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Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
-
bypassing the construct of
a paragraph.


necro-sculpture
                          that is bucling
point for normies...
akin to
                the solitude of
             watching a television...
              i managed
to grasp the worth of
                      a tomb
      as if i perpetually
had itchy fingers...
               the last time i forgot
walking through
                      museums,
i had the "pleasure"
of walking into
         two cemetaries,
with two
                    funerals taking
place...
      yes, i can ******* count!

   crow, two wings,
one tail, two legs,
looks like a god begotten as
a hunchback reduced to
walking,
among birds,
  the most curious specimen...

              the price you pay for
appreciating necro-sculpture...
entertaining funerals...
                      oh great...
now i get to fiddle with
content providers while choking
on slavic toilet brushing
sessions...
                 call the indigestion
police...
                  
   because at what point
is the appreciation of necro-sculpture
the necessary appreciation
of greek marbles?!

                          shveeden he-veen....
   *******...
                     how unfortunate of me
to appreciate necro-sculpture,
and also have to entertain
              two funeral processions...
                          if ever
there came a better appreciation
of wood,
       it sure as **** wouldn't come
in that sort of carving,
worth a depreciated form of door,
and instead, elaborate:
                               packaging.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
Cunning Linguist Jun 2014
Most urgent:
First we debase this worthless currency,
To usher in impending new world order
Imprisoning the globe
Then bathed in ignorance
(
Fluoridation* retarding cognitive development)

More the merrier but I transcend borders
because my mind has no barriers
Spinning diction with volatile volition
Enchanting your brain into submission

A cheese-grater to the pineal gland
Inhibiting ability to dream,
Impassioned creativity &
inquisitiveness at an impasse,
Expertly contrasting
Inquisition with inability to produce
dimethyltriptamine
Because the pacified sheep
can't sleep away their passiveness
Mass devastation for the kids & family!

Slam it down with a gra(in/m) of (bath) salt
Better yet, sugar and McDonald's
Let Ronald wash your mind in city water
Dang, there's nothing outrageous
about meandering naked
Lusting to eating someone's face
these days, is there?
(Passed out on the asphalt)

Who bares the fault,
Who cares the most?
I know you planned it Mr. President,
take your nuclear launch codes
Atop your throne with your Zionist cohorts
Fake a breath, then flip the switch
Now you am become Death
3.  
2.  
1...
Default the planet

Where's your ******* conviction?
Digest my words and eat your fat *** to death Amerika

Mind your fate
The Devil's gates
Just a step away

So take the chip beneath skin
6 6 6
Pick up sticks,
Gather a whole bundle
& Light yourself on fire (******)

Crackpot conspiracy
How can you not see
Our country's interests inherently
sit in the pockets of Nazis?

Don't even get me started on television;
hypnotized sheep
mass-media gives me aneurysms
Is the Lord truly your shepherd
or do you always stumble so blindly?

Military-Industrial-Machine
Gobbling resources at breakneck speed
CONSUME CONSUME CONSUME
FAT CAPITALIST PIGS!!

You make me feel like vomiting.

Simply waiting for the bomb
to come bump uglies with the ***** of Babylon

NOW WATCH ME GET
~ULTRASONIC~
AS I DROP
ATOMIC ELBOWS
FROM THE TOP ROPE
TO THE THROAT
IN HOPES YOU CHOKE


Leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
did I tell a ***** joke?
(Haha-ha)
GARGLE SOAP *****,
YOUR LIFE'S HOPELESS

If you like beer & NASCAR gimme a hell yeah!*  (hell yeah!)
If you like bacon & pole-dancing gimme a hell yeah!

**** THIS REPUBLIC
DYSTOPIAN,
FLOWING WITH
NECRO-DESPOTISM
A COY ACT OF VENTRILOQUISM,
ON THE WORLD'S STAGE

Tangled like a marionette in its strings,
An insect in spiderwebs
Festering infection
Just keep using band-aids ;)

Take these cocktails
of famine, death, pestilence + plague
Questionably mixed with a little apathy
and self-delusion it's all the rage

The miasma of death
Clung and hung to their silhouettes
like cigarettes
The hands of the clock
tick-tocking away the seconds toward oblivion
In which I carry, reckless abandonment

*insert some wrath of God,
explosions of nuclear & biblical proportions,
then apportion some cataclysm
Sit back,
Listen to the wailing screams of panicking children
******* lay waste to this rock already,
this organic prison
And each and every organism
that dwells within it's ecosystems


All this to bring
A radical new utopia
not for you & me
but them, the Elite
and their heathen families


Behold a new dawn;
On the verge of 100% synthetic conversion
Mind, body, & soul as pawns
Data corrupted, perverted by total divergence
Illusion of free-will ruptured and gushing,
until microscopic then atrophied

Misanthropic singularity
Quantum computing
and nanotechnology
Existentially creating cyborg zombies
& Making gods rise from machines
Kinda deus ex machina style,
But nothing Isaac Asimov could machinate even in his wildest dreams

To me, a fitting end to humanity
The Great White Ape silently weeps
Still waiting for a Messiah
*a refined repost of an earlier draft

If this poem provokes interest I strongly recommend you research the long term effects of water fluoridation, the role it plays in calcification of the pineal gland, as well as the role it played in **** concentration camps.
The **** agenda is alive and well carried out in the 20-21st century through puppet America.
Society is the world's grandest pyramid scheme.
Open your mind, and open your eyes
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Paperclip
B Jun 2021
Hello again-
Cover my bones with your cardigan
how long have you been a necro baby?
Cause' I've been dead since 2010.

Am I still cold?
when you wrap that woolen yellow round my back
Is my body old?
as you stroke blackberry lips with the breath that I lack.

Do you like the way
my eyes
- still alive -
never shut?
Someone can finally stand to look on you,
man of sin, skin, bore; a mutt.

Can you feel the dryness beneath my throat?
Watch the insects flee my face
and see the rot of teeth in the midst of groan.

Hello again.
Bramble crowned amongst worst of men.
How long have you been a necro, honey?
Cause' I'm dead as poet's pen.
A Simillacrum May 2019
At once, coffee and tea,
next second, scans.
Sweet, to hints of saccharine.
Burned bread is one
thing to dunk-- but diagrams?

Tunnel to the light, here
is the night. All
fall prey to life.
Tunnel to the light, here
falls the night. All
fall prey.

Now, you hasten.
I am still slow.
What will I do,
though, when you go?

Let's find out.
Sid Lollan Jun 2017
apathy, is me     with you,
                               i am
               the oceans,the rivers&lakes,the
        mountains&valleys,the atmosphere
the Earth,Jupiter,Venus,so on,
i am the Milky Way,Andromeda,all
                other galaxies known&unknown,all
                the stars&constellations,the asteroids,
                alien planets&blackholes all curled up in  
                 the fabric of the Universe
          but
nothing specific mind you
my dear
   ...with you

Love is philosophy
safe in its reach
apathy is me, with you
strung-out on the antidote
with you,
the sickness issa comforting creature;
       the aquamarine-moon cradles
       madness like a fetal daydream
—with you
      
love is scientific,
                boring in its dissection
       love is petty
                 in its honesty
apathy,is me.
             with you,i am un
                            being un
                           dulating b/t there
                         & there
           nowhere near here;

apathy, is m e
                 and y o u inna vacuum
        i am? with you—cut
                            me
                       T(in)WO;
apathy,is me, with me and you,
                i am
                body inna fever
                &
                (my) voice dis
                embodied
                inna tomb;
                send your fever meat thru a tube
                kiss&kiss my blistered
                     bliss
          we’re necro
                         philiacs
apathy, is me     with you
Testor Mar 2016
I feel your fingertips run over my back
skin inlaid with gold and rivulet rubies
i am afraid of my mortal body
growing into the coffin it was meant to be
but you dig into the pale canvas skin anyway
tattoo the words you love to say
sink nails into fragile flesh
(who will remember this ink from six feet under)
shovel the ashes into my collapsed torso
chest cavity fertile enough for grave hairs to grow
your letters and sighs rot in swirling stains
down these dying earthly drains
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
would you mind reading this and giving your thoughts? http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1533551/narcol... it's my boyfriends and i think its really good, Thx :)*

Matthew Conrad  5 minutes ago
i could write many things, the biggest constructive criticism these days concerning any output of poetry is rhyming, rhyming tends to disguise the poet in not digging deeper, in all honesty rhyming poetry is dead, instead there's a desperate need for a narrative, a captured narrative, rhyming doesn't really show you anything other than a strict technique of how poetry used to be written, a very neat Victorian standard of trying to not show your emotions; but to rhyme when talking about something as debilitating as narcolepsy feels like the problem is not really embraced, whereby the rhyming only embraces the routineness of the problem, like a swing... to and fro; if he could just do a carpe diem (seize the moment) rather than stress a whole lifetime's worth of it not changing by engaging in rhyme, for example: ask him to write about a dream, get him involved in remembering dreams rather than the dreary reality, after all... he spends a lot of time in the dream realm. but like i said, poetry these days is really trying to not use too much conscious technique of what was used in the past, not rhyming does not make poetry not-poetry, it just shoves grit into your eyes... creating a sense of spontaneity... plus you feel less constrained to be forcefully hitting an echo.

