention is just darker... and if we were to throw fire into this whole affair... the sound of crackling branches in a fire... that's almost comforting... i'm thinking: what if i could only replace the television set with a fireplace... or if not a fireplace... an aquarium... but... ugh... sometimes you just have to be up to speed with other people's creative output... to live in a said time... but the alternative is more than tempting: it's calling me...you lived in San Francisco? that must have been fun: back when San Francisco wasn't that independent commentators describe it as: a hell hole... or most of California... i wish i could live as simply as what you described... on some tropical island like Samoa in the Pacific... i suspect life can be coupled with a sort of nonchalance when approaching certain realities that otherwise force us to... perform ulterior motives... when in the cold... you need to huddle... blah blah... but to reiterate... i'm more of an air person than a water person... esp. during the English storm-month... when the islands get battered to the point that even Essex feels the magnitudes... the woodland pigeons fly so fast you'd think the winds would be able to break their wings apart...  the trees don't have any leaves... so... they... clank... clank... like a pirate with a wooden leg walking on a deck of a wooden ship... and if you time it just right... the aura of the night can also take over... see... i never understood that in English you shorten people's names... in ******... there's actual diminutive tools in place... KACZKA: duck... can become: KACZUSZKA (small duck): it's an endearing fabric of the language... but... certain "things" remain intact... names of people... in English you will have a Peter... and the "diminutive" of Peter is: Pete... Michael becomes Mike... Matthew becomes Matt... Samantha becomes Sam... it's... lazy... it's ugly... but it's the fabric of the language... do not becomes don't... how my mother tongue works when it comes to the names of people? just using my example... from the "elaborate" Mateusz: my name becomes translated into either Finnish or Italian to not stress the SH (SZ, same ****, different cover) at the end... so either Matti or Mateo... why would i refer to you aas Edie? that's almost: Edward... since... short for Edward in short-hand English is: Eddy... and if you were to break that down to the raw phonetics: E-die... you have a name... it's elevated for the purpose of referring to you by: the... theta... if i were to write it in Greek... εδιη (maybe i'm not getting my eta contra epsilon bearings right, we'll see)... εδθ... see... i could simply write... what the Roman text allows me... but... you're missing a letter... in my mother tongue that's an: IGREK... Y... which is upsilon... but no... i can't just write an iota in between the delta and the theta... but i also can't write the upsilon... since... it's not an IGREK... i need graffiti-phonetics... E-DEEF... not deaf... exactly: like dear isn't deer... E-DEEF... like DEAD is not DEED... i know what i need... a diphthong (φθ): but these didn't exist in Greek... εδθ: the letter that's missing is a hollowed out U... it's a parabola with a leg to stand on... it's not even close to: E-D... oh such... Edyph... **** me... sorted... i had to replace the theta for the phi... and... like a magic pinball machine... the "why" or Y... approved... strange letter... don't you think? it could never be trusted as a vowel... not in my language... not in the English language, even though...

a   e                 o  u
   Y                     H              
   i                    ą   ę

        which is the right arm... now coming to the left arm...

ś  ł  ź
   W                      i'm going to ignore the acute O
ć    ż
                      it's just a ploy for an orthographic aesthetic...
to distinguish spelling mantras from an upsilon...
the second H in the tetragrammaton is...
either a laughter generator or a sigh capturer...
all diphthong manner of dealings...
the Latin æ, i.e.:
                                         æ   e
                                            H
                                          a   æ....

like i already mentioned... we're not going to
be going into the orthographic aesthetic of
the acute omicron...
the left of the tetragrammaton:
is a vowel catcher... one that either instigates
laugher... or catches sighs...

magically the iota and the upsilon merged:
into a "gamma"... of Y...
the splinter tongue of the serpent...
      i call to witness...
           the merger of the Hebrew though
from: the Latin...
   that this deity might testify... its phonetic
credentials... i: for one: will not serve
no "Allah"...
         day upon day... year upon year:
i have become entrenched in...
fulfilling the motives of the one, true...
deity...
                      
the English language has no concept of orthography!
it's... prone to... metaphysics...
to... para-reality...
to... trans-"prefixations" of the glories
of some, supposed, democracy...
but... without... diacritical stressors...
it lacks... orthography... that's its downfall:
toward... disrepair...

εδȗθ...
                      suppose i used a comma...
addition... on the upsilon...
to give it a more Roman accent?!

exactly... i can't exactly get rid or either iota
or epsilon / eta... when trying to wriggle
a quasi-upsilon-omega: dip!

that's the battle... ie and uo...
      certain examples have to be ushered in...
you don't say: die-ꟻ-F-ONG...
you say... dyphthong... because the iota
morphes... you dip... into... hollowing out
an upsilon: which is already hollowed
out to make the trinity of

                       υ  ω
                         Y
                         o

even if the supposed son: only son?! died upon the cross...
illiterate little ******...
here's me... picking up the literacy pieces...
making... associations...
oh sure: sure... this could fit... here... there...
i was never going to like being asked being
someone else's *******: choir, boy!

there are certain things in life... more important
than the territorial foregoings
of all that's ever supposedly to be mortal...
ask any man: what he might wish to envision...
a celestial... takeover... a lineage born
not more genes... but... the fury of ideas...
men ought to pride themselves not
on mere acquisition of wealth...
but... inexhaustible expenditure...
                        
                  i ought to be allowed to govern with
as much little... as: too much doesn't allow me to
govern...
because: i simply don't want as much...
i want the bare minimum...
               the little as possible leaves
me with the contention...
i want the least harm to grieved by
the greatest of many...
          to live: via dying trying...
                what an adventure....
                 one life... one hope...
                tomorrow's just another cope...
       hello Mars.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office


                “Choose You This Day Whom You Will Serve”


                    “…for whom war was a fresh terror and the corpses
                        of real people…”

