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Adam Childs Apr 2014
Weary of spirit I drift side ways
As my sails have lost all wind
In the mundaneness of my life
I repeat year by year
For I am a stuck record
Mechanically moving
Devoid of all emotion
I search for the thread
To my lost heart
In this daily grind
Of everyday routine
I find myself hypnotized
By the repetition in my life
My half hearted eyes
Blind to the treasures
That God bestows
For I demote myself
To a passenger in my life
For I am rung out of joy
And can no longer fill my flute

My mind bleached by the
Dazzlement of this world
I am left feeling empty
Of this worlds unhealthy fuel
As our souls secretly search
To burn away our reptilian claws
In the fires of fossil fuels
Like Edward scissor hands
Our hearts bleed for love
All actions made mechanical
We are the robots of our time
As the world seeks to make us
Into unconscious engines
Driven by the power of profit
Both in our minds and theirs

In the long range monotomy
Of this tiring life
We do not seek to run or hide
As we stand like giant rocks
Holding our own space
Carved by the weather of time
We remain the governor
Of our own lives
As all elements fall within us
For God holds us within his strength
As he fills us like balloons
Replacing all that
The world took from us
Like mountains we are pushed up
With the forces from within
As we now see this world
From a new height

As we descend the mountain
To meet the world
We are met by our many comrades
Our four legged friends
For these are the work horses
Of our time
Who show a tranquil dignity
Within their work
As they serenely
Embrace their own dharma
With a soft grace
That angels may envy
For they lead the way
As I sit and surrender
For I am a passenger
Who enjoys the view

In this new centered self
I relax and recoil within
My strength renewed
I learn the effortless embrace
My work ethic renewed
My open arms , feel the open hearts
Of our humble steeds
Who still the sea's
Of our ruffled minds
As I seek to return home
Dropping in to find my heart
Within my mechanical self
Enriched I feel
As I hitch hike on Gods glory

Finding our heart within our work
Can be the hardest sea to sail
But the greatest
For accomplishments sewn
In the hearts of men
Will beam in the sunlight
Of righteousness
While those thrown
And discarded on shallow dry soil
Will shrivel and die
Though I may sometimes stumble
Sometimes finding my stride
I remain on the path
Too and within my heart
In work

For I Love my life
In all its shades
As who am I to bring
Condition into life
As I push my food around my plate
Like a fussy child
For now I seek just to sing
Hi I wrote this when feeling a little uninspired at work a couple of years ago  I apologise if it seems a bit dreary just thought i would put it up to see what some of you talented writers thought . not my best but always interested in feed back
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the mystery of lawlessness is bound to the "transcendence" of phonetic application of phonetic encoding... some call it the whirlwind of confusion, but somes also call it E-près and then write Ypres... well, the confusion is all but apparent... i left that in "     " to stress the ambiguity... yes, the -s is optional... it's neither possessive or plural... that, i could have learned in prison, had i ever been a Becontree purple (bishop)... dictionary moment: cranium, crimson, cradle... cardinal... but all these positions of power are on their knees (there's me trying in vain to underline that), they gobble-quote what they quack... which ends up being a circumflex and a wanking hand, embedded with "touching" Adam. oh sure they bypassed the contemporary-of-contemporaries... it was never a grey-matter affair... it was always a gangster's drill-to-the-bone moment... wait till he squeems! i don't mind ******, given the person is dead, i just hate half-asked half-baked half-bollocked Dr. Dre attempts and then failing and then, like a whining dog with its tail between its legs going back to the mantra of mother fiction... i ******* hate it... i start looking like a ******* ******! i hate it... mutter fiktion... all i'll say of a Jew: don't ******* bring an argument against the Palatine Schting right now... i have as much abhorrence against all things Egyptian as i do about English tea, which i deemed liquidated Werther's Original... and then there's this Russian ***** i'd like to the village bicycle... she's had more spare parts done unto her than the working limbs ever gave her the tilt... feminism and the sacredness of all women... name that movie quiz show... charlize theron... aileen wuornos! woo-or-nose? never mind...
   a 1K spectacle at Hastings... that's invoking quid...
and you'll feel more tonguing mollusks than
                          touching a frightened ****** quill-thread's
worth of deer with that lingo, had you ever had one...
              MONSTER!      yes, they all dream of a breakfast
at tiffany's... and i'm john paul the 2nd, and
     henry viii was a joke nursery rhyme
  when charlie bid farewell to diana...
there was no:
         divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived...
there was only a car-crash... you can't make
    a king out of swine... well... you can... Sweyn...
                  but **** me... and i thought i was naive...
guess the ***** didn't kick in when it was supposed
to; once true journalism became the ****** of what
was once the ****** of the people...
             religion... journalism these days is rotten,
it's an Aristophanes to what's really happening
defined by Socrates... it's a schoolyard...
  journalism these days is best defined by Aristophanes;
and who's the globe-trotting-gobbler of all misfits
is not the would-be diarist of returning back to
the local, the usual, the sanctimonious mundaneness
of it all; you **** only once in your life,
you end up having a **** the rest of the time,
either with your hand, or with another body.

