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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...

  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ
?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)

mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.
Metempsychosis and Dream
METEMPSYCHOSIS AND DREAMSCAPES


Dramatis Personae ---


nYxEr0s -
an umbral being wielding the soul "morpheus nyktelios", in the shape of the sword of nocturnal dreams.
he can enter the dreams and sub-consciousness of trees, rocks, rivers, droplets of rain and people in order to restore inner balance, or destroy it.
he is the principality of earth and water intertwined.
the personification of ****** nocturnal desire and the night itself, and he wields the power to restore, fulfill of destroy dreams.


IrUx0iD -
a name that is whispered in nyxeros' dreams. the inverted and warped spelling of the secret name of his second self, his one true love; The Dioskouri.
this astral phantom wields the sword "Philopannyx", because his power and reason for being is to love the night, and all that the night encompasses.
one day these two variations of one purpose will meet, fuse in a loving and resplendent embrace and then the universe will devour itself, overlapping it's inexplicable film of pure darkness, converge the surrounding nothingness upon it's solemn silence in the darkness, and then light will be born and life will begin anew.


AWAKENING


An eldritch and wyld prescence has manifested itself upon these desolate shores. Emanating from the deep soil of a long forgotten world. Rich with life and benevolence, but also terrible cruelty. It is very old, and at the same time, very young. A will of old, and a spirit of youth. It has taken the shape of a human boy. He has come from beyond the river of eternal sleep. The merciless kiss of death and mortal undoing has left a crest upon that precious dwelling-place of his dreams and young intellect, as it is called in the world in wich his chtonic vessel now unknowingly decays. Now this being has come to us, in his final stage of sentience. Deep in his soul, the nexus of a bleeding ocean, a forgotten dream is trapped in perpetual waxing and waning. Upon his moonlit countenance, two glass-like spheres are set. They belong to him. This luminous soul, fettered to this pathetic configuration of earth and water. two lonely, dark and unfathomable windows into the neverending vacuum of his soul. lying there. poured into infertile soil. alien soil. a mortal coil lying in listless apathy. human apathy. what is this human doing here? from what resplendent dream did he sojourn from and traverse through. oh liminal, boundless being, your tragedy will inextricably unfold, like the petals of a perfectly nourished and complete lotus. there is nothing your dying body can do. the contriving universe has manifested you in this abstract realm for a reason. a purpose. to discover the hidden schemata and destiny that sleeps inside, and to encounter and seek out the other half. your other half. you are a split soul. a mysterious schizm. empty by yourself. whole and compleat when unified. he exists somewhere in this neverending desert of grief. precious limbs that was lost, and throbbing wounds gained in your previous stratum of existance, are in this world reconfigured and presented to you in the form of sacred gifts. weapons and protection and magic that you may wield in order to defend your heart, and the hearts of others in need. weapons of absolute destruction, or benevolent aegis. these curses transmuted as wonders we give to you. absolution for past crimes and malignancy we also give to you, precious dreamer. we exist to guide you. you will find that wich was lost to you. that wich you have longed for all these stringed existances. we incarnate you once again, so that you may resume this task. one day, the interlaced network of dark brooding stars that desperatley glitter and gleam inside of you, will reach out for that wich they yearn and interact and intertwine with your twin light. the one that was made to compliment and render absolute both of your insulated existances. this is the one and only true alchemy. in the black land, lies and misstruths are whispered by venomous tongues. poison poured from dread lips and fill the once pure air. tormenting all fragile life in this sphere. accept this sword, morpheus, in your hand and embrace the hidden music of the night. this is our gift to  you. accept them now into your etherial incarnation and your everflowing, grieving heart. wield your true gifts. wander alone beneath the dying stars of this world, and free the ones who dwell beneath and beside you. living in fear and despair. once you have done this, brave warrior, the hidden path shall be revealed to you, and your love will await at the ends of this universe. at the end of time. go now. into the endless night. dark