            -Matti Friedman, Who by Fire: Leonard Cohen in the Sinai


A little child ripped from her dead mother’s arms
          Is not a petition for border adjustments
A grandfather murdered while waiting for the bus
          Is not a parliamentary point of order
Teenagers stripped, *****, beaten, tortured, and shot
          Are not cool chants in a university quad
A rotting fragment of a beheaded baby
          Is not someone’s tee-shirt slogan
An elderly woman still marked from Buchenwald
          Is a child of God, not a bargaining chip

No deflections
No whatabouts
No evasions
No excuses

No

Choose you this day whom you will serve
Matti Friedman, Leonard Cohen
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
my mother's second name -
   małgorzata - Margarete -

she comes back from her gym
classes,
and has the same fitness
instructor for 3 of them...

and the female instructor really
wants to learn
how to pronounce her middle
name...

so i tell my mother...
tell her to visualize the following

ł = w

        and rz?
           it's a grapheme -
without the Siamese twinning
of ancient Latin...

tell her to catch the drift
should she had the audacity
to say

           je m'appelle matti...
   rz = ż = la français J
                          dans français...

let's not be overtly pedantic
with what could be added in terms
acute syllable scalpel attachments
on either A...

   we already have the C cedilla (ç)...
which... ha ha!
must be the cultural "appropriation"
of the Greek sigma (ς)!

and the preferred term in central
europe?
   it's not linguistic appropriation...
there is such a deviance
as... loan words;
which translates back, as?
i'm indebted to the culture
where the word originated from...

where zeitgeist kommen sie von?
ah!   hitlerjugend... d'uh... obviously!
the english language
is indebted, not culturally appropriating
(linguistically) the german
culture...
    tread carefully -
there will always be someone to
sharpen the nouns.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
-

the n.s.a. boys ought to know, after all, shuttle in space? no ******* carpenter could do that one... the MEA CULPA ******* is... spoken on... DEAF... EARS; i.e., if there is an "i", there most certainly is a: you.

and what's wrong with the imitation
of st. peter via van gogh?
                   two ******* ears?!

they call him the christ church of
the open heart,
       a heart open, in a pose of
being crucified,
   by modern standards,
        that's man, with a heart
as an iron maiden,
      sitting in a chair,
           pretending he's posing
for a ****.

no point grinding your teeth son,
if, you don't have a rifle.

          answer: give me a pistol
and i'll show you how
the guillotine, that *****-of-a-mother
of napoleon didn't give
birth to him...

        and because girls go left,
and the boys go right...
         we can have elemental
attire, post-scriptum vive -
         men don the earth,
women don the fire...

          and that's H, H similis,
Y: breathes the air,
      W: move the waves...

           ah, my modern lepers,
volunteers for the "cause"...
           vetrans are our modern lepers...
but then again, who would
know what the sand-she-imp
says, when wars are no longer
faught with brute, axe and sword,
but by mere bling, bling bling...

           as soon as paper money is
devauled, so will the toys, weilded...
  no one has ever thought
it worthwhile to craft mountains
from sand-dunes!
        as sahara was once a mountain
range...
             these ******* arabs
think they can fake sand with metal?

    of christ with an open heart
in a pose very much unlike a perched
crow, hunched on a rooftop
or rather man sitting in a chair...
    an open heart...
          my heart, an iron maiden...
but then again:
             in a scenario transcribed
to us...

             what is more comfortable?
the ragnarök sea at Hvalba,
            the sensible seeking for
the flight of Icarus at Lønin
                a gift of yolk,
prior to the foetus!

           does woman not understand
chicken?!
           how can you have
a moral tendon, while still
eating eggs?! sanctifying them?!
what, is wrong with, you, "people"!
you talk abortions with
a moral compass as if
  the 6 day Lønin transition
didn't take place!
          castrato sing-along...
*******... sunshines!
         daddy's whittle girrrrrrls...

egg ≠ there's a foetus inside it...
because the Faroese know
that once a spermatoid starts evolving
the egg is not to be eaten!
   break my ***** while you're
at it?  why not chop them off
and have it over and done with...

women really shouldn't eat eggs...
chicken eggs...
          or any eggs for that matter...
what?! i'm eating ******* abortions
all the ******* ****** time
and yet: sanctity!
    sacred!
                 apparently the yolk
proves the non existence of
**** *****...
                 its ooh ooh... kasper
         zee freundlichgeist!

         so why the delay the ******
matter if it's not about: lounging...
  getting happy when you're 80?!
huh?!

            came the fish, the lizard,
the hybrid lizard (bird),
       came the fish, came the mammal,
and then came, irish politics...

     how can a woman have ownership
of *****, when in birds
there's a delay period,
meaning: i'm eating a *******
yoke of egg, and i don't see not
little embryo of a whittle yella
sticking in between my teeth...

    **** me... this is one hell of a party!
are eggs abortions?
  or just the non-existent reflex
mechanism of women?
           if birds have a 6 day delay
button implanted in them...
and the Faroease people know
that...
           my my...
                      how many slaves
of ****-****-and-*****
         i see, as i walk among them.

/ pa pa don't preach, my ma ma gonna lie...
i'm hardly in love but
i'm most certainly a dependent *****...
pa pa don't preach, my ma ma gonna lie...
i'm so much, hardly in love,
i might as well... cry. /

            life's cruel, deal with it;
last time i checked...
        i think my parents lied to me that
i had a twin brother,
  that died at child-birth...
   as a child they had this lament
configuration running in their heads
with the sentence:
    in this world you have someone
who looks exactly like you...
    those exact words...
aww... but poor matti doesn't get to tell
his mournful tale...
           he just needs to hear
the ****** english in their
post-scriptum 20th angst of cities
built upon coal-mining...
       if they ever get to learn
about the atom bomb... tell me...
        maybe seeing a ******* wind-turbine
might change their xenophobic-claustrophobia
of their own, kin.