p.s. necro-lepsy... i'm awake all the time, and i feel i'm dead, the poor guy just sleeps a lot, i'm always dying.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
i've been feeding pork and beef to my cats
for months,
   and they love it (i'm wondering why
they don't drink the streotype disney fantasy
of also drinking milk - but apparently
cats are lactose intolerant, and it
gives them the *****)...
          but what i am worried about is this:
there's this uncooked chunk of beef lying in
the kitchen for me to eat...
                                                  it's there, teasing me,
and i'm actually contemplating about going all out
tartar on the thing...
                                        which comes from
what is equivalent to the mainstream forum base
of "virtue" signalling...
                      are there parasite embryos in this
piece of meat? probably? mad cow disease?
probably... i didn't get to go to the glasbury retreat
for almost two years because of the outbreak...
some people don't get to go to the glastonbury festival:
i'm actually considering lucky to have never been...
went?
             yadda yadda: equivalent to be there...
and then heidegger's ontological fetish for being...
whatever...
     it's a raw piece of beef...
                           and it's lying in the kitchen and
i'm supposed to eat it... but go completely tartar?
    it's not mince beef... it's lying here whole...
          it's not going to be a rare steak experience if
i actually do decide to eat it tartar style...
     cultural inheritence? ever experience a mongolian
horde? they did what i'm about to accomplish
with beef, not horse-meat...
                                                 blood-flesh...
sheer... i'm almost turning my teeth into culinary
items of a knife and fork...
   i know i will eat this piece of raw beef meat,
i know i will... because i know that raw aquatic meat
has more chances of containing parasite embryos
than mammalian flesh...
   well... there will be potatoes and broadbean
stalks on the side to add to the flavour... or as some say:
roughage (or fibre).
        but it's the erotica of eating raw beef
that reminds me of the time i "ate" a ****...
                          hmmpf... the perfumes and juices
and aura...
                  the way it overcomes the fetish of suckling
at a sweating armpit...
                             there are gradations in lymph
juices... a person who had a skin (ahem) "disease"
known as acne, and that person being a male,
is twice as like (of the totality of being a person) to enjoy
phem-la... i don't have a proper noun for it,
i hope someone coins the phrase... phemlolo?
               i never knew that ******* only applied to
woman on man... i thought there was a libra in that
definition in reverse... reverse of *******
while ******* a woman? stick your face in the part
your're about to **** with your genitals...
        i slobbered into that part of a woman, teased it with
my nose and spoke so many silent vowels with
the waggling tongue... that i evidently had to become
a part-time eroticist: and that's apparently the shameful
area of the art of writing;
               but you know: as you do in rome...
             now comes the biblical ******...
"forbidden" fruit? that's obvious... it's staring you
in the face!
                          variations of revisionists that cut off
foreskins (excesses of genital parts)...
         it's oral ***... that later translates into
                                          voiced anger, dialectics...
and to think: to state great principles with that part
of the body, and then reduce it to oil up female
genitals? worth it.
                   i really have to reduce it to that,
the mere thought of eating a raw piece of meat that's
in the necro spectrum and will not ooze out
anything equivalent to an aphrodite's perfume
    is brooding over me toward the shrine of thanatos...
but then performing oral *** on a woman's
genital parts is twice as revealing, and taking pleasure
from it? homosexuals do the same, or
are equipped with the same materials:
  it really is a house of cards,
                               the king up and the king down...
yet those who perform this "obscene" act mentioned
           in the book of genesis... of that "tree's" fruit you
will not eat: look... moses didn't speak slave tongue of
the hebrews... and of the people that spoke moses'
tongue, you'd need the equivalent of a rosetta stone...
but now you need three more language variations
to "understand" that's happening...
    probably english... i guess russian... and i'm trying
to think of a third... german?
      but it fallatio... what of the feminine opposite...
and some might dispute this: but i did eat a camomile
in harlow, ****** out of my head...
                              asking the police to take me home
in one of their vans at the end of the night;
fun times in england, with bulgar prostitutes:
who lie they're romanian and then speak to one another
using the cyrillic term haraшo / dobře / o.k.
             still, the idea of what is to come:
eating a steak of meat that's not minced, tartar-style
transcends a literary fascination with *******
literature (akin to harold norse's biography
******* angel) - it will simply remind me of
having once "eaten" out a very flavoursome piece of
****; and then engaged in butchering its face
to contort into O and Ah.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when they said their **** against Marcus Aurelius
then they said a thing about Commodus -
and then i watched  the blueish woad:
as said the heart have earned the fork in road
or the forevermore for the upcoming usurpation -
     blunt grey admittedly:
all jotted a count for,
                the 5 good Caesars -
          O my home, that's Scootland -
        a land i neared to: but never had -
          when no noun be an Ascot toward a verb of nearing
a had helter-skelter off a saddle - later said: a bed.
             oh Scotland:
such that via venture into Hardian
a tongue could be spoken less!
   spoken less and thought of more!
and you could say aye to a yee - toy a princess
toward a girth of a robin's beak bullying a sunrise
into a cry... as parallel toward a mamma mia or
akin to fudge and marshmallow chuckling chastity
chewed for that "necessary" calorie arithmetic!
or runny gooey choc: then i be then i be the one for
hunting fat carps in a lake rather than
the kingly rivers of no return -
                 or how it was all right back then:
are you man enough to be staged?!
oh but when the void is but a yawn - what then?
what care to say profound things?
               honestly: none, whatsoever.
then you turn and say perfumed things,
rather than profundi necro - via
de profundis: or the profound contra of
                      dead profundity -
resurgence of the Oscar Wilde cosmopolitan.
          as some said, merely: piglet,
     but then some say: rightly prozac pink -
blue to ******, and white as salt, as sugar,
         as *******, as Colombian death-opera.
           the dead are profound,
agreeably they are, bound to be found,
        they're a little bit obvious,
      X always marks the spotty acne bound parishioner
readied for liturgy -  and isn't that a cherishable act?
  pay the proper price of pray...
                       still, the adaptation of Macbeth
with typescript Shakespeare agonising ****** tongue
  sho' sho' short and all the better for it - was:
and if ever there was a home for me,
if ever,
           it was neither England nor Poland...
it was somehow Scotland, somehow too the remote
Scandi Faroes Islands, a very much moochie *******
stance on Verstappen (v-necked sh'tappen 'appen) -
               i still think of woad as blue,
and Commodus as one of the five righteous
emperors who did good...
     yet counter is not unrepresented - surely
not kindred of Caligula - woad is still synonymous
with blue in patch-fazed sloppy when it was indeed
tempered with intentional tartan of purring purple;
did i say something profound? obviously not...
did i was anything at all? obviously i did...
did i say more than the wind rummaging a tree
to see autumnal revisionism in lost colour
stemming from green? i d' see indeed!
    an epitaph as more than my trinity name
and by date more of residing worth to
gain breath and so forthcoming take to losing it?
if not as failed individuals didn't we practice
the clarity of procreation for dietary existentialism
being necessarily practice, in light of the need
of not having failed? then too no motherly motto
strand of thought to listen to: or a gym membership
not being joined: as much in need
of criticism, as so in need of actual members -
       for the laconic treatment of words
and the high-notion of advert -
           from " " capsules of the 20th century,
through to the shortly lived ~, or question of
ambiguity,
            into the ***** of what's necessarily there:
           of a question, that's a ~question,
that's a "question", that's actually a -question-
           or how prefixation became exaggerated:
or how every single blonde-**** reader
started to behave like an english teacher
and did the herr salute toward getting excited when
punctuating their own punctuation was a
bit: overshadowed - kindly put: underused.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.

wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.

  that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
      there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
  one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
    no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
            it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
     i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
      i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
            i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
       i might ******* in the meantime,
  i might pick-my-nose...
    but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
    i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
                 maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
     but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
    did i see it proper?
   if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
     i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.

     - the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -

- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.

Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;

science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.

Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.

Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.

Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.

With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?

The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.

Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:

   what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
   - and what do you call a man who earns
a living  from old women? Rydzyk.

I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?

How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.

**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);

note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.

believe me when i say:
     i will always trust the turk the barber...
   i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber

if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
      because?
    please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
     that imaginary forest into a british library!

i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
             or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
    a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
   while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
   or as the ancient saying goes:

siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
       a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...

ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
  ein zweite eisenvorhang...

     if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
          me using english grammar...

ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
      bottom up or bottom down?
      it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
  in such examples.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.a grand biblical event could be happening, it could very well be happening... but then you could be like me, treating a toothache with cloves... sieving through the smiths' oeuvre (because when it came to 1980s music, it was always about the cure and depeche mode)... or getting your anaesthetic watching stockholm requiem... robotic or perhaps just zoological swedes treating the case of: unwanted... like a heart-attack is merely a murmur... i imagine the germans in concentration camps being burdened with their trained sadism... sickly sweet from the crescendo of inhumanity... anything but this swedish anemia... this "supposed to be human"... perhaps it should be called the Moebius-Stockholm Syndrome... no... i have no impeding wish to go back to visit Sweden... i'm sure to find more water in a rock... i'm sure to find more sunsets if i were to go blind... come summer and the air would drop temperature come the desired hours of the spectacle... i quiet fancy the nazis to have been burdened with too much of life, the mammalian hot-bloodedness... i can almost imagine them being unable to bypass their erectile-dysfunctions with those deeds of theirs... than these ivory pickles of men... not even an event of biblical proportions would wake these people if their thespians are so... morbidly without a grace of a statue standing over a grave... the facade of flesh... when i can peer at a necro-associated-sculpture and pave my way toward "imagining" something intent on life within it... if the swedish thespians are so... less rummaging... i can't quiet imagine the real-life swede... perhaps they're just autistic? or... let's be kind... solipsistic? well... if only being invaded was something of a cure... as Knausgård mentions... i wonder why there's this sudden rise in scandinavian romanticism: genesis... i would rather trace a backward "plan" from sanskrit and to the great mother siberia... daydreams and ineffectual markings of... these days words of most importance are more ascribed to... the sort of paper you will not write on... escape from sobibor... i can imagine being exhausted by having to perform so much sadism... rather than, say, calmly brewing a cup of tea... it must have been so tiresome to be trained as monsters... of course: exceptions... it's just tiresome through-and-through... buying mania... for shoes... for umbrellas... for obscure details that might allow any general improvement of life... singing lazily as morrissey... did... if the man is to become a pariah... hell: not as bad as a persona non grata: the guns of navarone only come out with the proper latin... the concentration camp "workers"... the salt-miners of the *****... of no affair to make a sympathy... but if you've just watched a swedish thespian production... in unwanted... stockholm requiem... more like a Moebius-Stockholm Syndrome... you'd turn to watch something of something clearly tortured... by torturing... from above: crisp clean napkins and all those anecdotes over dinner while ingeting champagne in flutes... there's no need to make this "look" good... this is still about morrissey, though... tired of the cure and depeche mode... the current craze for biblical sized proportion of events... apparently it's true: absolutely everything is MADE IN CHINA... well... at least no one's dying with boils, spores... weird mushrooms growing out of their armpits... or the leprechauns of leprosy taking a bite... point being... i don't think this current state of affairs proves that my fellow man... could stomach... very little these days... then again... i could get away with this: humanisation of concentration camp guards... because i feel completely robotic having watched swedish acting... i'm looking for the most worthwhile available alternative... when you can't just pet a cat... as william burroughs noted... you can keep a cat, feed it, pet it... but at the end of the month you need to gauge its eyes out to enter the ᛋᛋ... so uber... by the way... why is there no D in armanen runes? hard to make sense of a future language of: the man in the high castle with only 18 letters... that's 4 short of the hebrew alphabet... clearly *******... 24 in greek... 23 in roman... 26 in modern english... 41 letters in the glagolitic alphabet... yes: graphemes and all - all those diacritical passions... 32 in modern polish... early germanic had 24 letters... but the armanen runes? only 18... *******... so much for ***** von List or what the third ***** germans read... the wrong sort of neopaganism: esp. if you're about to... ******* about 6 letters... you can't exactly have a language with a bare minimum of... 22 letters... which is a lie... ha ha... the hebrews have 27 letters... but their vowels are like diacritical marks elsewhere... "hidden"... it's the basic prefix rule of o(mega) and e(psilon)... or for that matter a-lpha and b-eta... well... there's the ******* siamese adams (א) and (ע)... b(ב), g(ג), d(ד), h(ה), v(ו), z(ז), ch(ח), t(ט), y(י), k(כ), L(ל), m(מ), n(נ), s(ס), p(פ), ts(צ), q(ק), r(ר), sh(ש), "t"... so that's the ******* siamese adams and the timmy and timothy t(ט) and "t"(ת)... but there are five over letters... kametz (a), chirek (i), tzere (e) cholem (o) and shurek (u)... although... they're not treated as letters... but akin to the acute diacritical mark when s becomes ś... or when a c grows a cedilla and becomes ç... or when an A grows a tail and becomes Ą... in hebrew that's already exposed... sh(ש)in is a caron s (Š)... and ch(ח)et is a caron c (Č)... no... if you're looking at hebrew as i am... gobsmacked... because they're playing crossword puzzles by merely writing... how their vowels wear niqabs... and are "not included"... you can't have a functioning civilization without a bare minimum of 22 letters... which is a lie... the hebrews just treat their vowels are diacritical markers... they have 27... the standard was given by the greeks... 24... and of those that are, 24... you could say... ΦΘ: phi and theta: F... OΩ: omicron and omega: is that pop and ****? equivalent? there's you real 22 letter alphabet... which includes all the vowels... ξ(ks), χ(ch), ψ(ps) - otherwise the letter that makes π a patent surd... so ψ is the aesthetic variation of σomething else... only differentiated when written... not necessarily when spoken - so you could technically... let's leave it at that.