haired creature. heart of the ocean flowing within. The death and rebirth of stars light the way through the neverending desert of perpetual night. nyxeros the gods whisper. a primordial name. a second gift granted to the warrior, so that all the creatures of this world may speak it and whisper it in benevolent tones amongst themselves. nyxeros had been wandering for 77 nights and 77 sub-nights. weary and lithe in limb and heart. he sat down in a patch of mysterious mercurial grass. everflowing darkness wreathed around him. framing his wyrd existance in silence and a subtle agony. he layed his sword Morpheus on the surface of silver beside him and shut his abyssal black eyes, and allowed sleep’s gentle touch to caress his mind and soothe his aching concience, and thus, for the first time scince he had awakened in this world, he fell asleep. he dreamed of planets making love to each other, and giving birth to supreme music that again gave birth to new planets. of galaxies exchanging wisdom and expanding into one-another. and of a voice, beckoning from some darkness. a darkness from a place in the nothingness. a hollow place. a compression of past, present and future. someone was calling to him. alien words that he could not decipher the meaning of. but his heart fluttered and a deep longing ignited within his heart of chaos. somewhere, in the infinite K0s:m0S, someone was waiting for him. someone had begun a journey at the opposite end of the vast darkness of space. wandering alone, and sad. but forward, always forward. towards him. nyxeros could feel it moving. a faint contraction of the fabric of space. a frequency so weak, barely noticable. but he could feel it nontheless. deep inside. nyxeros opened his eyes. the black stars residing behind the frail lids of his eyes eating up all the blackness of erebus, making the deep, black pools of his soul even blacker and deeper still. his left hand, engraved and scarred with terrible and agonizing poetry clasped around the hilt of morpheus. he stood up and peered deep into the horizon of chaos. The great and wide melancholia of dust and dead wind and withered mountains. The void and the chasm of his cleaved soul urging him to brave onwards. In the ever-expanding distance, a faint light was discernable. His black eyes could scarcely witness it, but it was there, without a doubt, and his heart convinced him that this was true. Something stirred in the distance. So he gripped the hilt of his dream-blade tightly, and began the long waltz towards the strange faint melting light beyond.
I wrote this as an experiment, to see what would pour out if i just kept on writing non-stop, without thinking about anything really...it actually makes a lot of sense to me, but it's mostly just metaphysical mumbo-jumbo, and it's not polished, or meditated upon. Anyway, i just felt like posting it. my reasoning and agenda behind exhibiting this piece is as abrupt and cumpulsive as the mode it was written in. thank you-
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
jesus came back in 1945 in egypt
with a shepherd
digging the scrolls up:
the nag hammadi library...
the jewish historian josephus wrote
about a false egyptian prophet
~2000 years ago,
dot dot dot...
well... dot dot dot;
counter argument?
in defiance the defence rests its case
with a semi-detached and a roast dinner
every sunday until death do us part.
sorted then!
*** change's a bonus on top of
that balancing act to keep glogotha relevant
in terms of impregnation above the interest
of bethlehem to orientate
east with 3 splinters aimed at gift:
take east and you're looking at a linear
two dimensional realm of preceding allocation...
preceding allocation of the mirage that's
a recurrent but nontheless a receding mark
of served colour...
****... we all missed the 2nd coming in 1945...
the holocaust got the historians clamouring
for the columbus prize - as that famous hip-replacement
for the jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!
JustChloe Feb 2016
You know you were abusive right?
Honestly worse than your father
You strangled me with words
And left me riddled with questions and scars
Now the scars I applied myself
I had to create some physical evidence
Of the torture you left
And speaking of leaving
You left me
Which I'm happy to say
No longer distresses me
Even though you still won't adress me
Apparently
You go mute when I try to speak
Nontheless
I am no longer obessesing
But sadly
You learned to obess over me
It's obvious you started watching me
Amature
Cover your trail
You're immaturity makes your frail
But you were abusive
Though not anymore more
I finally have picked myself up from the floor
You see
I found the good in goodbye
And I don't crave you anymore
So goodbye abuser
And Thank you
For leaving me once more
Robert Napper Jan 2015
Fairy tales are for girls!
That seems to be the staple
But who do you think
Wrote these timless fables?