oh i'm not bothered about the "perverts"
(funny how only men are concerned with
being named that) -
                               that are watching you,
those third party incisors of
             the bony-**** (hey, you
could be yodeling **** by now) -
                          what i'm
worried about are the perverts that provide
the "perverts" with material,
it's all very much a Turning test...
               that robotics testing ground
of: i can't keep eye contact...
   the lesser privy of psychiatry?
eye contact and biting your nails...
if that can be engaged with and subsequently
avoided:
you're as chirp as chips! honey b.
          can anyone white
feel glamorous using language in order
to tell a joke?
   that's not the question, the question is:
why call it witty comedy...
     but still employ canned laughter?
it's discouraging, i don't know when the joke comes,
all i know is that the editor finds it funny
as that particular time,
                    and that's when he inserts canned
laughter... you can get it with the most
"witty" comedies there are...
  a bit like black girls trying to be white without
the frizz of afro curbing the afro with vaseline...
i've seen catfights over this "third limb"
scenario... afro is no go in catholic schools...
you have to... yum... cow lick that ****
into place... use vaseline...
      and that's an advert-and-a-half.
but you know what really ****** me off?
philosophers... they attacked poetry because
they couldn't care two-****'s worth about
whether language could be musical
or simply communicative... they're the ones
that wrote books without using
grammatical words such as verb, or noun,
because they made them excuses to
their muddles when hoarding from poetry
words of equivalent categorical weight
such as metaphor... so attacking the practice
of poetry, but then encouraging
the categorisation of the spoke
with poetic categories rather than grammatical
categories? can i see Hegel use a noun?
no... but i can see Heidegger using
  the metaphor with two labourers utilising
a hammer... that's the thing concerning
a building site: you either pass the time
tellings jokes... or you don't work
on a building site and hold a hammer
  and question whether someone else might need it...
philosophy is not about the existential dittoing
of the i...
    it's a book, but there's a new category of pronoun
due to universal bewilderment once childhood
finishes... ? opened the door, in stepped !
and said:
     shouldn't we make the stillness of the lake
into a mirror to banish but at the same time
          domesticate narcissus -
yes, replied ?, i'm glad you thought of it...
               domesticating demigods...
                    narcissus was a stillness of a lake,
sisyphus was a stone,
    hercules was bicep,
              achilles was a tendon...
                                       our current affairs are far
from democratic, but at least our history is,
  you get ******... you get protractor...
you get mona lisa... you get 'let 'em eat croissant!',
       too many points of divergence
  in a democracy to craft a convergent "democracy",
what the politics says is that we are all
slaves to what's called a *status quo
,
  i hate the fact that western "democracies" are
no longer tagged as merely status quo...
abuse of nouns... or how philosophy attacked poetry
and never spoke a theory concerned with
language per se being evidently categorised...
     how status quo is actually a -nomer without a mis-
of democracy...
  funny, the spanish... i have no idea
why can i have some ice-cream?
      has to become ?can i have some ice-cream¿
           i guess it's like the english " and '...
  who said what, and who said what for whom?
    is there a narrator?
      is that " + 1 people speaking, or quoting a quote?
or is that direct convo... '   ',
later retelling the tale "     ",
and after that it's all but an urban myth
akin to the kentucky fried mouse...
                the French that blè blé blé blé....
and somewhere in between was the Transylvanian comma...
hmm...
                             i mean... the perverts...
   thanks for the invitation, r.s.v.p.; of sure, great mixtape...
funny thing is... i never filmed myself jerking off...
        i do a 3-in-1... take a ****, take a ****... and
clean the ****-talk ducts of banal sprechen while
      watching a monkey strutting down memory lane
of when i had a girlfriend... and had to juggle,
and go for lunch, and this that and the other,
and a dalmation... or the reflection: but i had a mother...
huh?     i never felt this much ingratitude
for occupying the premises of the oval chamber
as i did creating a signature or inserting
  myself into the least convenient space to have
later come out off using only one digit's worth of
accountability... but hey... that's life.
          are you feeling the guilt trip drug pushed
by your mother from Syria, or Somalia?
     you owe her! you parasite... makes easier argument
for the billion Blue Indians and Chinese to get on
with it and eradicate the over-sensitive ivory dodo;
or at least in Siberia with the mongols...
              so i'm guessing eskimo is the new
                        squint to what's butchery ethics in Kosovo
as: look away... nothing to see.
               still... why call it a witty comedy when
you nonetheless have to utilise canned laughter?
             and that's a novel in itself...
? went up the stairs and ? met ! questioning <
whether ? should be questioning <... instead ! suggested
that ? should be questioned by >, since ? was already
on the 1st floor, having ascended the stairs from
the ground floor...         can you write me
     a novel... replacing all the correct pronoun usage
with mathematical ambivalence structured toward
a mostly unread existential dogmatism using
  mathematical punctuation?
no one will read it...but hey... either you do something
like that... or own a dog or a cat...
           and yes, they call them diacritical marks
when they're within letters... but in between letters?
they call them punctuation marks within words...
or the microcosm of punctuation: syllabification...
          the French just gobble down a lot of
  deviation... mon fhhhhhhhhhhhhré!
don't ask me how they do it... ask Nápŏlyon,
yes, the half-wit from Li-ą... oh no... not
                                               Monsieur Dynamite.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
write a poem during daylight hours, and with day,
as with night, the embodiment of magpie cackle
a laughter resounds; at the zenith...
                                                seppuku­;
or as i feel, at the council of Elrond,
with those Celtic ghosts of sirens
once more, candle wax poured into the
blind eyes of Homer to see once more...
into a resurrection of shadows as
thought of embodiment of touch:
that shadows mediate ghostly behaviours and
souls inspect a unifying concept for heretical
deviations of  what became of men
with the power of fractions...
such that Odysseus heard them, as i do,
although in another diversion, once more,
that these be the same sirens,
such as they are, Celtic in origin;
i did indeed pour wax into the eyes of Homer
in order to light a flint for sight in him,
and exposed my ears to the song likewise
kindred to Odysseus,
and too went mad...
                      if only in private, the same lullaby;
so why expect me to be fulfilled with the mundaneness
of what mortals cherish, i wish for a speedier death
having been robbed of a sudden death...
i want a second suddenness, careless as to what
governs life & death: old age -
let me walk through the sudden shutters,
that plague of yours of suddenly turning day to night...
let me pass through this plague once more,
having failed to pass it the first time...
or at least let my ageing superior bury me,
for i have no strength to upkeep a talk of shaded honours,
should all honour be that of oriental principles,
i too am a willing soul to join them from the crippling
standard of what's to be accomplished in the western guise
of wisdom: nowhere else is old age such a curse as here,
when the expulsion of youth begins so early and levers
the gritted tooth's revenge seen later in what's to be
expected via swans' inhibitory kept alliance to the ring,
in joy as in sorrow... i weep my mother's tears,
for no lover was bound to me bold enough to keep a year
in my heart fr me to experience the mundaneness
to rise from a spoon and imagine the sun in the ever changing
form of the moon in daylights... to **** in dreams...
i haven't experienced a single season in Eden...
as in joy, then as too in sorrow...
                       how prematurely i weep over my grave,
engraved in ashen lettering on the Ganges in that Milky
Way toward Kamad(h)enu... until the last orphan,
and until the first adventure, i too, there.
Marla Mar 2019
Every morning,
I made coffee for the people I loved.
A massive *** of brown gold
Perched atop a fiery hotplate,
Waiting to be used.