they're saying about ibuprofen -
whatever the science: how the virus is latching
onto it and is sustained by it -
quack-theory or a barking up the wrong
the tree -
                    last time i heard an ibuprofen
is best for a toothache -
                  if only life... could be more monumental
that living through this mass hysteria:
or lack of it thereof...
       with this most irritating pain -
          this loose filling... there's a pandemic raging
the supermarkets are running out of bread...
there's no sugar and no flower...
       no bread: no circuses of a football match...
no real gambling involving 22 ballerinas,
horses or dogs...
                                  and here i am...
more bothered with a toothache...
                           what remedy, what remedy?
last time i heard...
                   they use a base chemical ingredient
from cloves for all the anaesthetics in dentistry...
last time i heard...
   if you put a clove on the ill tooth...
                       gently bite down...
                    one down... slobbered...
                 the saliva will open up the remedy...
from this humble clove...
         well... so much for merely culinary
purposes...
                                   indeed... a toothache
lessened... by a clove...
                        now for that whiskey disinfectant
to wipe clean the mouth...
         then some cheap ***** mixed with
aleo vera gel for that oh so precious disinfectant
that... evaporates when smeared onto
the hands...
                 i could be making money from this...
as i heard: bottles are selling for 60+ quid...
n'ah... i like being integrated for my already
miniature role of self with... integrity...
the knitty-gritty of honesty...
                                    who would have thought...
that cloves can alleviate toothache;
after all... there's that whale that swallowed
Jonah to fish for... in this current climate:
      of cough sneeze and woozy;
better still... an oeuvre of the smiths...
           because i never really got into them...
now's a good time like any other...
            girlfriend in a coma...
                            pretty girls make graves...
                     some girls are bigger than others...
            oddly... the music when watching
empty buses plough the streets -
             when empty streets become...
arcades for the winds...
                               and... they are not missing
those arthritis prone in-mid-life joggers...
              well... it's still the right sort of time...
to head on high... and find entertainment in thinking.
Dustin Holbrook Oct 2012
Empty
Inward
Outside the inside takes the over the top
Keep up the up work
Out the kinks
Livin' the dream above ground
More abover than above
Supra-above
Über-above
Hyper-everoverabove
Concrete creeks with side-winder dreams
Above cracks to keep the windows' hollows
Not open.
Never open.
Above open
‖Again‖
Lysergic acid rhythms
Circadia, Dustin (where is that? Here. what time is it? Now.)
I emptied this and that and found the Atlantic ******* Ocean
But only the ephemeral waves
Upon waves of æther
---necro-above---
Ecstasy of the senses
Only after all
The nothingness opens like a wrapper
From whence it came
(What is the "us"?)
Can the we join the us and still get along with them.
Where does the Earth and the water come from
And why does it sojourn here?
Lexie Jan 2023
I am not my body
But it is my house
A hundred years from now
When it is a vacant home
Will you rummage through my rubble
Sift through my fallen shingles
I fear to be plundered
As men often do
As sinners often joke
Of renting women’s bodies
Yet, they do not pay the price
I am a haunting house
I am not an open door
Will you not respect my frame
For the soul it once contained
Or is the time after I part with life
Squatters rights
EgoFeeder Mar 2014
If one is one
And two is four
Do daylight flies
Eat the dusk pies?
Share their lore
Just for some fun?

What could a story be
If language was a buzz
Like this tongue we speak
A kiss from lip to cheek
A tale of what once was
The love of he and she

Romance veiling boredom
Happy lives in smiles missed
They passed by slowly
With necro-eyes wide and owly
Getting high on to-do-lists
Pretty people say hey and um

Then death makes it's round
He melts our heads together
Into a lasting human regret
Haunts where lovers met
Leaving nothing but rainy weather
In hellish ends and heaven frowns
Onoma Oct 2016
Necro night, obsessive polish...
smooth as a piano's torso.
A man profanes the vested
interests of his body with starry
eyeshot.
Stuffing the pig of non being
with a star's nonlinear light.
The rapid fire vexations of a
king invade him, unspecified
bidding must be carried out.
He sees the world scurry,
sevitude's hand and foot--the
glutted pig of his non being
belches tremulously.
The horror of full emptiness
drives him from star to star, his
subjects multiply to appease
the royal malcontent.
He tears into curses cast at God,
the king blacks out.
The night sits encased in a man's
room, ants of darkness crawl on
him...he lets out a sigh...then begs
sleep.
zebra Nov 2021
THE SECRET RITUAL:
Irrespective of the wonderful *** you might have with others, or any ideals you may have about who, when, and where to engage sexually, sometimes the *** that you have with yourself gives you something impossible to achieve with another.

To be specific: what I’m speaking of are the internal mental constructs of performative ****** acts that are unrestricted in the imaginative world, and that one would never be able to consider in real time. Those masturbatory shadows of the deep and deeply ****** that few are able to acknowledge about themselves, and certainly remain unwilling to talk about with someone they maybe intimate with, for fear of its destructive impact on the relationship.

A shape of language
for the secrets of the body
for the secrets of the mind
in the flow of matter
physical and etheric
cyber chronicles of ambulated hunger
the cult of the body.

YOUR SEXULITY IS SACRED TO YOU, NOT SACRED FROM YOU:

Obviously moral sensibilities and the limits of temporal life dictate what we may do. We may be imaginative, bizarre, freaky and incredibly *****, but we are not crazy, at least not all of us, yet that doesn’t mean those shadowy ****** denizens of the deep don’t bathe in the great fathoms of our respective subconscious abyss.

My darkest desires
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious.

THE PARAPHILIAS:
“Paraphilia is the experience of intense ****** arousal to atypical objects, situations, fantasies, behaviors, or individuals.”
Current data supports that about one out of every 6 people, irrespective of gender or ****** preference, experience some kind of paraphilia.
Here is a list of paraphilias that is a focus of ****** interest:

Andromimetophilia: Trans men.
Anililagnia: Attraction by young men to older women.
Anthropophagolagnia: ****** and then cannibalizing another person.

Anthropophagy: Ingesting human flesh.
Apotemnophilia: Being an amputee.
Asphyxiophilia: Being asphyxiated or strangled.
Attraction to disability: People with one or more physical disabilities.
Autagonistophilia: Being on stage or on camera.
Autassassinophilia: Being in life-threatening situations.
******* asphyxiation: Self-induced asphyxiation, sometimes to the point of near unconsciousness.
Autogynephilia: ****** arousal of a biological male in response to the image of himself as female.
Auto-haemofetishism: Bleeding oneself (does not involve ingestion of blood). Type of autovampirism. [contradictory]
Autonepiophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an infant.
Autopedophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a child.
Autoplushophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a plush or anthropomorphized animal.
Autovampirism/Vampirism: The image of one’s self in the form of a vampire. Involves ingesting or seeing one’s own blood.
Autozoophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an animal or anthropomorphized animal.
Biastophilia/Raptophilia: ****** a person, possibly consensual **** fantasy.
Capnolagnia: Smoking.
Chremastistophilia: Being robbed or held up.
Chronophilia: Partners of a widely differing chronological age.
*******: Feces; also known as ****, scatophilia or fecophilia.
Coulrophilia: Clowns, jesters, and mimes.
Crurophilia: Legs.
Dacryphilia: Tears or crying.
Diaper fetishism: Diapers; considerable overlap with paraphilic infantilism.
*******: Trees.
Emetophilia: *****.
Eproctophilia: Flatulence.
****** asphyxiation: Asphyxia of oneself or others.
Erotophonophilia: ******, often of strangers (also known as dacnolagnomania).
Exhibitionism: Exposing one’s genitals to unsuspecting and nonconsenting others.
Feederism: Eating, feeding, and weight gain.
Formicophilia: Being crawled on by insects.
Forniphilia: Turning a human being into a piece of furniture.
Frotteurism: Rubbing against a non-consenting person.
Gerontophilia: Elderly people.
Gynandromorphophilia, Gynemimetophilia: Transgender women.
Hematolagnia: Drinking or looking at blood.
Heterophilia: Idealization of heterosexuality and/or people who are “straight-acting”, especially by non-heterosexual people.
Hoplophilia: Firearms, guns.
Hybristophilia: Criminals, particularly those who committed cruel or outrageous crimes.
Infantophilia: ******* with a focus on children less than five years old; a recently suggested term that is not in general use.
Kleptophilia: Stealing; also known as kleptolagnia.
Klismaphilia: Enemas, arousal and enjoyment in receiving, administering, or both.
Lactophilia: Breast milk.
Liquidophilia: Immersing genitals in liquids.
Macrophilia: Giant beings; the imagined growth of beings.
Maschalagnia: Armpits.
Mazophilia: Female *******.
Masochism: Suffering or humiliation; being beaten, bound or otherwise abused.
Maiesiophilia: Pregnant women.
Mechanophilia: Cars or other machines; also “mechaphilia.”
Melolagnia: Music.
Menophilia: *******.
Metrophilia: Poetry.
Microphilia: Very small people or small body parts.
Morphophilia: Particular body shapes or sizes.
Mucophilia: Mucus.
Mysophilia: Dirtiness, soiled or decaying things.
Narratophilia: Obscene words.
Nasophilia: Noses.
Navel fetishism: Navel.
Necrophilia: Corpses.
Objectophilia: Specific inanimate objects.
Oculophilia: Eyes and activities directly relating to and/or involving the eyes. Voyeurism does not meet classification for this term.
Odaxelagnia: Biting or being bitten.
Olfactophilia: Smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the ****** areas (as from breath, *****, feces, flatulence, etc.).
*******: Arousal from having a full bladder and/or wetting oneself, or from seeing someone else experiencing a full bladder and/or wetting themself.
Paraphilic infantilism: Dressing or being treated like a baby, also known as autonepiophilia or “adult baby syndrome”; considerable overlap with diaper fetishism.
Partialism: Specific, non-genital body parts.
*******: Prepubescent children, also spelled paedophilia.
Peodeiktophilia: Exposing one’s *****.
Pedovestism: Dressing like a child.
Podophilia: Feet.
Pictophilia: ******* or ****** art, particularly pictures.
Piquerism: Piercing the flesh of another person, most commonly by stabbing or cutting the body with sharp objects.
Plushophilia: Stuffed toy animals (“plushies”).
Pygophilia: Buttocks.
Salirophilia: Soiling or dirtying others.
****** fetishism: Non-living objects.
****** sadism: Inflicting pain on others.
Shoe fetishism: Shoes, such as high heels.
Somnophilia: Sleeping or unconscious people.
Sophophilia: Learning.
Sthenolagnia: Muscles and displays of strength.
Stigmatophilia: Body piercings and tattoos.
Symphorophilia: Witnessing or staging disasters such as car accidents.

