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Mateuš Conrad May 2016
only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language
will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.


working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.
Ayetrayn Dec 2013
born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation
complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience
ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow
breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty
divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs
fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds
seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake
so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake
to take her language for another world
visions died with imminence and grandiosity
a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture
living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity
glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity
careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins
glossy water robs apostles of oxygen
filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry
& now the god’s live in ignorance and misery
crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground
astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds
powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude
another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood
confused prisoners gifted with the write to think
proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings
a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions
matter undermined the undefined enlightenment
spirals in the light comprise a present tense
evanescent destination sensei keep I humble
so many stripes up in my wavelengths
widowed endorphins scrape the pain away
balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity
many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
it has been exactly since ~3p.m.
                                                            yesterday...
                                       through to
3p.m. today: that's 24 hours +
                                      4 o'clock, 5 o'clock rock,
          6 o'clock,
                                          7, 8, 9
                     10, 11 and the upcoming twelve
         24 + 9 + excess passing the 36th hour...
oh this is just target practice -
                  what used to be
   serotonin has become adrenaline:
   spawning cobweb shadows with
   a mere arm-hair aligned with an itch:
i say to my cohabitants -
        i'm too poor to rent an apartment
with my contemporaries,
         and i can't be bothered to look cool
for 10 years... before the money starts
coming in... a day before a tongue spoke:
and see you in 20 years...
         and see you in 30 years...
the people born prior to 1975
       and after 1969 came out to earn
£57,000 a year... while those born
after 1979 and before 1985 had a wealth
*** of £27,000...
                            who are the landlords?
quick digression, i love how the idea
of exiting the bloc (it used to be designated
to the eastern bloc, now anything east of Calais
if a bloc... the European bloc -
        my my... ain't it love-ly?
   they wanted an Australian points system,
so first came the Australian plastic currency,
boy, i was happy, cashing in my first Churchill
miniature that i could dip in baked beans
and use as a spoon) spread beyond the old
stereotype... and the points system?
you know who's smoking the hookah of
panic here?            
                            the freelancers of nationality...
   they haven't fitted in...
don't worry... they'll keep you,
but after seeing you they just thought:
once the cheeky chappy, now a chavvy chappy...
  we love the E2 dialect, it's hardly Coccers
or bonkers... but after my day
(i'll relate to it in a moment)
       i heard to prop'ah Cockneys giving it
all the guv' and n'ah and
        what's Kilimanjaro in Cockney slang?
all the Cockneys are living in Essex,
   Romford, Chelms and the Essex lads
from Ireland are a bit shy, never talk to
the old people who used to live on
the Isle of Dogs or the Wharf -
              East London moved, and i'm in
the thick o' it... you ***...
                       i'm here,
open ******* spaces and hedgehog counts
to mind... never the next Susie from
Whitechapel doing the runner from Jackie,
             and funny that,
the day began during the night,
sober, i tested the idea: if you gonna go
nocturnal, stay sober...
                  fast... drink coffee in the morning,
and what some proper bollocking
        on the box...
                               i say: revivals never
sounded more like bells, the 1970s
had Patois... the old parle with dread-lock Sam...
             i squeeze in a bit of Norse
and hey presto... Ahmed's your uncle...
                     'cos we all like a bit of
way-hey banter, the: back in the day
   when the 1966 squad was best known
for West 'am...
                               am i sensing the idea that
i'm licking off the prop'ah beef burger 'ere?
                    what the **** rhymes
with Kilimanjaro?
                                wait! got this one:
apples & pears - stairs...
                          you gyro?
                        no! wait... the two Cockneys
weren't from south London,
this ain't Peck'am talk... this is proper grub...
         jar squared: verb, meaning?
     i know my neighbour, heard him
lecturing his wife over the wall about
the diminishing concept of family in the "west",
           to me that's
the Cockneys meant by guv'nah:
                           aw right der geezer,
   stop that fidgety: don't be late tomorrow,
let a man eat his plums and wear his trousers...
       i swear: the only good cinema these days
is English cinema...
                                 i said! the only good cinema
these days is English cinema...
               if i didn't watch
       we **** the old way during the night,
after spending my day as i did (i'll get onto it,
hold your submarines)
                               i would have pricked my ears
on the two Cockneys next door
   at 4p.m.                  finishing some job...
but given the "guv'nah's" attitude: 'aving
a laugh at coming early tomorrow, if at all.
     my day?
                 i wished i could say i woke up
early...