Hour by hour,
Dozens of cups were poured
As people began to smile
And forget about their worries.
Conversing and rejoicing,
The mundaneness of life
Becoming a subtle blur
As they slurped upon
The nectar I provided
Dutifully.

When all is said and done,
With all the happiness
That I've put into this world,
Tell me why I sit here
As empty as that *** of coffee
At the end of a long day?
Scottie Sep 2014
I’m from opening my front door, and hearing my back door slam
I’m from bleeding lips and bleeding fists
I’m from walk the other way around the block after dark
I’m from mouths running quicker than legs
I’m from hazy blue and red lights
I’m from soft pools of yellow ones
I’m from watch your back because no one else will
I’m from steel bracelets and lead pits
I’m from bitter words and sour spit
I’m from spinning records and pounding keys
I’m from jars and bottles and glasses and tubes
I’m from zipped lips and wide eyes
I’m from long, hot showers without conditioner
I’m from narrow minds and pretentious ******
I’m from weights and wait, lies and lying
I’m from thin walls and thick skulls
I’m from dull eyes and sharp tongues
I’m from do what you’re told
I’m from fires and fires and fires
I’m from pocket knife upgrades
I’m from t-shirts and mundaneness
I’m from faking smiles and screams
I’m from dreams that involve dying
I’m from fat fingers and fat books
I’m from sorry, what?
I’m from pushes down stairs and scolding words
I’m from scalding water and instant coffee, just milk
I’m from saving painkillers
I’m from we don’t want to hear it
I’m from *you never do
Original poem idea from Jeffrey McDaniel "Origins"
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the internet wasn't originally intended as the playground for the young, who have no reason to convince themselves of a need to either dogmatise proper spelling, or proper diacritical-punctuation... hálo humpty-dumpty! utter that hark like a dragon!