Telephone scatologia: Obscene phone calls, particularly to strangers; also known as telephonicophilia and scatophiliac.
Teratophilia: Deformed or monstrous people. The term is also sometimes used in a more literal sense (from ancient Greek τέρας, teras, meaning monster) for attraction to monstrous mythical and fictional creatures such as werewolves.
Toucherism: Touching an unsuspecting, non-consenting person with the hand.
Toxophilia: Archery.
Transvestic fetishism: Wearing clothes associated with the opposite ***; also known as transvestism.
Transvestophilia: A transvestic ****** partner.
Trichophilia: Hair.
Troilism: Observing one’s partner engaged in ****** activities with another person.
Urolagnia: Urination, particularly in public, on others, and/or being urinated on. Also referred to as “water sports”.
*******: The idea of one person or creature eating or being eaten by another; usually swallowed whole, in one piece; also known as vore.
Voyeurism: Watching others while naked or having ***, generally without their knowledge; also known as scopophilia or scoptophilia.
Wet and messy fetishism: Messy situations, including, but not limited to, being pied, slimed or covered in mud.
*******: Animals.
Zoosadism: Inflicting pain on animals, or seeing animals in pain.
~~~~~
A REAL-LIFE PROFILE OF A WOMAN ACUTELY AWARE OF HER DARK FETISHY SIDE
Primary Fantasy: Dehumanization, objectification. I love the idea of being kidnapped and converted into meat.
(Fantasy obviously!!)
I also enjoy preservation, taxidermy, dollification, weird stuff like that!
Other Fetish Interests:
Hucow
Medical
Lab scenes
Necro
Morgue
Hanging
Lethal injection

MAKE THE UNCONSCIOUS CONSCIOUS:
There is much written in-depth psychology about ****** pathologies caused by repressed or shadowy disowned parts of ourselves and how those neglected forces may determine unwanted fate. Shame and self-deception is not our friend. Know yourself.

Pleasure is so close to ruinous waste
nakedness wrecks decency
degradation feeds the bonfire of hunger
and the wound of desire bleeds away within

leave nothing
but the bleeding edge
ruin me she said.
~
Beyond hearts mastery
hullabaloo crime scenes
like night jungles
of tooth and claw
in corridors of neuron ghosts
while **** licking succubae
*** livid pornographic hieroglyphs
fed by the dreaded
excesses of testosterone
towards some ruined
blood spotted
hanky-panky *******
just to remind me of you
and how it hurt just so
and how you loved me for it
whoever you are.
....
https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/the-secret-***-life-we-keep-from-our-selves-7f227dbc6c4a
Rochelle Foles Feb 2019
she walks in rain clouds




she walks in rain clouds
on bright crisp winter days



the night
                         and it’s terrors            still haunting


                                    the infantwomanchild


innocence          a foreign term
ravaged by.                               that which cannot be.
          
                  u .   t.   t.  e.    r.   e.   d.  



          __________


held captive

     in the horrors of darkness that plague her

      despite the rays that warm her face      her hands are icicles
                                                         ­                   protruding from appendages
                                                      ­                      blue and veiny
                                                           ­               

                                                ­                               nearly necro
                             in both body and soul

               as neither dawn nor day
                 hold solace       their strength sapped by the all too real battering

                    of the loathsome black hours that trap them
                      

          _______­_


consumed

        in the hangover
              of fear and remembrance
       she looses her way                 on a path she has trodden many many times
             but never left a crumb trail


         ___________


solitude frightens her
        as does silence            the demons that lie in wait there
        terrify her
                        to her core         she restlessly seeks out companionship

                                                    busies herself with distractions


           futile attempts to vanquish
                     the memories that plague the stillness



              
__________


­
she walks in rain clouds
      on bright crisp winter days
        
            tenaciously holding on to her umbrella
rochelle foles
urge
urge to slit to destroy to ****
all these empty voids i need to fill
missing these emotions i used to feel
weird sensation in the dead cells
necro
nero
a fallen god of death
fall from grace
tear down your face
smear it all over the place
i bathe in it
your blood
be mine

it's your time to shine, baby
Koumeterium  Messolonghi  - CHAPTER I

After sleeping for a thousand years the current of the major solar star fell on my face. I slept, not smiling at the crowds that buried me smearing my only bones. The search for that shouting made me celebrate the porous and fuzzy bodies that fell on my scratchy fingers, delighting my humble tributes to the beetles that accompanied me to direct my gaze to the sepulchral vaults near me. Some were filled with an augural awakening semblance; like the one that begins today, with the ominous words that moved from today, to the beat of my gaunt jaws. Among tombstones of dinosaur floral emeralds, in an autumn blue glade, birds were rubbing themselves on the edges of the sculpted stones. Meanwhile, I felt the mustard leaves riding on the dried carnation leaves. She looked at them dressed in white, even the slab of Drestnia, which closed her senses, remained behind bars with her hands crossed, as if evolving with her body to attend a new Era of geography and different technology. In her chest the living vertiginous wind would run, until the corporeal appearance in the light of the Koumeterium of Mesolongui; that hosted more than a thousand years ago, Etrestles de Kalavrita.

This immense palace and flat place, is nothing more than an asylum, where the worst plague originated that began the death of Lucifer's sentinels, which he dropped on this place with their beautiful golden cloaks; whose satagenesis the burning ground would rise to the ten fossilized cemeteries, under that of Mesolongui. I walked slowly with my old body dragging me, by the tenth floor, and that the adolescent pointed stones would break my nails; as if they were claws of a mammal trapped by the lava of a volcano. In each advance, the armor of my last patriotic fight would awaken in me, and that of its moving to observe how the parents worked through the conglomerate of castes, fighting in subterranean inclemencies.

Tease them when they wake up...:

Etrestles ...: "Which of all the columns erected is capable of opening all the columns built in the pavilion of these masses without shapes or colors ..., only the diaphragm of the vitalizing Aeolian lung of my reverie, is who I think I would...? To all those who are on the run and trapped under the soil of Mesolongui, I bring you good news ... not in a thousand years has her beautiful body been damaged. Since my birth in Ayia Lavra, he saw me being buried for the ninth time, in the fossilized Ninth Cemetery. Who’s Archpriest with his holy oils slipped across my partition, pretending to be a water dance engendered at the bottom of the Ionic. Between the arcades of the temple my mother Vitabion ran through the columns; to the outside to bathe in the sacra-vertebral water of my baptisms past. They were my past lives providing with the Auriga their entrusted previous lives. And you Mother ..., one day you tested the weight of my recycling ...?! There you, comrades of wars, of sacrosanct pilgrimages, of the enormous steamy baths of civilization in the Olympic and Equestrian fields. To you, who live here, just like my death in my last life at the hands of a Spartan soldier? You, blood of my blood, I feel your need speak within me...? And in the last Drestnia, which for its sixth uprising from here from Mesolonghi, between bars sealed your tomb to indeterminate the Hellenic situation. I have had to drink from the thorn resin, to speak to you from here, with my bony hands to touch the others just as yours are...Drestnia, from my still preserved rib, I will be reborn by appeasing the domain of collective thought and Willful, preventing your freedom. From my rib you will return to your present life, from whose cold, the flower seeds skeletonized the perimeter of your life ..., Etrestles went with all of them towards the interior of the Koumeterium of Mesolongui, towards about eighteen hundred meters in a zenith direction”

They went to constitute the Council of the Necro-Messolonghi, to define the minutes. --- While the music with its winds adorned the arrival ---. Just at the moment, the Auriga arrived with his blacksmiths; they came to free Drestnia, with his multconsciousness. What happiness for Etrestles, he ran through the underground pavilions, until the oldest Koumeterium, the first fossilized. Where thousands of Years, with numerous species now extinct, Etréstles came to give them the good news loudly!  Meanwhile, the Council attacked the promulgation of sprinkling the divine vine of the Dodecanese fields, in the seedling of Markos Botsaris.

Judge ...: With my limp, I have to advocate the reintegration of the outstanding Markos Botsaris, who once freed us from the Turkish occupation!

Ashurbanipal ...: My Syrian reign, full of dynamism, will place on its jambs the powerful image of the South-West Wind, in honor of its victorious exit in Kalidona.

Etrestles was just walking Drestnia to the Council, and thousands of harmoniums undermined doubts of the lordship that invoked the hero. Everyone stands up, the Council at their octagonal table, with their assistants, leaving the vine glasses empty to welcome the last surviving female of the first Koumeterium of Mesolongui.

The harmoniums, like Apollonian rubies, enlarged the dimensions of the cave vaults. --- They sit down and the music ends ---. Drestnia with some leaves on her shoulders adorned the new stage, where she would go to sit for the new becoming.

Asurbanipal ...: To you Oh gifts, of the Universe, you are well received at this Council, where one day they brought me to praise my contributions from the entrance of Humanity! But the topic for today will be awaiting the arrival of Markos Botsaris , just like you who have reached this end, thanks to the generous Auriga.

Auriga ...: The ***** of the wax of Orion; Eternal fuel, gave strength to my peers steeds, to rise above distant lands, to arrive with my Blacksmiths to unsolder the bars of Drestnia.

Blacksmith...: Our eyes were closed every hundred kilometers, but Eurydice with her calendar, made the aphelion bring us closer to this feat.

Echoes ...: Dust ..., Myth ..., Dream ..., Illusion ..., they have swirled the gallop of millennia, dressing the Squall in gray...! What dark words illuminate the hopes, only down here, well known is that there is much to do, since there is more activity than on the surface...!

Judge ...: Etrestles, Drestnia ..., past, present, or future will speak of you. You Drestnia ...!, What a long dream ..., you challenged your gothic vision, so as not to move your neck towards your neighbors , beings embedded in the first fossilized Koumeterium.

Vitabión ...: Mesolongui honors all the cemeteries in the world, where their loved ones go to see them. But they do not know that there is more dynamic life here than in their own world.

Menopausal Woman ...: My husband cries on my slab, because his infidelity caused a venereal disease in me, which today has eliminated me from his life. He cries and cries for my ****** descent, everything for being with another woman condemned me.

A curtain rises and Funebrio comes out; priest who concelebrates all recent deaths...

Funebrio ...: Woman when you cry my black clothes, black tears cry...! Your husband remains static, without movement, despite so many kilometers of his free will. Out of habit, the forbidden, the tempting is done. But the rebellious Mother Nature pours out her punishments on us.

Staktos ...: Friends who kiss each other, where have you deposited the ideations...? Or do you give to scatter everywhere the osculation that satisfies other mouths.

Etrestles ...: I ask you all to prepare yourself to do your job well. So too, with your prayers, I wish you to hold my mischievous heart at this hour, for the arrival of Drestnia.
The Judge asked to adjourn the meeting, so that the recess could later discuss the strategies for future deaths.

Gravedigger ...: Mr. Judge in the step of the eastern sector, they have buried an architect. We could ask for your cooperation, for the Botsaris monument.

Judge ...: All in good time. Way to go, does anyone want something to narrow down...? --- Drestnia raised her hand and asked...:

Drestnia ...: With Etrestles in the last minutes of our lives, who will pass away once said monument is finished, where will our souls who here in Mesolongui remain temporarily ...?

Judge ...: The insane generals of wars will lead to