Not just the women
Conjured these epic tales
Of princesses and beasts
How the hero always prevails

It's the men who want to hear
Her desperate song from the tower
We want to rescue her
Before her witching hour

Watch her exquisite face
As she sleeps within her shell
Knowing it's his destiny
To rid her of the evil spell

He wants to be her Knight
Shielder, Protector, Defender,
Prince nontheless
Every girl wants her Hero
But the guys need his Princess.
Pug Rollins Sep 2014
There are small galaxies in salt grains
And sandbags in superclusters.
An arm extends from the minor and one punches from the major.
In a light state of being both little and big,
one hand tells me I'm major
Another tells others they're minor.
Both hands nontheless hit hard.
One much like a thron bush
The other like a lotus flower.
Neither major, both minor.
"you loved me for a year
I might not have known it, but you loved me.
We would talk and talk for hours,
Hold our breath until we could see each other
Over skype of course, but see each other
Nontheless.
Then you did something stupid. You made mistakes.
Painful mistakes. Mistakes that costed trust.
I got angry, I laid into you with words that cut you deep, but I didn't care.
If I did, I didn't show you.
You tried so hard to make it right. You said you'd do anything,
Anything for me.
I still turned up my nose.
You pleaded and begged, you wanted so bad to fix what we had
But still I refused.
And I keep refusing."

You, after so long of thinking yourself the victim,
Have become aggressor.
huda Jul 2021
your heartstrings are becoming more apparent.
all the swooning and looming in summoning forth your own beautiful musicians to repeat the melodies you once had with me.
i cannot bear to witness you seeking such wonders to tremble what you know is immortal

nontheless, i too wonder to this day, why you're still searching for me in every woman
im not good at titles so feel free to offer alternate names
Leo Janowick Feb 2019
The Sun sees me at my best,
  but the Moon....
the Moon knows all my secrets,
  and loves me nontheless....
Anisah Mar 2020
There's dirt under my fingernails
There's pen marks on my hand
I don't know how they got there
I just don't understand
I'm curled up in a corner
My stomach is tied in knots
There's something crawling in my throat
I can't connect the dots
I've lost the feeling in my arm
From clutching it to my head
Crying up the distance
That they should have made instead
Faintly in the backdrop
They simmer in something mean
I wash my hand with soapy water
But the marks can still be seen
All I hear are glasses
They smash towords the floor
All I smell is putrid gas
From the night out just before
I'm getting kind of sleepy
And we're past the midnight mark
But it's difficult to dream
When the dreams you made are dark
But nontheless I'm sleeping
I move but make no sound
And I wake up in the morning
There's empty bottles all around
I don't know what happened to you
Because the laughter falls like sand
But there's dirt under my fingernails
And pen marks on my hands.

- Anisah Mariah
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.in the back of my mind...
           gyöngyhajú lány -
                  the huns have finally
succumbed to the "pastor's"
                   castrato harem of the choir?!
wow!
                but i will still have
to "steal" from shakespeare's take
on macbeth, in pig latin...
    by... someone known as apemantus...
what other worth is there beside
citing macbeth?
  thus and the prayer:

              hell... let's give it a spin,
english, latin, scottish gaelic...

  immortal gods, i crave no self;
i pray for no man, but myself.
grant i may never prove so fond,
   to trust man on his oath or bond;
or a harlot for her weeping;
or a dog that seems a-sleeping;
or a keeper with my freedom;
or my friends, if i should need'em.
amen. so fall to 't:
rich men sin, and i eat root.

     immortalem superi, ego rogo nullus sese;
ego tandem enim nullus ****,
sed memet.
     tribuo ego licet numquam
demonstro sic amans,
     ut confido **** super
          suus sacramentum vel vinculum;
   uel scortum quia sua ploratus;
ut canis quod videor soporatus;
ut custor *** mea libertas;
ut mea amici, si ego postulo illis.
amen. ita cado to id:
    **** dives peccare,
                ut ego pappo radix.

again, this is pig latin...
the gaelic version will not be much
better...
                       who the hell can even envision
speaking ancient latin,
without succumbing to modern
english grammar? so much for the
current gaelic...