i have something more volatile than atoms
to construct an atom bomb and
cite Oppenheimer -
i have letters as atoms, words as minor
twitches, and language as Samael:
the death-breathing harvesting resurrector...
  i call the film *a beautiful mind

a perfect case of a beautiful propaganda
machine that backfired...
  if that mathematician who died "tragically"
in car-crash was anything to go by
with having his negation of ease hijacked,
exemplified, magnified to scare the public,
then Gabriel must have been a really sweet
soothsayer in Muhammad's ear...
   because someone with that kind of imagination
to conjure up people should have never
worked for the emerging C.I.A. or F.B.I.:
but Walt ******* Disney... to be sure of it:
Bukowski run parallels with the story:
staying drunk: to keep up with the sober-imaginative
collective: i would have done the same...
can you believe i've passed the 50h mark
on not sleeping under a self-imposed
example of what's barely a scratch of the
siberian gulags?
                   can you imagine that i...
simply had a fetish for it? imagine being awake for
over 50 hours... and having a nearing-****
audacity to not fall asleep for a minute?
can you imagine the military rigour of such
an endeavour?
   must have been self-taught and therefore, very
much indie: selling to the highest bidder.
oh please don't take my literal Monday's worth
of vocabulary truthfulness on it:
i'll play truant on it:
   i don't have people-friendly devices to keep
up with gossip, the rule is:
you can only go mad once,
you can play double jeopardy with madness...
    talk going mad a second time...
        i'll talk about recreating carnage park
in essex... you know what's scary about
that horror movie? it happens at high-noon...
there's nothing eerie about the night...
with the night i think the solace of death
and the never-ending and the never-shifting queue
of names, dates, and the ultra sensitive invocations
of faking epitaphs, i mean, inscribing things
on graves the people who "own" the graves
never had the capacity to say, in the first place.
but you know what scared me about
the film carnage park? the first horror movie
based upon Hitchcock "resurrected" -
but it was never about it... there's no close-proximity,
you actually see the culprits face...
   the idea being: humanising the man executing
moral justification by tugging the guillotine
or pushing the switch on the electric chair...
it's all about moral ambiguity,
hence the horror is all about daylight,
daylight representing the quasi-assurance of your
own judgement: and could you do the justice
by bypassing all jurisprudence paperwork?
  daylight is important in this movie...
                 nothing is hidden, nothing is romantic,
because the man in question is a ******,
he's not a torturer... the invocation of agoraphobia
is seminal! no... subliminal! Greeks invented little
fears and allowed them to be wedded for magnification
given that theatre is extinct... little phobias
create big budget exploits...
   but this is a first of exploiting agoraphobia...
       and agoraphobia could only be exploited in
high-noon... when i think of night these days
i think of the j. r. r. tolkien romance novels of
what man once had... adventure...
these days? plain talk? tourism.
                            i never could think it could be done:
but apparently is has been done...
           the ever distant voyeurism is also gone...
how can anyone be voyeuristic in an agoraphobic space?
   you're basically knitting and deforming
a large space into a pixel... there's no sadism either,
no loch ness barrage of torture methods,
only what man employes to capture animals...
   it's militarism: solo...
        the true essence of a renegade:
   antidote to indoctrination...
             exemplified by the fact that no matter what
mask you give the horror, the mundaneness of it
doesn't go away: because it's not hidden,
  the placebo horror scenario -
          we fake hiding from it... horror these days
is medicinised by fantasy... which is the abhorrent
quality of our times: over-assurance...
    our times are too self-servient, too self-assured...
too comfortable... we're championing
arrogance, calling our predecessors incompetent
*******... oil on the flames? maybe...
                       we prefer to imagine dragons than
see actual dragons among us...
                       that's why we seem to begin with
congratulating dinosaurs into having begun
   as abstract spines that the serpents of our times are...
us? to our inheritors? brains in pickle jars.
we have already started the process of pickling ourselves
by extracting as much as we could from our being
and encoding it into artificiality...
        anyone with a global invasion tactic can easily
tap into this "economy"... it's not an encyclopedia...
it's an economised unitary model readied for
exploitation for invasion...
       do i share the film's culprit paranoia?
well... i share his defence of environmental study...
but having provided the most adequate striking-point
             with the utmost drama of cyber-warfare debate
and all counters against ourselves...
            would i choose this maniac over a wall st. yuppy?
          what's that... vomito ***** vs. huey & the news?
if only i was paranoid after having watched this
movie... i'd see it spread akin to the bubonic plague...
but it's apathy that's the bubonic plague:
since it's the most effective safety-mechanism virus...
you get that docile look and try to suddenly say huh?
with surprise, but you get a choking sensation
as if you just swallowed a hazelnut.
      people get these fantasies about other evolutionary
lifeforms... it's not ******* c.i.a. crap about
      everyone working for them being called mr. &
mrs. smith... just so they can dodge bullets
   and buy milk at their local supermarket...
                      without being asked for autographs and
selfies... and have you ever seen a film critique engaging
with a character that says very little, and then
hysterically laugh, with a sense of music akin to
playing front 242's album 06:21:03:11 up evil?
      the true test of horror is music... the visuals can
be Marquis de Sade in Disneyland... and no number
of groans will do it... if the music has
         transylvania's chant of the chastity of anti-sodomites
written all over it... you're in for a knee-jerker...
the diabolical thing about this film is that it
has the double-effect whether it's watched at night
or during the day... the first horror movie that
doesn't invoke close contact between predator and
the prey, along with not even making the night
as something orthodoxically necessary to craft
                                      horror thematism.
well... plus it's a testament to existentialism
in the case of the hostage being "unrightfully"
attested in a crime... the existentialist would
simply conjure up: possible bait / excuse and
unwillful thinking necessary for his own
             victimised self-reflecting-counter-via
the reflex-of-against-self-discriminatory-collective-input...
radical­ised into a reflex puritanism:
   abiding by cohort norms was not enough
                for the cohort minimum:
                    pyramidal elevation was necessary,
               and there was no human explanation
beyond certain matters, all else was justified
in the three digressions: diabolical, angelic or genius:
the madness only came when one claimed to
hear instructions from the devil, or from god,
                        or claimed to be a geniusº.
  disregarding the two fabrics of a self,
the one prior and the one post collective-input
    regarding a doctrine needing a "self", an "individual",
nevertheless: but a pawn.