Etrestles to the field of Lepanto, because there are stubborn souls that defy the defeated souls ..., and as for you, the benevolent Auriga will take your soul of colors of the sunset, to divide the megatons of the Romantics, who together with Ghiberti, on some trunks of beautiful minerals, they will anchor their best verses and hyperesthetic longings to overshadow their collective suicides.

At the end of the session, the attendees leave, and Drestnia and Etrestles go to the dock of the celestial napa that with its golden shine awaited them, to set sail for Tangier and Morocco. In his ships were the concurrent, Etrestles led his ribs wife towards a navigation that guided the sound of the oars that were the femurs of a Diplodocus.

Drestnia ...: When I am next to the liquid lake lord, I see the need for me to grieve ..., I have a sorrow that I want to be part of you.

Etrestles ...: In Kalavrita, when I was an infant for the fifth time, my father would read me tender stories, and I would ask him if they were from a famous writer, to which he replied that they were from an ordinary man.
The stories were about some spells about pain, one very mundane connected with something transcendent. An example is the Toothache Spell ...: “It dates back a thousand years to. c., the Assyrians attributed toothache to beginning in the Universe and ending with a toothache...:

After Anu had created the sky,
and that heaven had created earth,
and that the earth had created the rivers,
and that the rivers had created the canals,
and that the canals had created the quagmire,
and that the quagmire had created the worm,
the Worm came crying to Shamash,
shedding his tears before Ea ...:
"What are you going to give me so I can drink?
"I'll give you a dried fig and an apricot"
“What good will a dried fig and an apricot do me?
Lift me up, and between my teeth and gums allow me to reside ...”

For having said this, Oh Worm, may Ea punish you with the power of his hand!

Treatment ...: You have to mix second grade beer ..., and oil; you have to recite the spell on the medicine three times and then apply it to the tooth.

You see my Drestnia, you will see that it is possible that I have a spell just like my father gave me, and I can heal you of that pain. For you, that day will come when we will part, and the spell will be to bear the pain that will be beneficial for both of us. My rib is my sorrow, hence my last hope with smelly acid gases, I erased the invitality of you behind the bars.
Koumeterium  Messolonghi  - Chapter I
zebra Nov 2019
Feet (Pisces) and death (Pluto) remain central to in born necro romantic impulses at the point of birth for certain souls.
Pisces rules the feet and it is classically speaking placed in the 12th house of loss isolation, slavery and spirit.

prepare for death
arms wide like a big hug
bend down low

a spreading wide ritual of slow submission
to better beg with kisses grotesque
as her jaw juts upwards

glassy eyed pupils posses me

i kiss the curving bottoms
of her tender feet
and lovely beaten skin
wrapped in cotton gauze
to sop the blood
shed like rip tides

puncturing  just to
watch the trembling

​scream my love
like charred dolls
in ribbon red molasses
how tender and desperate
as hemic tears
fall like prayers down
pink tremulous arches

i break you my darling
gashed pierced and scummed
with a vice of knives and strangling wire
till you give way
marrow and brick

my brave girl
in swaddled jack knife stockings
sacrificed
to the shapless groves
in a garland of lust
insane for the  destination
of glistening cocked Pharos

her lust
a moon struck gush
in a wind of spinning
fog and blood
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
to unfold an umbrella in a room, while it rains the gallons of chopin trickling tickles in piano form, and a monsoon of the decade's worth of memoriam to postscript.*

hide it between hiding
an unfolding umbrella
in solid space -
          call it what you want,
in americanist perfectionism,
  and call it a "freedom of speech":
"free": as long as i say it!
glossing over iran,
i'll only double stab at
the effort...
             can't bother-****
    to call it red or call it pink...
  i'll just call it anyways....
imagine if a bull sought pink...
            i'm sure you'd see as much charge....
of a quaker in beetroot skin-boots...
beef-***** of hope-long-lost-gone....
      apparently the dead have a speaker...
and a ******* fest...
            and it sounds like
a hannibal lecter's quest of thirst via
an oyster feast...
            next i'll start imagining
donkey kong jerking off
a pdf. file worth of information...
             take a razor,
and call it simples -
while calling the slit point of
the interaction:
          amounted to verse,
                & a courtney love shoelace;
******* laughing now,
aren't we?
           your beloved lucifer,
          just did the icarus knosedive.
still, imagine the english feeling,
or sitting on a windowsill,
with an open umbrella -
       counting raindrops via
the sheet...
         imagine rolling a cigarette...
huddling under the necro mushroom...
       imagine unfolding
this raindrop mushroom,
in the interiors...
        find yourself under an umbrella,
under a roof...
        you'd be the luckiest man alive,
looking for mushrooms,
even the dodgy ones, the one off offers -
even the kurt cobains...
oddly enough,
unfolding umbrellas under roofs,
made all the necessary sense,
  since it became congested in translating
english: into english (of americanism).
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2023
am ende meines lebens angekommen, möchte (meschte) ich armer sünder auf diesem pergament zeugnis abgeben / having arrived at the end of my life, i want this poor sinner to surrender to the parchment-transcripts, handed over...

i haven't really listened to pop music in a long... while...
o.k.: i'm lying, there's a rubric of pop songs
i revisit habitually
like the religiosity implosion of church
from church-state (which, given the Vatican,
still exists) toward the church (one end)
state (the other end)... as with the disillusionment
of the concept of state... or is that nation, ethnicity
etc           etc            etc             ?      ?
                                                   ?      ? woo! a question sq.

i'm feeling very much **** clerical...
i'm a cleric of the Third *****...
times are great, given that someone had the *****
to put the unfair Treaty of Versailles
to some well-earned rest...
         rest assured: i will not be grieving the death
of letters, names, locations of birth
with some Auschwitz'ian sudoku...

nāmé (vornàmé)
  sur... name: nachnāmé... surname...

Grzegorz... Brzęczyszczykiewicz...

      (jak rozpętałem drugą wojnę światową -
how i unleashed world war II)
borrow from the film

verschließen! verschließen!
    
what is a V to a ******? Y has a name: igrek...
and V has a name: fał...

den mund halten? sort of confusing...
ver-shly-ss-en...
      my y oh why not not an i
when sometimes also an e...
ply-i
            Plymouth... Y done there right and proper...
say Plymouth one more time...
do you say: Plemouth or Plimouth...
you don't even utter mouth in the name
of an English city: plYmΩΘ

      the Y is a "hollowed out" iota or

ị: given that English, language, not the people
do not use diacritical markers
expect for i and j: aye, yes, affirmative and
jay... which is squeezing in jade... too...

Plymouth: my mouth is bleeding and i'm plucking out
teeth with my tongue...
i count 32 teeth... but only 26 letters in English...
i was getting assessed for an SIA license
today in Barking... the first Q that popped up
was: how many letters are there in the alphabet?

i should have written
a e i o u b c d f g h j k m n p q r s t

instead i wrote down:

a b c d e f g h i j k m n o p q r s t u v q w x y z...
yeah... with a Bachelor's degree in chemistry
you'd think i'd get that right....
apparently i have a blindspot for L...
jeez... i only had 25 letters...
had to check my phone...
twice... once for a missing letter Lil and El
and another time about what % and
the ugly baron of fraction (synonymous)
implied...

Barking Surrealism... i'm in England and yet
i'm being checked for language proficiency...
but i'm bilingual... don't talk to me about
schizophrenia and "losing touch with reality":
England has lost touch with reality:
outright...
my math wasn't so bad although...
i did get one question wong like wok desperado
because i answered the Q with
the better deal... not the worst deal
for a mobile phone contract...

now if i was an INDIGENOUS English fellow:
yeah... that would be intimidating...
but since i'm an immigrant myself...
well... (insert snigger): this is a bit of a topsy-turvy
tickle... isn't it?
i'm not ambitious enough for a middle-class
sitting at an office table gherkin festering...
but can you imagine...
being asked by an Asian or an African
if you speak the adequate English... in England?
which makes me think about the genius of
Russian hackers... do they speak proficient
Nigerian in Russia?! really?!

i was thinking about becoming a soap model
for adverts in Ghana half a year ago...
the pale complexion might give me a booster...
this is... absolutely, utterly:
Barking Surreal:
East End Surrealism...
i'm being assessed about my comprehension
of the English language... in England...
the **** do "people" speak in Antarctica?
penguin?! or do they speak chicken cluck cluck?!
and strut like geese? goose is the singular:
geese is the.... ha ha ha: mein *****!

this invention of a para-neo-**** cult of ideas
was bound to happen...
this is: a para-neo-**** cult of ideas:
it's a sort of bewildering scenario of: huh?!
it did happen, it has happened: it's happening, now?

personally i'm rather thankful that Europe has been
"invaded" by hordes from Asia and Africa:
i have a fetish for Indian and Latino girls...
i tried a black girl once...
she aimed at giving me a plum bruise on my
pelvis... she rammed down rammed down so hard
i almost forgot i ****** her in the dark...
it was pretty clear then that i was: no... she was...
aiming at circumcising me with her *******...
but i'm not a Heb' so no circumcision: thank you:
i have that excess skin for when i don't have
a ****** partner so there's no room for me to
make ******* a fetish...

but this was weird: i get the mathematical conundrum
but the language conundrum?
there are 32 teeth in the mouth of man...
as there are 32 letters in the Polish alphabet...
see! the wrong "aryans" lost the war...
Polacks from the 16th century onward
felt inclined to cite the migration of an Aryan
tribe toward the Vistula... the Sarmatians...
fake Aryans conquering truer Aryans...
drop the Q because that's like a faking C and K...
and drop the V...
and you get ą, ę, ć, ś... ó... ł, ż... ź...
technically you could also have š and č...
but then then Czech educator... theologian...
Yan (not Jane) Huß comes into play with Czech
and ž... and š and č...

to hide the Z in ****** or the H in English:
but then... no point hiding the H in English for too long
since: memories of Viking raids and the Norman invasion
you have enough free time to conjure up games
akin to football, cricket, rugby: goal oval ball H...
imitation of water-man and earth-man...
pass ball backwards but move forwards...

so much for meta-relationships:
i'm stuck in London, it's raining, therefore dreary therefore
i'm on reflective mode and melancholically adrift on
a memory-cinema of staying a month on
Kauai... funny how she says: Lay-che-ster...
Leicester... that's... Lester...
why not Lay-K'eh'ster? why does and who
advocates the C to become a K
and when did someone make his penny
on turning the C into a Σ?

   since that is the case, no?
ς = ç (transliteration-plagiarism):
there is no W or V sound in Greek...
R from P and P in Π - Greek to Latin transliteration
wasn't a complete plagiarism
that turned Zeus into Jupiter...
to this say Greek is reminiscent of Spanish whenever
employed in speech, or: zu sprechen...
sometimes even zu spreschen...

another quill... for my ugly peacock: -sch- / ś

grössenwahn - feindflug

a great motivational song to do bureaucratic
wordings of: filter the men who speak das zunge
from men who don't speak: dass / das das zunge...

30 minutes... from Havering Road to Barking Market...
compliments of owning a bicycle:
and using the Elizabeth line...
even by car alone the travel given
Bangladeshi traffic mantras would take me
close to 2h...
**** that...
every time i cycle in these "no go zones"
filled with Asians but no Ching Chong Wa's...
i'm worried about traffic accidents...
reminiscent of: niqabs are tunnel vision and goggles
and sometimes like crow-eyed
you see the first dinosaurs proper in chickens
before flight took off and chickens became
pigeons and it's scary to not find it funny
seeing how: i can't see! i can't see!
in the corner of my eyes those women
donning niqabs...

but i can get away with it
when i also see the "other Asians":
Sikhs... who... some even become proselytes when
it comes to the turban... shave their hair
and don western clothing because it's classy...
obviously the Muslims are an ****** hostile group
that need to feel comforted by
suicide bombings and shalwars and pajamas...
and those Palestinian headscarves:
but please... give me those guys
and not my ethnicity-shared-zombie-plot-holders
who came out of the Harry Potter transgender
apocalypse into the fore of political antagonism
a cause of causes...

basically ginger-bred foot ugly foo jimmy carr
typos... like typo is best defence for spelling