i'm still going to eat eggs,
  well "abortions"...
        6, ******* days!
                  and on the 7th?!
   god didn't rest, he created life!
    as those at the Lønin descent,
about the Fulmar will tell you.
i'm having trouble comprehending any sort
of dimensional-realism of what it is
that constitutes happiness...
it's a strangely vague concept:
as vague as my assumption that it can begin
to be comprehended within the imposed
coagulation of meaning(s), such as:
dimensional-realism...
happiness is just that for me: dimensional-realism:
it's beyond fleeting:
it's something that isn't a thing or a some of
a thing: but a summation: a disgruntled
summation:
happiness to me is what makes life
unbearably see-through... mortal:
debasing: too much of a struggle for this:
cynic: because i can at least confine myself
to the motion of thought that cynical:
pessimism is nowhere near the antonym of:
prior stated...
and... since i find no despair in melancholy:
there's a budging virility in a sadness that's
not sadness: in a piquant fermentation process:
because that's what melancholy is:
aside from the fact that it can also imply
being overtly sensitive to the world's affairs:
melancholy for me: is a side-project
of the empathy-sympathy dilemma...
you start to understand this condition without
having attempts and failed trials of feeling
this bummed out: because the sky is just
hanging by a thread and that's just that:
a sadness can at least drown you:
you can be dragged to the depths of despair:
aside from all the neurological circumstances
of the constituent parts of pain:
at least pain is real... but sadness isn't real:
it's metaphysical...
            so... after the physics of this...
at least sadness can drown you:
what's more important is trying to authenticate
it rather than succumb to the numbing:
when sadness drowns you:
numbing keeps you afloat...
in limbo: buoyant...
                                  like a sick joke from
the advances of extracting anesthetic from cloves...
ha... the experimental medicine of
psychiatric-pharmacology:
said the ego to serotonin and the likes:
i vill muster the ages and thought machines
of telepathic magic and make these pills
regenerate my tempers: my humors...
my willynilly the world is ******* silly...
it truly is a wonder to acknowledge that sanity
is judged on the basis of solipsism...
to me that's what sanity is: solipsism...
the moment that solipsism is undermined...
the whole world goes to ****:
other people exist: and you affect people:
who knows what the effects of that are on
the return... but sanity is just that:
a closed off world of the individual
who comes and goes from what established
culture and civilization in the abstract
to something functioning: like a bus timetable,
like someone who fixes bicycles...
like a baker a butcher...
maybe i'm just in the wrong line of profession...
maybe i'm interacting with people too much
and i need a breather...

now: whether i ****** up intentionally
while managing my cohort or not:
i'm about right in my estimate:
yeah: it must have been about 100 souls...
quadrant manager of the east
blue zone...
this is not some professional escapism
this isn't professionalism antics to scrutinize:
but i've been watching from the bottom up:
no one really told me there was
the vendor sign in
the stadium sign in
and the positional sign in:
i should have known that already:
so i ****** up...
i was mock signing everyone in...
keeping the tally on the numbers:
at least i got that right...
but then the W.I.S.E. agency rep came
up to me: there's been a glitch in the system:
no one has been signed in...
o.k.: i pulled out the PDA and the first thing
i noted was: what alphabet is this?
Armenian or Georgian?
besides the point: i'm not trying to argue:
but how can i rectify this: RECTIFY:
i actually used that word: which felt sort of weird...
because it was more than courteous
and at least the sort of word to use
to weaponize when making a ****...
so i heard the reply:
you will have to somehow scan them all
in...
****... they're all in position and the crowd
has started to come through the turnstiles...
well: if i have 6 supervisors under my wing...
right... yeah: sure... no problem:
i'll sort it out...
went to each supervisor and asked them
to collect the ID cards...
danced through the gymnastic of how to
look less colt and ****** at the same time...
did i manage to keep my head
on my neck and laugh at the guillotine of smiles:
because this work is a work
of buckles: who can buckle who
who can make someone else look less competent:
but the funny side of this story is that:
MEA CUL>PA:
i was the one the blame...
and isn't that the best learning curve?!
isn't it?!

KA-SI-AH... KASIA...
it's a brand of cooking margarine...
but i... do we need the dot hovering
above the iota when you have ś?
that's not SH but c'c'ould be:
no...
               Katherine... Kasia is a diminutive
version in the tongue i originate from:
like Matt is ugly to Matthew because
there's the door mat wipe your feet on it:
but Matti: ah... rings a bells... almost chimes
because i know the extension of my name:
proper: is Matisyahu...

śιč: which implies a gathering of
the Zaporozhian: Ż to gather the H in that word:
like: DZIDA: KULT und: FABRYKA
MEDIÓW...
in this blistering Augustus heat my mother
decides to bake cookies...
who's the sanity protagonist in this world
and who's the sanity narrator?
evidently i'm just the flimsy attache...
i get to spew one poem after another
treating each one with all the wipe-my-***
affection of reading a newspaper...

the biggest problem in my area i was managing?
a faulty lock:
on a turnstile door:
later the supervisor... Rebecca: Rebeccalla?
Italian? French? Romanian?
well: i was the magic locksmith by the end
of it: i fiddled with that door like
magic like i heard back my own
compliment to letters
via that association i made
through:

I / O + Φ = Θ + Ω

pata-physician hey presto!
pata-?
    oh... reference to Alfred Jarry:
that midge: midgit: lilly-putian:
on a bicycle: loved fishing on the Seine...
took a stab at the Polish Lack-Lands of
a king of England, some John...
so...

but if it worked with letters:
it could certainly work with actual artifacts
of use...
like keys and keyholes and
doors:
and by god if we're going to stamp
out the vampire allure of psychopathy
and scrutinize *******:
those two deviations are the first to go:
last are the intelligent alcoholics
who have a thirst for: whoops and
daisies...
but given it's only 20:00 hours
it's a long way to go until 22:00 hours...
i ****** up... clearly:
but i never envisioned that sort
of sign-out dynamic:
the company rep returned and gave her
little pep talk:
i was still engaging in a schizophrenia of sorts
with the radio:
but the INDIA call signs were busy elsewhere
i wasn't even asking permission to sign out these
100...
but how endearingly they lined up:
no squabble about who comes first and
who comes last:
i was was the first and the last: period:
de facto...