neo-bhàsmhor diathan, mi miann chan eil fèin;
mi ùrnaigh airson chan eil duine,
                       ach mi fhìn.
tabhartas mi a'chèit(ean) a-chaoidh
                          tha measail,
    gu earbsa duine air an bòid no bann;
no ah clàrsach airson í    a ’caoineadh;
no ah cù sin a ’chadal;
    no ah neach-glèidhidh còmhla ris
                                  mo saorsa;
no mo caraidean, ma tha mi bu chòir
                                            feum air iad.
amen. tha tuiteam gu e:
    beairt fir (sin), agus mi ith freumh.


i really don't see the "problem",
with, the, "problem"
containing itself...
          there's a *******
concern...
  but the paedophiles are
self-reforming?
  so... there's a problem?
               oh sure sure....
there's a problem...
gay pride parades...
      to "me": that's a real *******
problem...
          gas the jews...
casanova just ate a rat...
what's your problem,
*****?!
         the eternal law of man...
ever see a former
convicted paedophiles
get kicked in the face,
and take it,
                like a hulk brute?
**** happens:
at least the heritage
of the slave trade /
the holocaust survivors
also learned...
god will take it,
he made gravity
a jurisprudence stasis...
because he knew...
man, for all the jurisprudnce
worth? not worth that
much...
                "sorry"...
i'm not defending,
but i get them...
when grown women become
so nauseating,
limitating, so... "off-limits"...
you know what
a male mating pig's name
is in a porky harem
in poland?
        knur / knout...
that word alone lets me
to remember ******...
          gg... ******: swim...
down the deep-end...
             you were gagging for
this to become apparent,
this enforced egg-shell
walk *******...
      and i was called vermin...
and there came the mongol,
the **** and the communist...
now i'm watching
these bulging african hulks
and i'm looking at my body...
and... there really isn't
much to think of!
             pressing the right buttons...
i like that, now i get to press
the "wrong" buttons
on behalf of me...
      come on...
kinh john of england
wed a bride aged...
   isabella of angoulême
                 (lem) no "extra" e...
there's the ian watkins
example...
         of the lostprophets...
no baby-****** is
given you the jitters
when it comes to teenage girls...
i'm sorry...
     i remember being a teenager...
what's wrong with
teenager sexuality?
there's something wrong with
it?
    oh... there was always
something wrong with it...
sexuality matures,
legally...
when a woman reaches
her prime age
of 40, and she's crazy not having
frozen her ovaries...
wow!
             no, really, wow!
she's not a baby,
she's in her teens...
talk about an elevated
stance on m.g.m.
(male genital mutilation)...
it's like:
harem, ******, strap-ons
are not enough!
the mere thought is evil!
some more pharmacological
revisionists actions, yes?
so the simple process
of castration won't help?
we'll need the pharmacological
amnesia procedure?
cool cool!
         sign me up...
i already have a hard-on
for the experiment...
  if these people want to see
a baboon in a cage
riddled by haemorrhoids...
sign me up
for this "judo chop" sat on.

see... i see a big difference
when it comes to honesty
and outright shaming...
   when someone says they have
these kind of urges,
but is nontheless able
to suppress them?
       that's a ******* diamond...
that's worth keeping...
  i like this sort of honesty...
what i don't like is scheming
and shaming these unique
examples...

             between male to male...
it's the one resort's worth of
a cognitive ****** that serves
its purpose...
again... how old was
isabella of angoulême
when she was wedded to
king john of england?

          plus... all the teens look alike...
maybe that's the problems
facing these *******
reasoning type inhibitors of
the urge...

     mind you...
   lars von trier's take on
paedophilia in nymphomaniac...
at least some had
the ***** to commit
             to the deviant taboo...
but all the children look alike...
    what is it?
the fetish for "everything"
looking alike?
     generic fetish?

to reiterate:            

in the end...
     like all babies...
they just have the faces
of clones...
           non-distinguishable...

the difference between me
and your common folk...
well...
   kicking someone in the head...
on parole...
for distributing leaflets
in a new employment...
    whatever they did...
i suppose
the guillotine would be
a more humane eventuality
to provide justice on the part
of the victim...