******* correctly?

i did listen to Edie though... every time i go
cycling, what do i eat should i feel peckish?
i eat 160g of chicken breast...
sometimes hot and spicy, sometimes bbq...
sometimes chinese chá-wah...
   but no carbohydrates... just the meat...
and oddly enough: i'm full for most of the day...
apparently i have a problem
because i sleep-eat... i also sleep-talk...
i truly miss being intimate with a bulb...
a woman... i don't understand *******...
to me... there's nothing better than an older...
voluptuous woman...
like my grandfather, Joseph, used to say:

a woman of full trim...
*******... ***... thighs...
and she is just that...
thanks to her i've forgotten what ******* is...

so we started talking about technology
how i use chatGPT to be able to write so freely here
for a canvas and an audience of 2
while also having to do the dreary prosaic...
and she sends me these filtered pictures
from tictoc and... given my access to AI...
seeing these "improvements":
but no no... she has the tenacity and the intelligence
to also send me the grotesque shots of herself...
in one...
she's the spitting image of: Schlitzie...
the pinhead circus freak!
and that's what's so fascinating!

the reality is: she's somewhere in the middle...
she's not some model
but she's also not some pinhead circus frrrrrr...
frrrr... (her daughter can't trill the R...
do the rattlesnake, ha ha)...

Edie: i beg to differ... there is no V in Greek...
ergo? Matthew...
last time i heard TH = Θ = F...
TH = PH:
phonetically... obviously these two letters
exist... identical phonetically
but when written down to exfoliate
in a change of meaning...

but now we have to be borrowing from Norse...
i.e. þought...
       and ðe: the thought...
how many times: it's not M'ah-view:
it's Math: mathematics...
how is mathematics different from Matthew...
the added T?
ma-th-ematics
ma-th-ew...
                  how on earth is that even phonetically
conceivable, that, i'm getting in "wong wonky"?

alðough ≠ alþough... clearly... all-foe?!
because given whatever Nordic letter:
although is said:
ål-v'oh... there is no T no H no G no H...
but that's how English is:
sort of French: two languages in one...
the phonetic said... and the counter-phonetic
written: of meaning off what is said...

å: owl - aul... even... or... that's plenty...
owl: ah! áwl! á = !
but punctuation dictate... surprise?

Maþew or Maðew? my view or my few?
thank god i don't like the sound of my own voice...
but this is good... this is good:
being brought down back to basics,
asked by Asians in England whether
i speak English in England...
this is good...
but like i choke-joked with her:
would a second language help?
people in these clerical positions are not exactly ready
for outliers like me who find this whole
schizophrenic-society funny...

i was once allocated the stigma of a unit
of schizophrenia i plagiarised and let go onto my environment
with stunning results:
well with bilingualism: am i not schizoid by
default?
oh right right... the intelligence typo:
must be... i somewhat wish i was born in a time
when people like Ezra Pound were committed to
institutions where no crimes were committed beside
wonk-fink...

          like the fetish for fascism is a...
in vivo depth-charge energy drive while
democracy is a cuckoldry in vitro sloppy seconds
of off "something"...

oh poor Amber... at the last Fulham shift...
she got a lesson in stoicism...
poor thing... maybe 17... came to the shift
without eating breakfast...
i sided with her: neither have i...
give it 30 minutes... she'll crack...
and she did... at first she was drawing doodles
in her notepad... then she approached me
about feeling ill and vomiting in the toilet:
wait there... i'll get someone...
found some safeguarding stewards:
apparently a grandma of sorts
who came round with a chocolate bar and an apple...
poor thing felt better... immediately...
girl: you don't go to work fasting
if you don't tease at the joys of
Stoic-Ramadan...
i like to feel the pain from hunger the the light-headedness
of not enough calorie intake...

obviously she went home: in tears...
but at least i found the help to pull her through:
this difficult task of mismanaging ****** fluids...
only recently i discovered i have bouts
of IBS: irritable bowel syndrome...

it's kind of funny: irritably so:
being of this branch of immigration that molded itself
into English society just at the right time
of seeing English Conservatism deplete itself
of any conservative credibility...
likewise seeing English liberalism turn into
a freakish illiberalism...
i too can become hyper-focused on grammar
and prune-those-nouns to "shape"!
i too: can become a grammar-****...
and with glee... not that i might mind to correct:

who doesn't like the odd schadenfreude of someone
buckling on a spelling of onomatopoeia?
because riddle me this: C U DER...
there is no seeing no you nor there, n'est ce pas?

nicht verloren: ein rückkehr:
schtill friedhöfe von Flandern:
             were once old foes of Europe fought for
bread and silk and the best societal ideal
to amass these billions of souls...
to be later scolded for... von ihre: fehler besitzen:
noch! würde nicht besitzen zu!

then again: the Hindu conceptualisation via reincarnation
is what? a pseudo-Vatican of the chosen / elected souls
migration through a zombie-land of flesh...
if it isn't then i don't know what 1 + 1 indicates
with = 2... reincarnation is a cognitive-caste symbiosis
for stereotyping the internal prejudices of the Indians:
lighter toned in the north:
oh don't you mind those Bangladeshi munchkin monkeys...

to think that only white people can be racist
is absurd... how did it come that i'm finishing this poo'em
on racism: page politics...
write two encouraging comments to get your poem
posted: another zombie sob story
white white white supremacy
patriarchy... kind of handy that feminism managed
to create a feminist platonism without actually
providing a female plato...
or a feminist german idealism without providing
a female kant...
because, you know: **** digs deeper than ****:
cognitively: some "bias"... must be the purple hair dye...

i blame white girls who haven't had a proper
**** but have only been exposed to ******* for this...
and "they" blame men and exposure to *******
as if: pedophiles are exclusively male...
and never, ever... female...
like it's all hush hush about female exposure to
******* that they spew these tangled *****
diatribes about white-fetish and father-double-fetish?!
missing... probably with some action: necro?
you'd hope...

can't get the decent **** so turns to political activism!
turns to narcissistic delusional licking of wounds...
can't use an AI chat bot because too busy
throwing on AI filters to save up on make-up when
catfishing...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2021
there only about three songs in my repertoire as a listener
that stab me in the heart...
i'd stretch to four... debatable whether
it's king crimson's epitaph or in the court of the
crimson king...
starless makes it into the triad...
i guess i'm only focusing on a specific genre:
counting out classical music altogether, & jazz...
because: just be...          cause...
in the triad... nights in white satin by the moody
blues...
& omega's (a Hungarian band)
       gyöngyhajú lány...
   i'm probably lying... there'd be a fifth
with something by Maanam...
             i can't really give you citation on
the worth of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones...
oops...
i don't even think its the pop status that kills
it... it's that: you want to find something
auxiliary, hell: ulterior...
that terrible fate of man...
if he were a crow: he'd still invented motives
to not croak, crackle...
   if man were a cow he'd still find ways
to not moo...
              i've heard the maxim: yes yes...
you're just as different as everyone else...
so what? that's how we're herded...
what simply shows is...
how hard some try...
and how those who don't try...
end up... trail-blazing: their own little:
Robinson Crusoe eventuality...
    - what a plentiful Saturday...
two rugby matches... no football on t.v.: **** yes...
& changing the rear tyre on my road-bicycle...
700 x 23cm...
6 punctures... in the tyre...
2 in the inner tubing...
i took the wheel off... spin spin after spin
in a makeshift water-bath to see the puncture better...
Ezekiel? didn't you see?
third time, tipsy... oh look how it's easily done!
next i'll prepare a chicken for a spatchcock blind-folded!
****'s sake...
coffee, x3... with some magical liquorice
liquor... Mexican... yella... or ow...
magical... how much i love anise... liquorice...
esp. when coupled with alcohol...
& coffee...
dreary ******* day persisted nonetheless:
i didn't mind... hard to mind...
when you can finally get off your backside...
& wait for investing in a career as a steward...
for a while...
i'd rather teach English children English than chemistry...
we'll see... no chance in hell will
i be found teaching Lebanese children
an American accent...
i'd sooner teach a dog to meow or a cat to bark!
live a little...
so obviously after changing the tyre
i had to take the ol' Viking for a spin...
minding to buy some fuel for the night
in the form of ms. amber & herr whiskers...
but the breaks weren't right... too tight on the lever...
thankfully i took some tools...
knelt in the supermarket car-park
by the trollies & started to imagine a violin
in my hands... what?
fiddling... i started fiddling...

and you might appreciate how difficult it is
to make small-talk...
esp. in unhandy situations...
you're fiddling with your bicycle's breaks
a man goes up to his car with some
spare groceries  & starts off with:
you've seen that video on youtube...
this young guy doing X...
dead... such is the world we live in...
aha... sorry what the **** was that talking
about? amazed that i want to work on
my own bicycle... it's not a *******
F16 fighter-jet...
is it?
sure, currently we have such...
focused spans of attention...
such concentrated specialisations...
a jack-of-all-trades is frowned upon...
when i think of work i think of:
lifting ****, moving ****... a sort of chess...
harvesting crops...
what's the rest?
loitering... esp. concerning women in clothes shops...
not even barristers...
i mean: what's work... outside the realm of
the "3rd world" sweat-shops...
what are we, "1st world" inhabitants...
content-production ******?
what, *******, "content"?!

best not jinx it... i'll be a steward at Wembley...
i'll be an authority figure...
i have the height (6ft2) & the weight
(96kg)...
           Maanam: krakowski spleen...
6th song?
        work as loitering: isn't work... work:
lift... move... it's like the antithesis of the cruel joke
from Auschwitz... arbeit macht frei...
when they forced the people to move
a sack of rubble from A to B,
to further relent at them moving the same sack
of pebbles from B to A...

what the hell is work when so much of "work"
is loitering?
pandering to whims?
how cruel of me: there's so much excess...
not enough condoms were clearly used...
solipsistic, marginal, attention-deficient ******
of the great **** of life...
so many ******* kings among the rabble...
king of Sweden, king of Romania...
oh you see them all the time...
wake up... or be put to sleep by a bullet to the head...

i understand work via... lift... move...
any idiot's fancy...
oh sure... when the intricacies of synthesising
an ester, to make perfume...
when what's required is... pasteurizing milk...
mein gott: the current trend of...
ensuring people are fed... well... not fed:
more like...
ensuring that they don't doubly butcher a
steak... who the **** eats a well-done slice
of steak? probably someone who eats a lot
of lamb dishes... ha! the Welsh are joked
about as being sheep-shaggers...
i'd look toward the Arabs... the greatest sheep-shaggers
of the whole lot of them...
not that the pig can't be used to make...
leather belts... leather shoes...
funny god: of the Arabs... sure... the Hebs too...
it's almost like the devil played a cruel trick
on these people...
pig: b'ah b'ah bad...
aren't ***** necro-
don't ***** eat the flesh of the dead?

but Arabs are one "thing" & the Hebs another...
there's the pristine phonetic study of the
tetragrammaton...
ah? for sighs... ha? for laughter...
W for cosine... Y: the implosion & the rotation
of delta (Δ)...
the Hebrews will accomodate...
the Arabs won't...
even among Africans i can find traces of
universalism...
the Arabs, ****- -stanis... & the Hindus (somewhat)
think themselves are superior...
hush hush when imploring
the Chinese or the Japanese to enter
my realm of thought...
i already think much of the Korean Hangul...
& the Japanese Katakana...
i'm no Ezra Pound... Chinese ideograms...
western Emoji...
the Egyptian hieroglyphs...
32 letters in the ****** alphabet...
as many as there are teeth...
in every man...
26 letters in the Anglican... 6 short...
which teeth will we have, on the platter?

- i think i write these words through a perspetcive of:
what are you, scribbler?
what the hell is the rest of the fancy?
what use for a priest?
i am useless?
i scribble... is it such a sin that...
since the inception of Napster... music "suddenly"
became free? who the hell pays for art,
these day? unless it's not overpriced
acrylic *****?
don't pay for art...
great! don't have a culture...
don't have anything western, "western"...
look how the old Soviets are... giggling & rubbing
their hands in synch. with Beezebub...