                            the entire spectrum
of sunrise...
                            epileptic shock from the sun
after smoking a cigarette at 5a.m. when
all the constellations where out...
                          not enough sleep,
as the Russians say: no good to live but to
not have seen snow.
                               it shivers with enough
hours under your belt...
                                      i'd love those
Soviet torture chambers of sleep malnutrition...
gents? when the ***** and the cards and cigarettes?
    i'm currently the most loathed
  person in America... which technically makes me
more than simply unemployed...
        anyway...
cut my hair... two millimetres off the helmet...
off the cranium... not crew cut, not skin on side
and some ***-fluff on top...
in the night, when the moon is bright,
   my two millimetres of hair look like skin...
oi! Skinners! the shame would have really been
to have protruding ears...
                                    come to think of it,
i love the contorts of my shadow more than
the body my shadow disdains...
                  i decided to visit my old school
after that...
                     ...............................
do you know the feeling of getting onto a bus
when you having been on any other form
of transportation (other than your legs)
for a few months?             surreal...
                   and even that's a bad way to describe it...
this is where words simply fizzle out...
                            they just did the white rabbit
trick and you're felt with nothing else to
do but squeeze into the top-hat and hope
that some other magician will pull you out
rather than another: white rabbit.
                          so the 499 from my house
up to Romford (sunny! glorious day!
   shirt, sleeves rolled up,
           denim trousers, navy suede shoes,
azure shirt, headphones, bus ticket,
wallet, packet of smokes, and the ride -
smile all you want - when you smash a sports
car you don't have the view of a dozen
horrified passengers there with you
to practice your ultimate Buddha gimmick -
Ching-Chong Eyed and smiling)
                oh yeah, the insurance... huh?
   off at Romford central, and onto the 86
courier from Bangladesh to Ilford...
                    what did i miss in the list above?
ah... three copies of poetic optometry...
written by? moi, n'est pas? oh come on,
let's not get the ruler out: mangetout and manage trois...
                           (only fuel is horses)
           the 86 is a double decker, the 499 isn't...
sun in my eyes behind the glass the enhanced star
gleamed: what privilege -
               by day the star
                                           by night the star in
   a mirror that's the moon -
                                         selfish helium
giggling into a hydrogen Hindenburg fury!
                 or that's what the scientists say...
how they worked it out, i'll never know...
                            but apparently the sun
is a H-He           something or other...
            H because of atom bombs,
   and He because we giggle like idiots when we see
it: never the thirsty horse in cowboy movies.
   got off at Seven Kings...
in between school girls eyeing everyone and everything...
just my luck... schoolchildren...
                               everywhere on the bus...
just there...
                                    and also just nowhere...
         so i got off at Seven Kings and went into my
old catholic school...
                                  waited at the reception for a good
5 minutes (good to know they're still teaching
people manners with regards to the uttermost
productive necessity of bureaucrats)
               -              i asked about my old English
teacher: does Dr... er... does Mr. Thomas,
        er, does Mr. Bunce (Thomas) still work here?
   yes, he does.
             you see, i'm a former pupil of this school
and i wondered if i could have a meeting with him.
oh, that's impossible, he's currently teaching.
                     Kafka... note this in your afterlife...
         well... in that case, could i leave him a message?
oh sure, just write your name and your contact details
and he'll get in touch with you.
   well... i need a bit more than a scrap of paper,
can i have a notepad?
                 sure.
                                    so i took  the pen
and the notepad and sat in this grand refurbished hall
of the school that used to remind me
of chemistry labs stinking of old wood and sulphur,
of the old ways... of being beaten and Pink Floyd
escapism and all the hippy crap...
                               what a grand place this has become...
it's no longer known as C. P. Catholic School...
but the plus version: C. P. Academy...
  but you still walk into the plus surroundings and there
are still pamphlets written by Father Ted
about *our Lord and Saviour christ Jesus...
          or Hey! Zeus! in Spanish... same ****...
different cover...
                               but i was well dressed in my
Indian summer wear that's Indian summer:
English September and October...
              i'd move the calendar up a bit...
get the kids off anti-depressants...