       sexuality is odd...
to make homosexuality norm...
but paedophilia a taboo...
  feels like "someone" is being
excluded...
can't exactly make one
the norm and leave the other
one in the tribunal
of the nomads;
                          how is it fair?

in no desence,
   but i gather: what i have written,
will never reach the pop
majority that is usually associated
with a pop backlash,
just like: psychology made philosophy
popular in the 19th century,
by shortening it,
by sticking to schematic explanations...
like this,
   this will not reach the regurgitators
of pop culture, those twitter
sycophancy *****...
        unless, i'm, dead!
            i'll be left with drying
my jeans on the bed, with a cat sleeping
on the same bed i've decided to treat
as a rack...
      even now...
              try reading a Marcel Proust
2 vol. edition...
                    go to the gym, bro.,
       believe me: go to the gym, bro.
              
me? i love it...
it's like i can put on a godhead of either
rat or a fox, and manoeuvre my way
past all these jimmy... ****...
all these jeremy clarksons...
    and jeremy kyles...
                         another whiskey bottle
for me, another obscure prog rock album...
another night...
         and the world can just pass
me by, while i return to enjoying
skipping onto a double-decker from romford
to stratford, through to oxford st.,

some bad latin, even worse scottish gaelic...
these days you're not even famous
for 15 minutes, as, according to the andy warhol
prediction...
no one is famous these days,
not even for 15 minutes...
             the 15 minute window is over...
now? if you want to be "famous"...
sorry...
             infamy doesn't work
in 15 minute slots...
      when you're "famous" these days?
you're infamous forever...
         these days any publicity:
is bad publicity...
           i'll curse the day when i become
relevant to a large enough
number of people...
      that's the day i will learn
that i have lost the respect of the few
i managed to enthral.
Megan Sherman Feb 2017
The other night she had a dream
A vision vivid and supreme
A lucid dream upon a beam
That an Angel came to play

Although they only met that day
She knew instinctively their paths were crossed
A mutual truth on Hearts embossed
Where have you been 'til now: Lost

She's shut off because Love had cost
Unable to reach her Heart's fruition
Adding to the weight of her contrition
Dampening her Heart's ambition

She dwells deep in the superstition
That her intentions are poisonous, impure
And doesn't know what is hurting more
That she fixated when she adored

Or lost dignity when she implored
Hurling herself at an enchantment
Prisoner of passion's encampment
Destined to never find contentment

Her passion has no control, no government
But the Angel perceives her artful love
Singing for spectres that soar above
An image on which the mind can rove

The spirit is their treasure trove
A paradise and kingdom it is
A sanctuary, enveloped in bliss
Touched by Lover's kiss

No words, but glances, shared in tryst
An understanding nontheless reached
A yearning mind that wants to be teached
By Love, to alleviate that Heart ached

Her destiny and fate have been watched
But with Angel she wants to rebel
And stick her fingers up to hell
To fathom Love and in there dwell

Can think of nothing quite as swell
They traverse the wild, unchartered tracks
Find what their spirit lacks
For divinest bliss they have the knack

No more feeling beaten blue and black
Speechless with Love for Angel's soul
She is enchanted, enamoured, enthralled
The conspiracy her mind appalled