AYA - WARIANT "C"...

culture is free, music is free... plenty...
enough for it to be sold...
to no one... monopolised into nothing:
into predictable curtails...
buy new shoes, phones,
perhaps some books... perhaps...

you starved the artist you somehow wonder
why... waste upon waste of migrants are flooding
your borders... will they learn your tongue:
will they... for the people who espouse
Darwinism the most: how backward thinking you all
are... since... you're all ******* dodos
given, the generosity of comparison...
not even that...
how sickening your choice...

you learnt nothing from eastern Europe...
and i wish... that you don't learn anything to begin with...
may you tremble, may you trouble yourself:
with your little hyacinth torando makeshits
of... "the bothersome"...

art for free... who would be asking for
golden nuggets! none!
just scraps! enough to have enough for fuel...
electricity...
no one is asking for ******* stature...
either we'll get to level... or...
the levelling process will come of its own
accord...
you have... ha ha... "have" a choice...
but time will tell you: no... you really don't...

AYA WARIANT C...
"contra"... :Wumpscut bunkertor sieben...
barking, up, the, wrong, *******, tree...
no need for Shakespeare... that **** is timeless...
i need something to counter the debauchery
that's currently relaxed concerning
the practices of journalism...
            ahem... sorry... what journalism?
pampering secluded ****-smeared *****...

if the ghost of Robespierre is grieving in
me! if the ghost of Robespierre!
if the ghost of Robespierre!
                  
  für die leute! für alle!
                    i'm tired of these western...
"conservative": iconoclasts of individualism...
spoon-feeding... hmm...
right now i'm least required to
mention the capacity for: a) thought,
b) tongue...
i like the option c) fist...

these pink haired: freak-oids are just
bearable... Weimar bearable...
i just can't stand being told i'm...
pointless... worthless...
that my words are no sellable...
sure... i agree... they're not...
but... what the **** sells?!

   any, worse, or, better? don't come to me
with complaints that somehow the world is...
darker...
my cat is sleeping sound...
if i had a dog i'd try to not use a leash...

this little piece of *** sells...
great... life: nothing indepth!
here you live: hereby you sink...
drown in the shallows...

groß! eisengrinsen! lachen
entstanden von: diese volk:
das spreschen dies... zunge!

i still find it a bit of a joke... Aryans?
Sarmatians were an Iranian tribe that travelled
into Poland...
Aryans... o.k., sure... jawohl...
i still can't pass up writing some Deutsche...
bad German... or good German...
i don't mind... it's not like the whole
of Berlin will mind... ha ha...

life will have to pursue its own:
trajectory...
like the life of parasites...
imps... giraffes...
van Gogh's paintings... blah blah:
a century later i might be up for
scrutiny... ha ha... people might have forgotten
world war I, or... part deux?
no? new war... Armageddon... figures...
well then... my words are ash:
  mein wörter ar asche;
lucky... no shadow present: too.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
this... this isn't life!
this! isn't, life!
this is...
             tourism!
or rather...
what i would call
tourism
when i would call
myself being alive...
having to bestow
a weekend away,
visiting
a foreign capital,
solo...
        this?
this... whatever
is worthy of being
deemed, "me"?
        necro-tourism...
i just know...
what people
hide from from.
AD Letwixt Sep 2019
Just take my pills
200 mill-i-grams
Necromancer *******
****** labcoat pill down my throat

This experiment
An-i-ma-ted
meat on bone

Call me Lazarus
Cause I shouldn't have breath
If it weren't for the necro-chiatrist
The new god undead
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2021
I

having read (past participle: re[a]d? well: to re[ae]d: but that's a reed, so no) four volumes of Knausgaard's "mein kampf" i came to the conclusion that: you can write almost anything: about anything... a terrible focus comes when one starts to write about reading: not so much about writing per se, but you can pull-off any shimmy-shimmy or banality on a whim, on the sly... just follow the clues left by journalists, esp. in the editorial sections of a weekend edition... it's just easy reading, a fitting accompaniment is a philosophy book, i still don't know how or why i didn't take up Rousseau sooner, my "sin"... never anything too seriously...

II

i guess you need to be the proud owner of old vinyl, circa the 1980s... from beneath the iron curtain... old vinyl has imprints of THE CRACKLE... it's so rare to find this hardened liquorice orbit... best example, so far? maanam: nocy patrol (album): krakowski spleen (song)... oh the crackle is so important... given the vinyl has been left not-played (definitely, not, somehow not un- prefixed) for at least 20, hell... give it 10 more years... the crackle is bound to appear & make as much sense as the music...

III

my grandfather (p.b.u.h.) once remarked: don't you have any regrets? regrets about that Siberian lass, that Russian girl who took you to St. Petersburg & to see Metallica in Moscow? fade to black, we were kissing, all the Russians had their lighters out... regrets? oh, sure... all the time... it only took me 13+ years to find a good enough **** to compete with her... the month in Russia was spent with her ex-b/f beta orbiter, who probably ****** her before i came, we drank *****, we had a mighty carousel of pseudo-wind in our heads when the drinking finished... the bed swallowed me, i think i swallowed a mirror or... my shadow stuck in a mirror: perhaps i was having a conversation with a future moi... regrets?! with all the freedoms allowed women in the west, it's not like barbarian Poland with outdated abortion laws... a woman has to wait for her foetus to die, on its own, most probably killing the woman... 30 years old, with husband & daughter in tow... they'll be having a march or two to pay her tributes... a ****** will only get 12 years for ****, forget about abortion due to impregnation through the act... a deformed foetus: a parasite... headless... can't be removed... the mother & the doctor can get up to 25 years or... a life sentence for the "unlawful" removal of the foetus... because... Poland... you see... is more backwards than Ireland... i never thought it could be possible... the separation of the church from state hasn't happened: although it was apparently segregated under the Soviet umbrella... Polish Communism worked... now... a massive diaspora of these people almost everywhere... regrets?! i think this Russian gal had a "thing" for ruining Polacks... she was engaged to me, she broke it off... she married another ******... a neurosurgeon... married him... she had some muffins on the side... she divorced... married again... some Scottish schmuck... *******... she started to collect tarantulas & serpents... i abhor spiders... regrets... hmm... she's 2 years younger than me... she's done her practice engagement & is on her second marriage... volatile *****... regrets?! i own a ******* bicycle, i don't need a car i don't need traffic... it's Loon'don!

IV

as ugly as a moonless night, one thanks i can give, is that there are visible constellations.

V

all saints' feast day in Poland is a huge affair, people shuffle in the necropolis, i joke: what democracy in Poland? when he died, my friend, my grandfather, he stole all the time i was willing to give to this little "oasis" of delusions & historical leftovers... now there's only a spatial orientation: absolutely no association with the impetus of time... candles... wreaths... two days after the feast day i had to go alone into the graveyard at night & have myself a goodbye a year that passed since all the formalities of a funeral... with a bottle of ***** & some music in my ears... poured a little of ***** onto the grave, poured some into me... like a CYGAN (gypsy, Roma)... took some photographs of trees, of shadows, or necro-statues... democracy in Poland... haha... necrocracy... i am completely divorced from this nation of my birth... plus... plenty of unsafe drivers... most of them remind me of the ninjas & Pakistanis in London... forget about curating oneself aggressively in the medium of traffic... we're talking about people being so careful about their prized objects that they end up being careless about how they curate themselves: flow! flow! you skip... you hop... you're mediating getting from A to B... it's a simple jest... unconscious arithmetic of space... get with the project...

VI

idle fingers, for two weeks i met the night with... lukewarm *****... ugly *****... *****... esp. when mixed... best drank directly... i know i know... never drink lukewarm *****... ensure it's teasing its freezing point... so it turns to something reminiscent of gomme syrope...

but...

          words thrown to the wind, almost proverb-like:

a) co ma piernik do wiatraka?
(what does a windmill have to do with a
gingerbread [softie]}?

b) pretensje do garbatego ze ma proste
dzieci...
   (grievances to a hunchback that he has
upright children)

sly little *****... who?! *****!
it's not like the marriage of ms. amber & herr whiskers...
whiskey...
sly little *****... terrible when mixed...
best drank straight... nearing her freezing point...
i don't understand how the English
manage to drink the ***** that's
***** mixed with orange juice:
it's *****!

VII

two weeks in Poland... away from my dearest England...
how dry the air is on the continent,
esp. during winter...
so little worth of mention of birch trees...
so little of pines...
crown of the botanical kingdom:
the oak...
but so little of pines so little of birches...
perhaps an accent of a birch here & there...
but entire forests of birch trees?
impossible...
it's an island, after all!
the air is wet... the weather is whimsical...
at least on the continent you can expect
to cherish a week's worth of cloudless skies...
i kind of think i adore this land
more than the natives who inhabit it...
although: these people deserve...
my uninhibited adoration...
their language esp.
why i rather write their zunge:
too many orthographic distinctions in my nativ(e)...
but i have to tease at the Deutsche...
i have to...

VIII

Roger Moore was the ultimate Bond, i tend to forget the Scotch accenting of the whole "affair"... mishter... blah blah... shecond floor... all that Duran Duran & the fatal blonde of: view to a ****...

IX

backwards people: it seems that even the German have done enough interracial breeding to somehow forget the Nazis... who are the backwards people? "my" people... those still persuasively orientating themselves around... the first non-Italian pope was a ******... hoo-ha! well done... pat on the shoulder... we'll have the end of the world, "the end" when an African will sit on the throne: some say... i'm waiting for an Irishman... but i'm pretty certain... it's not the people of these isles... it's the isles themselves that i adore so much... don't get me wrong... these... ahem... "tourists" need to be acknowledged... ****'s sake: i did a probe into Romford & hey presto! the whole world "thought" it was necessary to... congregate... someone from Moldova... someone from Pakistan... the entire world is "here"... is this an "oops" moment or is this the natural leftover of an unavoidable implosion of empire?

X

backwards people, "my" folk... i don't own them: time's right to read some Rousseau... perhaps some irritation with the concept of a diaspora... the English diaspora in Spain... seasonal drunken ****** on the Greek Islands? new English: Anglo-Slav... no, i don't think i'm in any way "old English"... then again: English is: there's always something (a)new... i just can't stomach all this proto-h'american racial *******... Saxons outstretched... it's hard to think of what if: if these Saxons were actually Swabians or Pomeranians...

XI

i very much adore the idea of being able to fall in love, i want to rekindle an old flame of the idiotic me that was able to fall in love... who could trust... i wish with such dire consequences to be able to rekindle a chance to love like a puppy.... i want to love, how i miss doubtless trust... the flimsy touch... then again... new love... ms. amber & herr whiskers... how i love to drink... my love for drinking has overshadowed all the potential for courtship offers in its least... i have become so rigid in my courtship of time, i have become so suffocating, so predictable to myself... loving someone else could... would end up becoming a suffering... but i like the idea... i like the idea of falling in love... i, only recently, fell in love with a stewardess... flying from Warsaw to London... such milky tenderness of skin... such Slavic wolfish eyes... but the skin... i couldn't want to envy the ivory of afro sclera.... such a circus... being so spoilt for choice... i know that i'm a walking... late: abortion... it's beyond my concern or care to gravitate toward these arguments...

XII

i walk into a pub, ask for half a pint of Guinness,
the girl serving me, heavily tattooed...
duck lips...
outraged roots, flimsy pink...
do i really have to listen to Lithuanian songs
about the winged hussars?
Ottoman turks?
i guess so... minutes later...
a bad advert from 888.com poker....
she likes me, i like her....
but she's donning a pair of jeans