      ºthere's no articulation of god, which is why
we have no article ascribing a definite or an indefinite
nature toward him, which is why paupers reduce this
argument, debase it to the level of pronouns -
the reason why we cite a genius and the devil...
is because only angels have names...
                              even the fallen ones...
           for they have a misnomer of god, as we have
a misnomer for many a good things.
warp Oct 2016
In the midst of oppression;
The buzzing of truth finds hard to flutter.
In a carousel of corpses;
Such is a truth to stay awake.
In the lines of fuzzy minds;
How uncanny it is to find a thought;
Of a head with a travel far from reality;
His pen the anchor to mundaneness.

Strum the song that nobody ever knows,
Strum the song nobody would ever know;
Sing of the words that words cannot understand,
Let those knocking whisper their voices.
Sulk upon the sounds of trembling thunders;
Let the rain deafen you whole.
Blind your eyes from the truth with distortion;
Your pain the anchor to reality.

Let the pendulum swing;
Let the smoke turn you vague;
Let the scorn that darkness brings;
Let the sedation leave you enraged.
Let the twisted remain as they are;
Perhaps they were twisted for a reason;
Turn numb with all unconnected words;
*Confusion the anchor to the earth.
The pain is what I deserved
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it's one thing that philosophy dismissed
poetry, but it's another that psychiatry did
likewise, interpreting poetry as madness, esp.
western haiku is better than the Freudian
interpretation of dreams; can you believe
the unconscious holes hidden in western
interpretation of *** poetry?
the way you can weave an essay into a few words,
is like fidgeting a theory with
a few images - although the former is less
inclined to a rigidness, and more inclined to
a rubber-band elasticity -
Freud had a few images to work from given
we experience dreams in nanosecond intervals
given the overall mundaneness of a 8 hours repose -
but imagine injecting an essayist's
interpretation of a haiku akin to some psychiatrists
spotting Pythagoras rubbing a tree
for Greenpeace with an ******* of triangles & apples,
like Freud with some rich kid paying for his
opera visits of castratos singing: la dolce vita...
i mean the ******* iceberg...
a few words in haiku are bopping along to
the tides from the Arctic, yet beneath them a
mass of narratives, even the Beijing waiters reminisce
recitations from school to this Mao revolution
syllabus... the unconscious meaning: fill in the gaps...
mathematically? algebra...
after all, very few people experience
'Houston, we have a problem' moments.
Graff1980 Jan 2016
The sheep minded
Elevate ignorance
To celebrate
Their own mundaneness

Claim this enslavement
Is natural
That the moral
Shun the strays
Who walk in
Diverging ways

Cling to status symbols
And fashion trends

Their mind bends
To fit their servile situation

Praising the nation
Instead of humanity

Consumers not real creators
Products not innovators

Digesting stupidity
And spitting the same
Uniformed madness
Right back at me
And that is why
I love working nights
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
but the gods are all asleep in plato's cave of the game known as: the charades of shadows, chinese whispers with the hands - like cats, the gods lucid dream, they are completely able to be in control in the dream world, as man be concious in body, the gods possess complete access to limbs and movement - so here, am i damnable like the ancient greek poets who deemed the gods immoral? immoral in order to imitate and spread immorality?