Felt as though her spirit felled
But the music of better way had knelled
And towards it she had, free, sailed
Heralding it in her music, a dream she hailed
Precious Vera Jan 2019
Woman in the mirror
I glimpse at a blurred and monotonous reflection. Visions of washed out dreams,the hope of refuge initially proved a mirage. She stares at me with a gloomy face,eyes sunken with unfathomable emotion the gleam that usually flickered in her eyes has now become peculiar. She has become surrounded by
an air of melancholy ushered by rebuff . Things have fallen apart. She looks at the craks of the mirror which resemble her abyss heart. Pensive I glare in contempt scrutinizing this woman who stares at
me with a faint ghost of a smile and an ocean in her eyes,but little do they know that these tears keep them afloat,a wounded healer she is.For months
I've chased rainbows trying to recognise her. I've clutched at straws to chase those washed out dreams. In the midst of 2018 she's lost herself,she's become a hostess to desolation,despair and trauma. Nontheless,all she pursues more than anything is euphoria and peace.
Tjipenandjambi Uanivi
L Apr 2019
Picking up bottles is so much easier than not doing so. The weight of it is nonexistent. No matter the amount within, no matter the content. the bottle goes up and comes back down, physically, at least just a bit lighter than before. But nontheless, the bottle is weightless to its almost but not quite unsuspecting victim. the worst part is when the drinkee already knows. instead of physical weight within the bottle, they feel the mental weight within themselves. 'This is a game that you will not win. but you will play, regardless.' and play it i will, i suppose. how else am i going to get it to shut up. get it out of my damnned face. get out of my doggamn head.
Precious Vera Jan 2019
Affliated with her father's affliction of abandonment,she embraced the love of an absent father. He diminished, oblivious to the passage
of time. Leaving her with yearnings of fatherly affection,however his devotion to fatherly duties wavered.
For two decades on no account was he solicitous about the welfare of his daughter. She seeked for his love and support,the lack of affirmation left her with piercings in her heart.
Nontheless,she found adoration that of a loving and kindhearted man. He's warmth love was ample to patch the wounds of her pierced heart. He pampered her with fatherly love,through him she got the satisfaction of calling someone "father". It's been long since she's known that feeling, like a soft blanket on a night when the wind howls.
He becomes her mentor,her Braveman and the epitome of her happiness.
Otja Tjipee Uanivi 17th October 2018
Dimitrios Sarris Jul 2017
So many times i've heard that moving on doesn't mean
you forget about things but you accept what's happened
and continue living. From one side of the coin it feels
normal and healthy to do so but from the other side it
feels like containment to a secret agreement with ourselves
that allow us only to believe that we won't regret the choices
we made. Nontheless i gain some relief remembering
what my greatest love once told me.
"If you can think of beautiful goal in your life, a happy
ending, then live beautifully until that end."
I guess as long as i have life in me i will fight with all my
might to that end and if i fail at least i'll say i tried.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
.something akin to... a reminiscence of the opening scene of vanilla sky... i can't imagine the amount of effort and co-ordination it took... back then... to completely empty time sq. well... now i sort-of can... of note: for every # there should have been a chinese "character" in its place... i can't seem to inject them... but they are available at allpoetry (//bit.ly/3bopkJr) and deepundergroundpoetry (//bit.ly/2ywqzaS)... however tedious, this pickles (me, nontheless)...

pettitoes... when dickens isn't being a samvel veller...
         tatties: neeps 'n' 'aggis...
pettitoes: petite toes...
   bicameral mind - manhattan -
a man in a hat... (julian jaynes)
      yes.... but a little detail: not invoked:
a man with a tan wearing a hat...

otherwise... it would be most respectable to call:
ginger: the root...
             but... the keratin colour
of... the nails that become hair...
well:
              ginja... ninja...
                   digging trenches and
pig troughs of mass graves for... the... "laughter"?

       ginj'ah ninj'ahs...
             ***** hair... worn best
on the face of a man as...
                well... bypassing the whole
affair of ******* and presenting
                                                   the sinless adam...

needless to say: "once upon a time"...
victorian english... the "H" was yet to be a surd...
       one would find: ha'    instead
of             'ad...
              for the term: had aye: yes:
punctured weaving cruxes
with an i, i would have... 'ave...
   if that wasn't too straining to begin with
                         concerning the roman salute...

then again... 'ave i any concerns for:
áve or avé?!

the mountain (#) and the Ш (shuckles) or... Щ
                             (sh'   'itty          cheese)...
       this prime logogram...
the skeleton of mandarin...
                         or perhaps: hardly...
then the 2nd tier...
the ideograms and the "abstract"...
i guess # is very much "up"...
             as # is very much "down"...
as is... copernican north and a copernican south...
yep... up there on the moon...
what is the heliocentric "north"?