what trouble did we have?
oh, when you see a drunk woman in that
state: where she's completely lost
the tact of maneuvering: i wouldn't call it an art
at that point:
but that's how trouble starts:
misjudging the mood of the crowd:
you eject a woman in her state:
but she's compliant...
you eject her even though she's consciously-unconscious:
semi: not trying to come onto you:
so you're basically brokering with a child...
you start with that sort of ejection:
all hell goes goose-loose...
so?
you have to contain it... mitigate... maintain
a Martini smooth coercion...
stirred: not shaken...
get that ******* cauldron of people round round
right round! until you get that
cannibalistic mud of a sauce of *****
and **** and blood!

a good proportion of Manchester came to London...
maybe i have some ****** allure
i'm not excavating for my own personal
benefits...
for not benefit of the Olympics being
a welcome distraction...
once you return back to less of the utopian
day-dream and come back
to each society and the atomized man
and the tribal frenzy of sport as allegiance
to intra-national deflection of coincidences...
how is it that Arsenal and Millwall are
not having a derby, somehow Arsenral
and the Ids are?
       didn't Arsenal originate south of the Thames
in Woolich Woolitch: ******* don't *******
bother correcting me on the spelling:
WOOLWICH!

that still doesn't mean i'm going to
relax and laugh:
took my viking road-bicycle for one
last honor ride through Rise Park suburbia:
a ****** deal: couldn't possibly part with it:
but i did...
i couldn't leave it on a dumpster heap:
maybe someone might want to fix it up:
but as i rode it: crank crank... spill: ugh:
enough onomatopoeia(s) to gratify
bad ***...
yes, Joseph: my grandfather bought it for
me:
then i recounted the story:
but it's not like i left a dog half dangling
on a noose on a tree in a forest
slowly suffocating: it would have been cleaner
humane: to have simply slit the dog's throat
rather than left it semi-dangling on a tree:
sadistic ******* creatures...
who?                  who?!                         us!
for all that show of pretend in how
we organize each other:
what best shows is how disorganized we tend
to be:
this creature of monstrosity of the safe haven
of individuation of the western capsized boat
of thrills...
how serious is any manner of seriousness
going to become:
when i sober up i'll let you or whoever is listening
know:
hardly: since the ontology of man
has no potential for change
ever since Christ or the poetry of T. S. Elliot...
defeatist: no...
better to accept the fundamental poise:
this is what we are:
and we are never going to change:
there might be some glitches in our behavior:
but: safe to say:
if we have enough to eat and enough
to **** and enough to spew...
then all is ******* dandy...
           Darwinism didn't help given that once
there was the ordained formality of
the abstract of man:
now there's man looking at the anuses
of tapeworms and the mouths of chimpanzees
thinking about his psychology as imitations
dilemma...
ooh... the pressure for thinking is just ripe:
just enough: all it takes is just... one... more...
squeeze!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/   cogito, status quo:
            non cogito
                  et quid pro quo;
               id per se enclosure -
              omni est pro;
so where's the sum in
the cartesian "conundrum"?
   in transit.
    only some years later
   does the magnanimous geist
fathom a new
   insurrection of a plateau...
farther than an eye could
see,
             was limited by
a horizontal stagnation
                "invigorating"
a "further", into a distance,
            before
          the cascading crescendo
of the cut-off-point...
      like the sight of a setting-sun:
albeit less
                       romantic;
autem populus est quod non
                          populus.
came dante with virgil...
   came matti with horance...
   who's going to exactly make
the sun sink into nuclear oblivion?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i suppose there are variations of this name...
some cite it as of: Turkic origin...
   i'm not going to agree or disagree...

evidently the insertion of the second surd H
was of my own scrutiny...
although it's not necessary...
i don't suppose the first surd H is necessary
either... given that i've employed
a macron on top of the vowel
to make emphasis of elongation...
which the surd H also stresses:

instead of kaa... either way:
a double emphasis...
like... writing something in: italics
after a colon...
the colon is an emphasis as is the italics...
"misnomer"...

... and some ****** ska-punk
with KULT's - brooklyńska rada żydów...
like any ****** might make summary
of: Oh... they left?
what happened to that old saying of theirs
that my grandfather recounted
to me once...
of the 'ebrews living in Poland...

wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets... our tenements...
i don't suppose...

anyways... enough of that...
no wonder... i'm no duracell bunny...
i can't just get a hard-on
in a company of two...
it's different when i'm completely:
unabashed... solo...
today i checked myself...
not much to look at...
cleavage, some thighs... hair... lips...
hands...
six times i spotted myself
with a proper wedding tackle...
six times i stopped myself from
*******...
so... this thing's on?
it's working...

now i see the bigger... funnier picture...
a few night ago...
after a... draught... "season":
i'm starting to suspect those 3 years
are actually 4 years without being
intimate with a women...

a dysfunction of the *******...
i'm not going to pop some ******* pill...
it's like push-ups...
or the trick the mind plays when
you're cycling up a hill and feed into
those thoughts of giving up...

perhaps i just wasn't that much into her?
perhaps she wasn't that much into me...
upon entering the brothel
she was sitting alone...
the matriarch said there would be more
available in about 20 minutes...
she was sitting alone...
i figured... if this isn't going to be a slap
in the face...
i don't know what will...

i like 'em... older... cougar-esque...
with a full-blossom of hips... stomach...
****... *** and **** like a royals-royce rather than
a sporty Lamborghini...
skin like... well worn leather...
nothing too: cherished and un-tested
akin to a ******...

for an hour i tried...
worked for about ten minutes...
but was i crippled with a sense of shame that would
turn me into a Jack ol' Ripper with
thoughts on revenge...
she was pretty... all that's pretty about
the Romanian countryside...
fake lashes... extravagant nails...
i caressed her... we exchanged some words:

ochi (romanian)... aha... oczy (******):
eyes... lips... ears... eyebrows...
i bit her tenderly to test the waters...
pinched her... suckled a while...
while my hands were already all octopus below
her threshold...
i ****** at my fingers and tested whether she was
aroused...
hell: i've missed most times than i could ever:
****'s sake... all that *****
and the point of insertion is always below
what i'm "expecting"...