we have moved away from exciting science,
in a sense exciting science was
described as scientific positivism
(i am going to use a lot of these words
with what i am about to assess),
we moved from that, we have entered a time
when the public is fed scientific pluralism,
that is: all the sciences together, at once -
scientific negativism emerged,
because too much objectivity of expression
was stressed by those who didn't have
the glory of shouting: eureka!
scientific negativism feeds objectivity,
and objectivity feeds a limitation of a personal
expression of feeling, it's an apathy we're talking
about, not necessarily a lack of emotion,
but the comfortable lack of very stressful emotions,
it's the sort of stringing of emotions that
leave you happily asserting a place in a world
in a mediocre way of fulfilling materialism,
science after all studies objects, so being objective
in expression is ontologically sound,
but would a scientist tell another scientist to be
stoic and not excited when he's about to shout eureka?
well, stoicism is a scientific humanism,
to practice being stoic is to train oneself to curb
one's subjectivity when necessary, although
not all the time, and not in a way to reflect harsh
realities of scientific facts, rather, personal facts,
jeff hanneman was a stoic by way of reflecting
with virtuoso playing style on the guitar,
he wasn't stoic because of some scientific fact,
no scientist can be objective when he's about to
discover something, it's pure subjectivity,
but the mediators, the so-called scientists are spreading
this disease of having to be objective to be right,
to be appropriate for modern society,
they're basically censoring the subjectivity of the everyday,
they're killing off the narrative, mechanising us
into a calm content apathy, given us enough products
to be sold and bought to appreciate the "finer things in life",
there's range, there's breadth, there's a seemingly endless
stream of choice: i can only be happy with what i buy,
rather than what i feel, what i think what i etc.,
science used to be so so exciting, and then no one
talked about in objective terms,
but now we have this giant slab of concrete on us,
do not take theology with a hum of approval,
well, do that and you'll see a very different expression
of theology elsewhere, for example Syria:
crucifixions, homosexuals thrown off buildings,
little kids have a mechanic drill drilled through their temple...
but still atheism has a beginning just as much as
theology - it's proposition is a presupposition of
a non-existence of something, rather than an existence
of something - don't get me wrong, the roman catholic
system of omni- this, omni- that is bewildering,
and rather unimaginative, it's a pantheism -
but when i find one word being disputed in such
a vile way, i ust say to myself: but what if this being
is but a mode of communication, a medium,
language itself - would i want such a medium to be
all forgiving, all damning or simply all revealing?
after all, if we didn't have this implant of ably encoding
thoughts, ideas, feelings with these symbols,
we would be nowhere except in our previous mode
of communication based upon intuition...
but still this scientific negativism, because so much
was revealed, it's no longer a maiden voyage to an
unknown land (in terms of the number of possibilities,
now there's only a need to cure cancer, tackle dietary
requirements of a highly mechanised society
without the need for some other animate being to
travel, get to mars, etc.) - it's peppered with mundaneness
of teaching plagiarism of someone else's work
to create a teaching encapsulation for funding of
those scientists in the background, to basically say
you graduated with a chemistry degree and that's that,
off with you to a pharmacy post and... do the robot!
nee nee nee ning dance of serving customers;
yet if science is filling the void of its prime endeavour
with negativism, then it's no wonder than the
mediators of science and humanism (philosophers)
are prescribing objective expression,
from the years of old, man the object had to have
an object implanted in him to express himself,
nothing... so no passions, no irrationality,
conformity, lack of poetry, enforced lack of poetry
to be exact, just enough to tell 1 + 1, 2 x 2, 3 -3 and
the ugliness of language at the hands of these so
called teachers of mankind, e.g. Hegel,
expressed most succinctly: i = i (found in the introduction
of his *the outlines of the philosophy of right
,
apropos the same book karl marx was inspired by,
who attacked it with vitriol)... there you go... i = i...
not the eloquent flow of words into rhymes or
other deviations, just that bog, that swamp of
the caricature of using language.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
omega (ω) umlaut - rho oh, tetra, and grammar, Anglo double u, w, and that too stresses prolonging the stance, given optically it's a double v, a Churchill, ******* up the *** will make the carrot tease appear dangling on the shtick: whip up a sultan with a salto!*

getting a "respectable" education
taught me ****,
they should have taught me
to deal with everyday mundaneness
rather than Pythagoras,
honestly, i became educated for no
apparent reason, well, no reason
to make other people jealous;
i educated myself for no reason,
and let me tell you, once you have,
it's hard to re-enter employment
doing menial tasks, no pride involved,
it's the way you were zoologically
tested to perform language tasks.
Lalin Apr 2016
From the way you say Hello
It is as if you're someone else today