         funny... though...
                   didn't Tyr leave a simpler "abstract"
of "up" with the rune letter:           ᛏ           ?
   otherwise being pulled apart:
                           ᛨ:   up (ᛉ) and down (ᛦ)
   huh?! what's this doing 'ere (ɻ)?
                and of course... the much more crude
variation of pst! Ψ: poseidon was 'ere too!

does this look like anything concerning knives?
                      #?
now i'd ask... drop an adjective:
                       blunt into the whole
affair...     because? well... # is but a blade...
   if i were to find a difference between
a     sharp #          and a blunt #...
               (# = knife) i'd be all the happier!

this is a person: #... well...
     this # is a mountain?
       how rare are... lonely mountains...
   akin to fuji?
                         i see a mountain i see a volvano...
yes... last time i checked: a lonely mountain
is a volcano... mountain tend to huddle...
volcanos stand alone...
             so... is # a mountain?
and # is a tree?
          i find the abstraction at fault...
this is a forest of pines: |||||||||||
                                             ||||||||
                                            |||||||||| at length
even birches... but isn't a tree as simple
as Y? or how that's also the tongue of
a serpent?          oh, to be sure...
                               #... rest... leaning against a tree?
                   how's                  /Y?
                               what a funky lookin' tree
the chinese have abstracted... #: i'm guessing it's
a bonsai... which would make leaning against
it... almost impossible!
   of the crux of the matter:
            isn't the greek and latin version of tree: Y
bare more similarity than the chinese "abstract" #?

yes oh yes: geniuses of the orient...
          squint hard and lon enough
you'll bound to see... the sort of punishment
they devised for dunces...
counting 100 grains of uncooked rice using
chop-sticks from one pile into another!
   to build a wall to encompass the reiteration
of a mountain range...
because when Hannibal crossed the alps...
no elephants fell off the crevices of the trial...
Xerxes also whipped the sea:
which i'll take quiet literally...
      because that thing was common...
to not associate a bridge with... instead...
      Nebuchadnezzar...
cuckoo worship of persian leaders...

     H was actually devised to be employed
as a rugby post / goal...
          yep... all along it was hatched as a plan
for the game of rugby...
never to be a surd...
of the abstract of a clown juggling
while riding a unicycle -
  because H was never about the juggling
of vowels when expressing...
that very base origin of:
how the vowels needed a letter to attach
themselves when one should
               be better laugh... ah ha ha ha...

continued - with great volubility -
alt: with vehemence...
but no... pluck a feather...
   indeed... a crow's feather landing in
my garden... an omen like any other...

   this is (#)  both a nose and a self...
      and thank the dog's ******* and monkey chins
that it more or less implies the latter more...
perhaps... self... no: not combinatoriality...
a self is like a set of drawers... a cupboard...
conveniently... segregated into rows...
socks tier 1, t-shirts tier 2...
        
and as ever... looking for a word...
a googlewhack: compentralized
                     (tinyurlcom/y8dc7ckl)...
assorted... fitting the designated volume
of space...

hell... what good is an algorithm search engine...
when one really rather desires
the alphabetic route... and looking through
the list of the prefix comp-
                                         ?    ?
                                         ?    ?

eh! easy! compare... comparison...
    compartment!

             com-par-tmen-talize!
com-part-mental!
  this word would do better with a german tweak...
to escape the ******* and vagabon father
  (z and s respectively)... i.e. compartmentaliße!

sometimes the mind does wander...
better for me: i always found crossword puzzles
more entertaining as a double-act...
than any gratifying escape into solipsistic adventures...
of the: horizons of the self-assured reason...
whether pure... impure or...

           tancticum: philosophia polingano ad normam
               burgundicae
                             Eusebius Amort (1730 a.d.)
          tinyurlcom/yakfgo62 - close... googlewhack...

was this rushed? i don't think so...
too many juxtapositioning to arrange...
perhaps this should have the alt. title of:
   a phonetic assault on the "middle kingdom"?
would one call the telegraph - rushed?
  i'd be most likely to forgive myself
by conjuring up the adjective: telegraphic to suit
this... congestion.

— The End —