but i drank too much...
better be all the more nervous and only 50ml of
whiskey in than... 300ml of whiskey
and having issues with the ******* tool...
literally...
hell... i would be willing to put on a strap-on
***** but... seeing how she was not in the mood:
and i found myself: not in the mood either...

eh... what could be bad with some kissing...
some caressing some hugging some...
if i were really going for some
Trojan cohort ****-buddy: forget me not
egoism...
i'd have them lined up, wouldn't i?
3 / 4 years without touching someone
so intimately...
i call that the ice-breaker date in the brothel...

mind you... i cleaned up after myself:
i insisted...
i took that welcome shower prior...
and as we walked out... i sat down...
cornered...
now there were three of them and the matriarch
sitting in the waiting room...

hmm...i suppose: UN-like talking to three
girls in a nightclub...
talking to three prostitutes in a brothel...
some "things" become... obvious...
i have something they want...
they have something i want...
who's going to date? no... one...

me talking casually with three prostitutes
in a brothel would be...
unlike that ****** funfair of three girls
in a nightclub...
the cards are laid on the table...
you either take it... or don't...

recently i've been listening to some "mano-sphere"
******* and i'm just like...
no... i can't listen to this...
get over it... stop talking about it...
turn your focus onto something else...
me... i just drank too much
and... she wasn't my type...
but she was sitting all alone and if i waited
with her for those 20 minutes before
the one that's my type walked in...

just some tenderness...
i don't mind paying for that...
at least there won't be any free nagging and *******...
ha! obviously!

- and as we walked out from a room of
improper deeds
there sat... Khāda... there was that immediate
connection: she: all leather...
like an armchair in reverse...
it's so terrible to stress sexuality among
the English:
why do i have to be that...
perverted... congested... ****-lord...
this...                  oh-it's-naughty borderline
gimmick... i don't like the concept of ***
among these natives...

but there she sat... this implosion
of an armchair...
glorious in her skin as leather...
she said she was Turkic... i figured...
honey... you belong further east down
the silk road: you are teasing the Raj...
all the more for me to like...

as she started to tease me with her *******
in her hands...
i told her: i'll be coming for seconds
for you... believe me...
she liked me... she even wanted to have a listen
to what music i was listening to:

wardruna's helvegen...
she asked me for my name...
matthew...           wha? she asked...
matti... mateo... mathias... mateusz...
second name... conrad...
two good names to have...
so i asked what her's was...
up came  Khāda...
but of course i had to...
   write it down on a tissue for her to read...

what a bulging plush of womanhood...
everything i want to be in love with...
older than me... plump...
something i can fix my pincers on:
creasing some more of the already established:
mandible parts...
well worn... skin like leather...

as i departed with 3 glasses of delay...
her friend joked at me being a gentleman for kissing
her hand upon parting...
Khāda i kissed on the hand and cheek...
while this Romanian girl lodged between them
i kissed on the forehead...

you can't not love women...
even if they are prostitutes...
   i can't listen to men stress the need for the purity of
women...
i've listened... i've come back with
stomach pains...
now a test... i'll drink less
and worry: even less...
about... what's that word...
  that word... exposure... no...
upkeeping... no...
stamina... almost...
         PERFORMANCE!

never you mind that i pull my ******* back
to give imitation to the most pristine
representation of the phallus....
among women who....
will not don a niqab etc.?
               for a compensation?
no problem:
i'll just just sheave and practice jerking off...
oh... this time...
i better not drink...

Khāda seems like a woman that's all that's
fun and i don't want a limp-biscuit-of-a-****
to worry her...
she seemed into me and i was... most certainly
into her...

the moment i forget having to desecrate
virgins... and lean in into some
flesh... is the moment i can pardon myself
with: life... and a scrutiny of relexation...
this impasse of sub-par...
performance will not discourage me...
i'm already planning a second date
of stomach crunches of: suckling up to
a phlegm-and-sick being ushered out
from this same gob...

3 / 4 years of "procrastinating":
from a... vector... akin to hunger...
akin to shelter...
when i need a ****... i need a ****...
sorry me for not hitting the mark
with an ******* and a fully-working
hard-on...

oh but this *****...
   she's right up there in me desire to dream...
since i hardly dream...
i can see her as this antithesis of *******:
although i've limited to looking at stuff
deviating from any possible ***** envy...
all the curves... hell... anything that might be sculptered
by Rodin...

i'll just go to the brothel...
nervous as a lobster... sober, though... and therefore
perform my little litany of:
piston at the ready...
juiced up oyster second best...

oh that "thought": what if i don't...
well then... i won't be... glamour-****-egoism
to mind... further conquests...
i hardly imagine christ on the crucifix
with a hard-on...
so i'll imagine myself being crucified
when attempting to be intimate
with a *******: for the giggles...

i'm not going to drop the pill... i'll continue to rephrase
the sentiment: i was either too drunk
or wasn't in the mood...
or she wasn't on my palette!
but this one... and since she was so engaging...
god... a volume of a woman...
everything requiring a leather analogy...
makes one think about *******
an elephant standing on a ladder...
but not an obese beached-whale type...
just this: completeness of woman...
that most certainly hasn't focused itself
on breeding offspring...

plush... harness proof...
come the barrage of the sea...
or the tide within the confines of a river summary:
this woman...
like she was... almost... edible...
of course she was edible:
but i'm teasing in halves...
she's still a movie creature...

here's be celebrating sobering up...
i'll pretend to ******* six times
on the thighs...
once on the cleavage...
before i take my turn...
on what her sigma will ****-up...

as i will not... listen to men bemoaning their...
adventures in Darwinism...
you can only hear so much of it...
after a while you just...
unconsciously gamble with what's on offer...
fair enough: protecting the younglings
while protecting your whittle harem...
i don't mind women that feel like...
their skin is leather...
and their body posturing is an imploded
armchair...
i also much admire the ancient Roman
liberalism concerning...
fostering...
the ancient Romans... the most noble...
of the highest hierarchical certainty of preservation...
em... they...