From the way you muted
It's as if you were so tired yesterday

From the way I slept
it's as if I could have been  goaded
to revolve against the clock only if
I could dance
holding the mirage of your arms

but not even once have I deserted the
warrior dreams of a mystic healer    reserved to us along three cities

From the way of knowing
our story or sound or breath
I trust as always
and behold you engraved
still in the mundaneness of this shimmering starlight
keeping the beauty of its trail
as an illuminating code of truth of all worlds
Knowing perfectly where I truely stand
An experiment .
Naomi Firestone Feb 2019
Wake up!
It’s time to wake up!!
I mean really wake up!!!
It’s not about the hands on the clock
That tick tick tick tick tock
The clock that never stops
Like a pendulum weighted rod
Reducing peripheral awareness
Routines that seems senseless
Coffee, breakfast, traffic relentless
The hands that clock you in
and clock you out
Never do you stop and doubt
The beat to which you march about
The mind checked out
It’s 5 o’clock somewhere
Drown my mundaneness out
Blindfold and gag my inner shout
My robotic need to march to the monotonous beat
For what will i have but despair and defeat
Oh holy one, save me from my inner beast
My natural instincts would have me feast
On love and lust and defenceless defeat
No boundaries, no walls, just vulnerability
The clock keeps tick tick ticking
The mind keeps click click clicking
Until finally I did see
Beyond its purpose to notify me
of daily chores and deadlines to meet...
It was in the hospital, starring at me,
A clock that asked how to be free
For time is not a commodity
It cannot be sold or bought for a fee
It has to be lived despite pain and poverty
For in the struggles there is also glee
No matter how sad our sorrows go deep
The time that we have is worth it to keep
Unchain that inner beast
For love is a necessity
And lust a natural need
Don’t waist your time on complacency
Live each second, minute and hour
Every day, week, and seasonal flower
Growing each year, knowledge is power
Don’t take one moment for granted
For time is no fairytale enchanted
A seed that flowers and dies
Was originally planted
k Nov 2017
As much as it might feel like it sometimes, your life is not a romantic film and I know you get really caught up in your imagination and sometimes you really believe that he's just like a character in a John Green novel and this is your story of how you fall in love. But movies end and every book has a final page. But we keep going and we keep living and the thing about stories is that they only tell about the the in-betweens of you and I. The moments in rose filters with The 1975 playing in the background. You and I, we have a music-video love that cannot exist in the quietness of 7am or the mundaneness of lunch on a Tuesday. When I think of you, I only see lights and dancing and I only hear music and laughter. I don't know much about your mind or your family or how you sleep in your bed at night. But I know exactly when you're lying cause you can't help smiling and I know how you dance when you're tipsy and how you fall when you're a little too drunk. I know you try to never be sad and you've become so good at it you've even tricked yourself into believing you're emotionless. We are identical shards of the same broken heart. We exist in our story together, and live completely separate other lives. We keep following the White Rabbit down the hole and leaving the world behind. Leaving our worlds behind. They tell me you're running fast and they warn me that chasing only leads to falling and breaking. But I've been playing cat and mouse with my heart for months on end and I'm in just as a hurry as you are.
Mitchell Duran May 2018
There are the days
When the mind is so sluggish
The imagination so depleted
Passion, desire, motivation
Evaporated

That all I'm left with
Is life
And all of its beautiful
Mundaneness

How do I describe
The lack of energy?

How do I describe
The depression
That keeps me from me?

How do I mute
The voices
That voice there
Knowingly
Consciously
Purposefully

There is a mad rhythm
In all of this
In all of us
And some days it's simply there
Underneath the fingertips
In the mind
In the soul
In the heart
And onto

The page

Other days
This day
This hour
This minute
This second

There is nothing but the objective truth
Of my fan whirring
Pushing air that mixes with this 9:40 PM
Early summer breeze
Warm neon orange reflecting on the
Silver moon Camry across the street
The pavement dry and littered with cold dog ****
With the rumbling echo of a plane filling the night sky

I put these down
These setting details
And I worry about the mechanics
Of such things

Wishing I didn't recognize
These things
Wishing I was as new to all this
Ignorant to the purpose
Of the proposed
As I was when I was a child
Not thinking about word choice
Page count
Structure, themes, authorial interpretation
Twitter followers and re-tweets

Is this what
This is now?

A game
Of
Outdoing
Yourself?

Of elbowing your way
To a seat
At the table?

Is this
What it's always
Been?