that might at best have been
chewed by a dozen of hyenas...
bite to grip bite to grip:
haggle! haggle! grrrrrrrrr.....
rapt: the trill on the Ar....
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
/i tend to don sunglasses,
encompassing the night...


never the aggravated
             youth,
as made pardonable...
into a circumstance
        of hardly gagging for death:


double whammy,
to cirumstance mortality:
     you engage with
teenagers,
     and you're not experienced
to deal wiht them...

and then you metion:
           a death wish...
and they run away,
given the fact that you've
bought them an excess of
$6 worth of *****?

                now you're *******
me off pdf. contra jpeg.
formatting!
                no, seriously!
there's an actual reason
why, to the 20th century
writers will never, ever,
become "too" apparent...  

    these ******* never had
to deal with clinical
insomnia?
     the merger of
dreams, thoughts,
and death,
  suddenly made synonymous
with a thesaurus
scrutiny...

                 i died
to the account of thrice...
what little you do will do
just as little for
me to encompass
understanding the random,
or the average....
  
get my drift?!

    no?!
                güt!

            auch nein unß
                sich kümmern!
                        gegeben dies!

seems i was quiet
the effective / necessary
                        cognitive artefact...
more the titilating abel,
rather than the baß(e)-on cain
in terms of employment...

                the ******-sort...
           wizard-quasi...
                         a major projection
of a HA..
                  a necro-"philia"
   assertetive of one only being
able to bias eating pork,
having stomached
   ingesting
                 the leeches
and clinging artefacts
                   of Poseidon's
domain!
          
                           well ****, me!

the bellitling surmount
that people could attest to!
and there they go,
off, on their own ownership
off on a tangent,
  like exhibiting the character
of a vector...
          well i didn't
go to university to study
psyche, that's for sure...

   i was about to embark
on sustaining pop culture
by rekindling the imitation
ending in the sigma that
became: toothpaste / shampoo...

shame a sense of
romance strated to wrestle with me...
teasing Cain...
    i'd still overt:
in escaping the night
with exercising a Plantagenet
"right" of utilising
      sunglasses... esp. inclusive
of doing so, by the "consequence"
of experiencing the night...
          
    i solved one teenager confrontation
by telling them:
  you call your uncle, sure...
problem is... you see...
          i have a... death wish:
******* could out-run usain bolt...
quicker than an *******!
shame that's not even
   moderately corrective
   of the life i inhibit...
                  rather than fake:
in the cruel reality of having to inhabit,
   ex omni exemplum: quare ipsum?
if this is bad latin,
then i certaily shouldn't have
asked my anesthetist prior to being
admistered to the hands of a german "butcher"
pulling my wisdom teeth out:
                     quo vadis?
long sleep, within the confines
of an anesthetic: requires,
                       this simple question'
death-anticipatory... just in case
someone forgot the ontology of mortality;
thank-**** death being
                     hardly "the" surprise!
PoeticTragic Nov 9
There’s peace among graves. In the dead silence of night, graveyards are like a long exhale after years of holding your breath. You can hear the wind here. The night whispers of old demons and forgotten pets. The ground is alive here.
I overstay my welcome, night after night, a dying life among the living dead. The living world hums, a lot; explosions, glass doors, metal bullets, empty words. Too many things beyond my grasp—expectations, conversations, complications of generations. It’s so much and yet so little. Hollow screams of earning a future and mirages of a happy past. So much smoke and not a single spark. Here in the graveyard… here, there’s only the me, the silence, and my friends.
Maybe I drank the wrong gin. Maybe I ate a German delicacy that I wasn’t supposed to. Or maybe the world just broke me open and made a little room for the dead. I can’t say for sure, and I don’t wanna know either. Too many nights are lost to whys and hows; I prefer to stay in the now. Catch a bit of life before it passes me by, you know. Anyway, I don't know how it began, but I know that they talk, and I listen. The rest is just wool in a dryer.
I sit by Hermon’s grave, the stone cool against my back, and wait for the familiar heavy sound to drift up from beneath. I know it'll come. It always comes, eventually—soft at first, like a whisper carried on the wind.
“Fast day?” he says. He knows the answer. He asks out of courtesy.
“Fast day,” I murmur like it’s the heaviest thing in the world. And maybe it is, for now. The living spends so much time coming and going, but the dead… the dead stay. They’re reliable. Solid in a way that the world above ground never quite is.
I never asked for this, but I think I like it. I like the way the air feels heavier in the graveyard, the way the world seems to slow down around me. It’s the only place that makes sense anymore, the only place where the noise quiets down and I can just… be. I do think about how strange it is, this gift, or curse, or whatever it is. I don’t raise them, not really. I can’t make them spin around my ink-ridden nails. I can’t even call them back here with a wave of a twig. They don’t breathe, scream or rise. They just… speak.
And I listen, like I always do. It’s enough, I think. More than enough.
“Do you miss it?” I ask, not sure what I’m even asking about anymore. Life? Walking? The sky? Tiramisu? The world we used to share?
“Miss what?” Hermon’s voice floats up through the earth, drowsy, like he was remembering a dream he had half-forgotten. His voice always feels so heavy, like a barrel of wheat. What even was he tired of? Death? It sounds so peaceful. Maybe it's just a worm in his larynx.
“Everything.”
He chuckles, and the sound curls around me like a snake, faint but familiar. “Maybe. But there’s less to miss than you think. Up there, you’ve still got dreams and hopes. In here… it’s lighter. Quieter.”
Quieter. That’s it, isn’t it? Death is quiet. The dead don’t demand anything. No forced smiles, no awkward pauses to fill. Maybe an occasional letter to an old flame, but that’s much more manageable than a dozen texts that lead to nothingness. No Rachel, I'm not going to your third cousins’ wedding. I talk to the dead but you wouldn't care even if you knew.
I think that’s what I like about it, why I keep coming back. They don’t want anything from me, and that’s a rare gift. With them, there’s no pretending. No expectations. Just the steady rhythm of their voices, like waves lapping at the shore. Constant. Unchanging. Trustable.
I glance at the graves, shadows stretching long in the fading light. Nina, Kevin, Mr. and Mrs. Talbot. They’re all here, waiting. They always wait for me. I know how odd it sounds—necromancy, but lower; much, much lower. I'm just glad I have friends now. Friends that stay. Friends that'll always remain, bones and all. Hehe. But it’s not so strange, is it? Not really. The living have never understood me. Too busy trying to fit me into something I can’t be or don’t want to be.
Here, though? Here, I belong. I can sit with the dead and fit right in. I can hear them, and they can hear me, and that’s more than I ever got from the world above.
“What was it like today?” Hermon's voice slipped through the cracks of the earth, slow and careful, like he was afraid to shatter the fragile quiet between us.
“The same…” I say though the answer feels hollow. “… they’re always the same. Moving too fast. Talking too much, … saying nothing.”
“Hmm,” he hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Maybe you didn’t listen enough.”
I nod, though he can’t see.
The wind picks up, brushing through the grass like a sigh, and I close my eyes. I don’t need to see to know they’re here. They always are. My friends. My strange, silent companions. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

In the distance, Nina’s voice drifts toward me, soft and laced with something I can’t quite place. “You’re staying, right?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, settling in against the stone. “I’m staying.”
And for once, that feels like enough. More than enough.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
this falls short of even attempting to write
an ode to mead,
after all we know that only
the ginger and ****-ugly vikings
were the founders of Kiev,
or as pretty english seem to state:
why are Ukrainian girls so pretty
while the Ukrainian men so ugly?
hey, not my words, theirs,
known from those cosmopolitan-esque
questionnaires...
         in this little city I can take
my 77 year old grandma shopping
after 10 am after we spend an hour
talking over coffee (she goes black,
I add some 30% cream)
    and we'll spot an ex-solidarity
partisan, ******* his nuts in the morning,
this kurwidołek, this civitas emeritus
I. E. city of pensioners...
                   even with all the acolohics
in the ruins of what became the project
genesis at the Katowice metalwork plant,
the city I now write from, dead to the grave,
where graves tend to speak more,
open air museum of flint statues,
my own private necro-sculpture haven...
even with these alcoholics,
  walking without hands,
   or what were once their former trades...
before the first metalworks factory died
and after the second died...
        old grandma and her aversion to alcohol
in a per se argument,
   but as I tease her while opening
a bottle of mead, and she serves herself
a glass of bailey's, almost apologetically,
no excuses granny, you deserve a nightcap...
you can walk through the day and not
drink a drop, but come night,
some of us have a desire for the sedative,
but some of us have no desire to return
to gossip, drama, and backstabbing intrigues...
after all, not all of us can entertain a king
at versailles...
     why? ever talk to a mother about her
daughter, and your mother about her mother?
****** my ******* god,
        Pilate! lend me your washing basin!
makes sense now, with my ex Russian girlfriend,
I had dinner with her mother and father,
who she introduced me to as her sister...
    and her grandmother was "apparently",
her mother...
            shorty thought she had short legs
and I thought: perfect leg to torso proportions...
who the hell wants a ******* giraffe on
stilts? she ws shortsighted and sometimes
wore glasses when reading...
          so I borrowed a pair from grandpa...
******* me... no wonder she thought she had
short legs... however much you asked
Spinoza to polish those lenses,
    the same illusion would emerge.
zebra Apr 2020
There are no current job openings.

The Foundation
is an equal opportunity employer
and employs personnel
without regards to race
to include but not limited to
spics ****** chinks white trash, jews, ginnies,
whateva the ****
red, black, white, yellow, brown
children or old *****,
prego's
uneducated mongrels
dead beats
god pimping religious fanatic's
bad breath bloviators
**** gob nymphos
cross dressing ***** bag *****
death addicts
frauds
**** suckers,
posers
***** lickers
annul *****
big ****** *******
alcoholics
gore ******
shallow ******
gender bending militant lesbians
drug addicts
stuck up snobs
grave yard enthusiasts
toilet slaves
homophobes
bad rhythm racist
serial killers
rakes
broken hearted ***** willows
twinks , girl boy, boy girl

its complicated
you ******* potatoes

national origin,
veteran status,
Absent Without Leave
proud *****
polygamists'  
*** criminals
sociopaths
***** fetish stoners
educated past your intelligence
tax evaders
amputees
Satanists
cannibals
dumb *****
dopers
eroto-asphyxiators
***** toys
vampire's
necro **** sniffers
bible belting ******* quacks
lazy mother *******
dweebs
horror ******
satanic trans upside down banana splits
and those who pray
in the temples of normalcy

or any other bases
protected by law.
Got two flowers before thee
From Uncle Jake’s eulogy –

The first one was yesterday
At ‘bout twelve-thirty midday
In front CapSU-D Admin
Where with others ‘twas standin’
But inside my shirt’s pocket
Pumped already when I get

So this day his burial
While in offering floral
When with others I aligned
Got another of same kind
Along with “Lead Me Lord” song
Unnoticed amidst the throng

After got the second one
At post-necro sun was gone
To cemetery onward
For minutes, rain poured so hard
Carless, like us, stopped awhile
Till sun again showed its smile

Burial to be continued
On cemetery we should
After Uncle Jake’s son cried
Last bundles I picked with pride
Thought me I’ll change my flower
But oh! I’d to turn over

And oh! Poked Nene Intan
I got again another one
Of same color, same specie
White orchid – I got with glee
Then finally, I threw it
Inward my Uncle Jake’s pit

Yet now that I have my third
Its origin turned absurd
Confusion into my mind
Memory wants a rewind
From where did I really take
This orchid for Uncle Jake –

Was it from those turned over?...
Or from the stem thrown under?...
Anyway, this white orchid
Is for sure my greatest bid –
It heard the priest’s liturgy
Being teacher’s praiseworthy.

-01/22/11
(Dumarao)
*wants a unique poetry habit: Ode to the 7 Flowers of 2011
My Poem No. 37

— The End —