fostered offspring?
******* son of a ******* uncle: i'll father you...
said some Augustus...
what's being focused on?
the... ******* IDEA...
i have no concern for biological reality:
i have, concern for... the cognitive disparity that runs
counter to... whatever nature unconscious dictates!

the problem men have with
the promiscuity of women...
me? i just went to the prostitutes...
let's have it done and dusted...
i'm not here to argue...

my god that blush... of this Turkish...
gloat of a wheat loaf... and...
          amylase of the nibbled on *******...
all her sponge of buttocks...
her turn-tilde of hips...
             she's not edible but i... just... want...
to... eat: her!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
this weather would drive anyone mad...
maybe i'm just weird...
plenty of people: normal people:
normie SIMS
                          adore summer...
you can sometimes watch one guy
walking around the street without
a shirt... or: girl just needs to wear a bikini...
i get it...
    even i'm thinking about cycling
shirtless and donning nothing
but lycra-shorts...

                        i'm too modest:
i'll probably do the usual and put cotton
shorts on top of the lycra...
    and i probably won't cycle shirtless...
i think my hairy chest
and hairy stomach and my "mark of Cain":
my missing "pound of flesh"
might offended people... or... the opposite...
for the opposite ***...

as much as i can be a responsible person
i also know how to be a *******...
reckless... chaotic...
    i tried an experiment today...

can fury / anger cool you down?

like i always said: people don't **** me off...
things do...
that said: do some people qualify as
being tools? sure...
and i hate faulty tools...

so i was vacuuming today... because i felt
*****... and hot... and sweaty and
"teenage girl" -esque "confused":
whatever the hell that means...
for the past three days i wake up
on the floor without my pajamas...
naked: glued to the wooden floor...

gasping for air...
      ******* July! ******* atmospheric high
pressure... go! go! go! go back to Sahara or
wherever you came from...
SNOW... ICE... DARKNESS!
    
       雪 (ユキ)... コーリ... クラヤミ

(yuki... koori... kurayami)

this vacuum cleaner is ****...
first of all... the person who designed should
have just been an employee for Mr Dyson...
seriously... the cable is too short...
i have to switch from about three different
power-source outlets...
   and those hairs on what's supposed
to collect dust? too short too...
   i've been vacuuming the staircase twice...
once fast... then slow...
  
i ended up testing my idea...
can anger cool you?
can fury cool you?
                   well... first i had to wet my beard
and comb it... then i had to wet my hair
and comb it... then i asked myself:
if i get really *******
about... "a hammer you can't hammer nails
in with"... i.e. a vacuum cleaner
i can't clean with? yeah...

                like an orthodox Jew
head-banging before the Wailing Wall...
which... honestly... if those guys were kneeling...
i'd imagine a massive Ha-Shem *****
just there... imitation blow-job...
or rather: repenting for the ancestors
to mutilate them...

monotheistic lunacy...
   same in Christianity... kneeling... kneeling...
******* procrastinating...
or the **** position of the Islamic rites...
geared up, gents, for some extra-curriculum
action?!
it's one thing to be told that you came
from an ancestry of hunchbacks...
i.e. apes... and another to insult
those origins with these silly antics...

                          oh... but i do believe in a deity...
but it's all in my head...
it doesn't require Churches, statues...
sanctities and heresies or anathemas...
that's the best way: at least for me...
it's all in my head...
     and the world can be as beautiful as it already
is...

people don't **** me off... things do...
sadly some people mingle with the category of thing...
there's this guy at work...
a sad soul... deformed in a way that doesn't
appear deformed... but he has a physiognomy
that would tell you: *******...
******? not really... too weak...
   everyone at work hates him...
     well... wouldn't you if you heard:
i've been a steward for 12 years...
                        he tries to boss people around...
me? i only started last December on a whim
and i've already become a supervisor
blah blah X no. of times...
                    
it's lovely seeing society function on its original
intent of meritocracy...
right... but this guy is despised...
me? i'm... curious...
   he has terrible conversation cues too...
he tries to crack a joke or says something
and non-responsive... i was?! i wasn't?!
i don't even know anymore...
      i didn't say anything... i'm pretty sure...
and he's like: yeah, ha ha... you never say
anything to me...

weird as **** when he starts calling me
by my Finnish equivalent: Matti...
               only my father gets to call me Mateo...
thank god he didn't venture south...

i actually prefer Martin... the guy with cerebral
palsy... the one that looks jittery when standing
still... or drunk... but at least i can look into
his eyes and think:
                         oh... this world is a *****...
but i promise i won't make it harder for you...

back to the other guy... everyone at work hates
me... but... when i was supervising him?
oh man... WHAT A JINN!
perfect! i had to argue with some guys without
wristbands trying to get a pitch-side view
of the concert: clearly they bought paid-seat tickets...

i gave up... arguing / being persuaded...
blah blah this blah blah that...
i turned around and crossed my hands...
but they just kept on nagging...
    then my whittle fwend came along and worked
his magic...
it didn't take much...
just his physiognomy...
             his body language...
                              his actual use of language...
   the seriousness he applied to the profession:
yeah... "profession" in my eyes...
crowd-safety is a joke...
                     i take it seriously in terms of:
looking out for terrorists...
but compared to roofing or anything DIY related
it's a farce...

   soldiers at Buckingham Palace might also
realise that they don't have a job...
they just have a uniform
smoke and mirrors...

everyone at "work" hates him but i found
most useful... when you can't win
an "argument": just allow the most "disgusting"
person to do the work for you...

i mean: for ****'s sake... how can you win
an argument if people find you endearing,
hug you, kiss you, take selfies with you...
it's impossible... throw in a "Quasimodo"
into the mix and watch them turn their attitude...

it's called: effectively utilizing a person's
otherwise considered disadvantages to your
advantage... that's what's called:
nature abhors a vacuum...

                 i'm going to write this... drink some more
and then cycle... hopefully concentrating on
any of my possible recklessness...
hopefully not falling head first
across my bicycle's handlebars while
trying to avoid a ***-hole...

mindful: of a copper-neck...
that's the only good thing about summer...
getting a suntan...
that's it... i like looking like a lychee flesh
dipped in sunflower oil...
or that darker oil: peanut?
            
it's almost like the recurrent joke about
**** Germany... the supposed "Aryans"
waged a war against actual Aryan
inheritors... given the geographic history...
an Iranian tribe known as the Sarmatians
settled in the region otherwise
known as parts of Poland...