Is this
What it will always
Be?
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
telling a joke with two twenty pence and two five pence coins, while producing a debit card, pretending to explain: spare change, obviously the rest is debit! who the **** gets a giggle from a supermarket cashier? me.

coming from an inheritance of speaking
a language that "ask" an orthographic
"question", it is horrid to see a language
asking the question: what is reality?
      there is none, in that there is,
in the english cliche question:
            how do you pronounce that?
like the reality question:
       however you, unless you do
in a way that i ridicule you.
                    there's only one pass
at "criticising" the trans-movement,
a study in orthography...
    but applying orthography is going to be
hard in "revising" english out of
the stone age of thou and you...
                it's really hard to speak the common
tongue of a butcher who's language is
a streaker when compared to someone
who's clothed with the wrath of god
from either above, or below...
the most obvious example being in
the French sigma: garçon via the ς...
           i've come over here fully dressed
in orthography, and i'm being "asked"
the dumbest question of, what is:
  reality? revise -
              the dumbest question of,
what is, reality
?*
                                      it's a curse,
why? because the only conversations
i enjoy are with construction workers!
i once walked home with a scaffolder and
his girlfriend, and we discussed his
girlfriends height as comparable
to a smurf and Gargamel (obviously
she was furious about being itching height
while being quiet small)...
     i abhor frivolous eloquence and
some other tongue waggling to excuse
myself from the mundane army of workers...
there's a higher worth for the freedom
of work than the freedom to speak...
hands are above the tongue...
           but thank goodness since
this transgender movement became invested
in, i could counter it with:
aha! you're orthographically barren!
the english use, not a single, artefact,
of proving the existence of orthography!
none, nothing, zilch...
        which is why i'm hurriedly
attempting to introduce orthography into
the english language with a plethora
of latin mongrels...
         maybe the english have become
too proud in being conquered
by the romans...
          well, if that's the case...
the english learned to pride themselves
in being conquered,
the french merely imploded
with their promiscuity in
a Bacchus-style **** of:
no frenchman ever considered the
upper-lip to be endowed with a stiffness...
   i come from outside the narrative,
my people never were conquered
by the romans...
                 i admit some were conquered
by greek thinking,
hence the Cyrillic script...
    but i'm still fascinated by
the ****-naked "anti"-orthographic
script of the english...
the questions are here, now,
attached to language...
           hence the mundaneness
of that horrid question: what is reality?
is that really a question?
   if it is,
                a punch on the jaw
ought to be deemed as a short-cut
worth of answer.
Travis Frank Sep 2018
Sifting through the mangled mundaneness
Of routine and pitiful patterns,
I sought to retain only a divine diversion
To mark the end of a day
Marred by the devoid bleakness of black and white.

In a silent, sun-lit room,
Canvasses monitored the seismic activity
Of boiling multi-colour hot springs of paint
Neatly circled across a white rectangular mountain plain,
Inviting the weary of foot and heart to bathe in its magic mud.

Blue button shirts now rapidly rent
And grey shorts peeled with impatience,
Leaping, I laughed,
Splashing into the mirth of self-expression’s liberty,
Cindering all thoughts of menials awaiting me at the mountain’s foot.

No towel in sight –
Only a pan of brackish water and a protruded paintbrush.
Clenched with a dripping crimson hand, the brush met the canvas
Like a tangoist, the paint nearly scalding the board.
Hopping from pool to pool, tango practice concluded with the abstract.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i actually do come from a stock of kids who
still found pleasure in playing outdoors,
on those warm summer nights,
we didn't have any affiliation with
the school we went to,
unlike in england,
  we were neighbouring kids,
         and neighbouring kids had the most
firm alliance -
                     so we played hide & seek -
even we could have been almost english:
cuckooed indoors with a smart phone...
                  but growing up i noticed that
the child in man never actually died,
simply morphs...
                       so i'm sitting, having an agreeable
drink and find myself ****** into a certain
niche discussion...
  u.f.o.s., but like i already mentioned -
  i'm past looking for believers,
i'm past looking for converts -
      i'm just **** outright apathetic -
       why "indulge" myself with some sort
of pathology, when i can be free of it?
point being, hide & seek evolved from
being a child - as an adult will tell you
it's the mundaneness the only adults can make
of a perfectly formed game -
instead of hide and seek it's just a case
of making the game purely vocal:
  either tell the truth (seek) or tell a lie (hide)...
and believe me when i say that
i don't mind the outright liars -
at least they're being honest about something -
in their denial...
            it's the sceptical party that annoys me...
do they have to be so, *******
sarcastic about "seeming" sensible?!
           - but that's beside the point -
we might be adults, but we're still playing
hide & seek...
         tell a lie or tell the truth -
as children we didn't see a point in making
a concrete choice -
             it was never a case of being either an
agent of good or evil -
we were agents of both good, & evil.
                    personally? i enjoyed the game
of hide & seek as a kid, but to engage in
the adult version, is a bit like jerking off
a limp ****, possible,
                     but a bit like eating an overcooked
beef steak.

— The End —