                            ah... sigh... i don't want
to laugh: you can't "win" something
by falsifying "said"... "truth"...
                           i guess i'm prone to a "symptom"
of... sleeper-genes...
they're waking up... it doesn't matter
whether i like it or not... it's happening: the end...

my mind has become a cauldron of events
that happened and should be forgotten
and a forgetting that should have happened...
and it has: with the immediacy of me
scratching my head... figuring out some
metaphysical arithmetic:

i don't do language formalities...
i don't do pre-scripts...
i abhor Thespians...
  as much as the ancient world abhorred
poets... clue: in Ovid...
poetry is a waste of time blah...
modern times have yet to appreciate
despising Thespians...
shadow-thieves...
                                        doppelgängers...

death's only until one's unsuspecting
tomorrow...
that said: i have a corrosive animosity
for maxim spewing: maxim regurgitating...

at least proverbs are ciphers...
maxims seem like deciphers...
lost proof on their certainty was always
going to be established by anyone
who read any other genre of literature...

- because as a ******... i abhor being regarded
as the pauper of Europe...
sure... i write in English: because it's more
convenient...
i write in the most economic language
available known to man...
    do i think that America, the FSA:
federal states of America would be more stable
if they employed an indoctrination
into resembling a rigid bilingual nation
not governed by WASPS
        (white, anglo-saxon protestants)?

Switzerland?! massive failure...
isolationist from day 1... whenever day 1 was...
and they're accustomed to...
everyday people speaking...
3 languages?!
    **** me... perhaps we'd be better off
knowing at least two... the minimum...
but then... n'ah... pointless...
the "modern miracle of literacy"
sort of backfired...

                and if not backfired then didn't
give the desired results...
the guilt of manual labour...
          forget GAY PRIDE...
back in the satellite state of the Soviet
Union that was Poland...
there was a LABOUR PRIDE DAY...
yeah: physical labour was celebrated...
appreciated...
              what, the, ****, has, your, ****,
orientation, to, do, with, whether,
you, get, a, taxi, on, time?!
                    
                                  work used to be celebrated!
not sexuality... and that's Dodo-sexuality, no?
unless you elevate prostitution
to surrogacy, no?
            well then... you have your little revolution:
i'm going to have mine...
  i don't mind slurping on the many-used
oysters' worth of ****... mind you:
they taste better...
              nope... i was listening... i listened
long enough...
                i'm tired...
                no wonder the Slavic world imploded
with Ukraine as the sacrificial lamb...
the Czechs were a priori Germanic in their
liberalism... libertarianism...

they can *******: PAKICOCKPAKICOCKPAKICOCK!

****'s sake: THINGS: HAPPEN...
you can't just cower from things happening...
might as well throw in your own
narrative... poetry shouldn't exist in
safety... poetry should exist in jeopardy...
in being branded X Y & Z...
               poetry should tease at
the egoism of Marquis de Sade...
                            it should be all about cycling while
drunk...
         because life's what? you borrowed?
you're in debt?
     or is it the inverted:
you wanted me here...
          i'm here... and this is what i am...
or rather: this is what you taught me
to become!

                          mein gott... this is sort of looking
like a self-help guru manifesto...
i'm ashamed... but then also very much
drunk and dehydrated at the same time
and i truly want this heatwave to ******* from
England...

                   i will never give up my testosternone
for my: abhorrent antic
of cycling while tipsy...
i need a coupling of testosterone + adrenaline...
i need to be crazy-stupid...
                like all the prostitutes said;
you're good-crazy..
i know i am... i'm fully invested.
a Francis Bacon exhibition is currently happening at the National Portrait Gallery... i'm planning to go tomorrow... tickets on sale around £25... i'll also buy the ******* gallery bound to a book... just discovered the resurrection ofg Eminem... Lucifer... imagine all the advertisement propaganda of the saviour in black man... but then comes Puff Daddy worse than ****** in Hell: ****** in Heaven i ***** the birth of the rebirth of Israel and the Jews with a nation and a diaspora like all the rest of us except for the U.S.A. and maybe Russia but i don't think me me me... language block... my black savior is a ******* pervert my **** my pi two square e... rap my little *** along and forget Newton's great ****...

bluff bluff: an **** plug and the baby
and her waters of the tub...
maybe i'm reading Frank Herbert's Dune...
maybe the serpents and gardens
have been replaced by
worms and deserts and mountains...
and then i see a **** in every fish
i see in the sea...
like black glue of vomitting
hallucinating of the peer of the void
of the pupil no sclera
and no iris of fish...
maybe there's magic in the eye
of both dog and cat
but i see the same sane black fish
in squirrel and rat
and wait... of the fox? i swear:
gangland **** i'm working
an open air asylum...

             breed the idea...
mommy daddy
oh my son
oh O
O oh daughter...
oculus per oculus...
eye for an eye
my utmost desperate utmost last and first
the aesthetic as primo
and ethics as levi
Matthew: my passion...
away bouncing thinner from
Ethopia...
if Christ is to return my namescape...
Rupnzil...
no...

  7 deadly sins and come the 7 phobias:
two chimeras mated you
selling me:
two ******* giraffes?
you want this Colisseum to run
on **** and *****?
i need blood... i need blood!

fear of spiders
fear of open spaces
fear of the night...
Islamophobia does not collide
with this beast of the new 7 heads
i have rational to fear Islam
ask the Polacks and ask the Romanians
and the revision of Europe via
the Ottomans:
even the Arabs rebelled
and Lawrence and Sire: Sinaz...
the river parition of the Red Sea:
the Runes and that fluctuation of the seas
into alter
the old the serpent isn't here:
no garden...
just the barren land of desert
and the mountain ranges
and the arm
my seeing unseeing eye
of the worm...
as god evolved: so did the devil...
you think concepts and absstracts
don't evolve: that intellect is man's own
possession?
debris...
              my history my own light...
better father better mother mother
better Reyla can i ask for....
i have a clue into a rational fear of Islam
like i have a double edged sword
the old Pagan armed with Judaism
i also have a fear of Christianity:
you late learners my **** my lord
i better tell them...
i'm playing a game of...

like the effect... forget the name...
they call me Matthew:
Matteo... Matti... Matt...
but my true name has already
been given and brided with ink
on paper...
i am Conrad... like i add an M
in volutpous... like i add an extra D
to conDrad...

**** Germany + the High Fashion +
KISCH...
to borrow from a title: tittilating as it might to snigger and gobble up laughter in that sense gluttony-parody... then again to butcher German (via tongue) - to a greater extent Martin ****** and Adolpf Luther... I see a correlation: ask me not, or why I abhor Brahms but I should abhor either Schubert / Schuman more because the Germans have orchestrating minds and not ones to succumb to piano genius: plodders and cobblers sooner than piano maneuvering manifestants... deshalb... eisen in der seele (iron in the soul): alter: rost im blut (rust in the blood).... perhaps... but through the thickening smog of Cracow's ashen-snow: a re-birth of Ishrael... Nil Ven- live in Cardiff.. Cwydyff... Rossini... Stabat Mater: the counter reformation... the spirit of music for the ill Germanic soul... and like the genius of Luther and ******... but who would have thought that the expulsion of the Yiddish from German entanglement would bring about the resurgent Heb state and by "token" an invitation for the Muzz'n'Ummah to try to settle these northern lands with its dark and brooding melancholic... like the vision wrought up by Luther culminated in ******: of flesh and bone and flawed and not superstition prone superceding a mythical evil... just a snot barrage on a moustache... at least that how's I align myself with the purpose of Scandinavian intellect: on these isles: that, if I tear and take away from the equator and the Greenwich meantime... if Iceland is part of Scandinavia... then the British Isles are magnetically aligned by dictate of the synonym... lines of geography that cut as if parallel: into reading of history... aligned sideways... mea: cusp: ein herz... a fledgling... a fleshy light of fire that's both illumination and a warmth; Herzog: blues.... adamante!

the most and probably only redemption
for the British Broadcasting Cooperation
is bundled up in radio...
not so much BBC RADIO 1 or 2...
more so 3 and 4...
                  besides the stalemate of visuals
that corrupt by rot and flake
of life's ****** / zenith...
redeeming, these sounds... very unlike
the television as primed for the analogy
of Plato's cave...
less shadows being projected and more
a scenario of the doppelganger
shadow-thieves... something of Islamic
and even Victorian superstition...
the evil eye the photograph the soul
ensnared: a wild entity almost animal
when given the focus of a return to
vis-a-vis God: as word: and deity: as thing...
but my point exactly is not an exacting
of anything...
I've been looking for an intellectual
reprieve from Herbert's Dune...
that isn't to say the work is difficult:
but the punctuation is curiously
a puncture of fabric and holes and buttons...
but a movie can really undermine
the joy of a reading experience esp
when there have been three adaptations:
and via Lynch there's even that nibble
on the Messiah instalment with
the Guildsman fish-frog
    in an aquarium with all that orange
turmeric and cinnamon fog of colour
and hallucinogenic potency...
so back to heights of literature that would-
-n't or couldn't make a word-to-image
translation...
Jon Fosse like some satanic figurine
                  dwarf macabre ****** leech...
but instead of a garden and an apple...
a park and a playground in it and instead
of an apple a girl sitting on a swing...
second time round: if ever...
that would be no apple and no tree...
but a ******* a swing and a boy pushing
her... oh how I live to love her
and how she makes it bearable to be
almost my mother in terms of things
aging yet she has this girlish way concerning
her: this adolescence of wanting only
love because she knows there's only love
to be given her...
she has regressed so beautifully
that her 14 year old child seems more
adamant to be sober loved with my demeanor of taboo distancing:
but she, on the other hand is like a girl
with faking being a woman and womb...
this time round it would simply be:
me giving her a stone in the shape
of a heart with my tongue wrapped
around it: a thought in and of itself:
last night I was watching a movie about
Martin Luther and I thought about how
fertile the cognitive landscape was
for such man to emerge based upon
the plough of ridicule of Catholicism
and obviously I think
of the other Protestant factions:
but Luther was no charlatan
while John Calvin and John Knox were
but hitchhikers and no need to make
ol' 'enry VIII any less but given
rhe dynamic of the star of David:
from atop a concentration to the bottom
of the plateau of the triangle...
                           such fertile ground
with what was still, by then: a paganistic
extension of what still hasn't become
Hasidic level of the importance of
literacy: still persistent:
that people O plebs vagabonds
anarchists and vandals (ha ha)
are more entreated, encapsulated by
solid frame, sculpture, meaning via
colour... painting... than the gifts of
word and number...
which brings me to the conclusive remark
about a certain practice in the Ing-Leash
zunge... the pronouns are one thing
what a terrible loss of intellect:
the concept of names: names are of
people... names... a tier above what
nouns are: a chair is a noun
a table is a noun...
a planet is a noun... but...
Jupiter... there's no name for a chair
yet you I we will still call a chair a chair
and not the act of sitting on it:
yet English does the diminutive form
such illness of a slack of the aesthetic
of the diminutive...
Mateusz becomes Matti Mateo
                                               Maciu...
       Teo....
                              what other name?
     while in English the supposed endearing
and diminutive (which is the original
intention of the diminutive form:
to give an endearing quality)
from Matthew simply Matt (door?)
a Christopher a Chris...
a Samuel a Samantha a Sam...
Peter the Pied Piper Pete...

— The End —