                           anyway, i had my three copies
of the "first edition", try tell that with the internet
breathing down your neck... it doesn't, matter...
             but i did write him a lovely note:
unchaining me from the straitjacket of grammar!
                  i wrote from what year i graduated
2002 (g.c.s.e.) or 2004 (a-level),
                        and blah blah and one more blah
later                    walked back to the reception
  and asked for a rubber-band...
                   then i bundled the whole thing together
and asked if she could give it to him...
                    of course, she replied.
                            p.s. if you don't mind,
Mr. Thomas, you can always shove one of those
copies into the school library...
                         p.p.s., someone stashed
the book about the Gnostics by some German in
there once... maybe i'm thinking along the same lines.
      the journey back?
i walked.
                                 i walked from Seven Kings
to Romford...
                               taking a stroll
with one hand in my pocket (left)
because holding a cigarette in the other is never
exactly great when it's not doing something...
that's what the pockets are for...
not exactly suited for your wallet... but your hand...
when you're strolling in the green-belt fields
segregating the outer-most London (wannabe
Londoners / Eastenders) and the Essex inheritors
of Cockney... Kilimanjaro?
                                  Kilimanjaro?
                 ­                          me, i don't Essex
either...           most of the bankers chose this
district for the scenery, i.e. standing in a field
that isn't a hill or any sort of elevation
and beyond, yonder, the glass shards of their
former institutions...
                                        4.7 miles... not bad...
  a stroll... and that's without any food and solely
on coffee and a sleepless night...
           a butterfly fluttering along the way (only one)
and a fresh ripe auburn conker lying beneath
an oak tree (also, only one)...
            but what hit me was walking back...
it was truly like reading the book of revelation...
13:7... all the way from Seven Kings through to
the Romford: the street vendors, the bookies,
the Muhammedian car dealers...
                  the bewildered ones walking into
mosques, Sikh temples...
                                       one man cleaning the patio
entrance to a church from weeds...
                           cheap Kentucky chicken from America
         (if you think, that they don't synthesise
the meat in cat food and call it tuna or beef
but rather use actual meat... you're grossly mistaken,
    it was on the news...
                                         they are already
capable to synthesise meat...
                                     they do it in the perfume industry,
they're doing it in the food industry -
    a childhood memory of asking why they were
smearing lipstick on the frogs they caught...
they replied: they burn easier...
                  and they did... paint a frog lipstick
pink and boy... that's a French marshmallow, right there)...
           but if you ever walk that stretch of road...
               revelation 13:7...
          i'd like to see the Evangelists wriggle out
of that one...                       oh sure...
i treat religious television like some meathead
might watch football... it's game on after 5 minutes...
but anyway... that was my day...
           all 36 or so hours of it... how was yours?
                                                          ­                        g'day!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
if ted berrigan's
sonnet xv
   isn't a testimony to me
venturing to say:
keep the paragraph
custard away from us...
if ted berrigan isn't
an optometrist...
     then i'm vague,
blind... my eyes aren't
playing hands
  in a pub throwing darts...
because i have to say:
fiction is wholly linear........................................................
..­.................................................................­..........................
......................................­.......................................................
now i really appreciate what you're
doing... as every smart-*** does
laughing: thanks for the *****!
but... no.
          i've been prescribed
a celibacy where i yank and call
for Beelzebub!
    veal in a veil of sodden trademarks....
and once it was all about
making poetry jazz, but they
made it too obvious by reciting
their poems to jazz... only one
improv gets away... and lives
in this town...
and ol' teddy was in on it...
but i'd like to return to the tornado,
the crazy-eyes of reading poetry,
up
down
up
down
right
left
backwards
forwards
it's total freedom man...
a bee flies past
my neighbour's dog
walk in the garden looking
for the bark and the night...
i'm getting ******
and i'm thinking about
getting ****** with
the Jim Morrison tourists
who come to his grave
at père lachaise - funnily enough
i was there, once...
and once will do it for me:
i need the vampirism of
distortion, tackling imagination
with memory...
but seriously, why are all the competent
men of our age, lodging
thought into the brain?
that the brain somehow emulates
thinking...
there's also another gym opening,
turning brain (fat) into bicep (muscle)
by doing crosswords religiously
and all other mensa crap-a-*******-too
on the didgeridoo... qua quan quank...
for some reason i hear a didgeridoo
i only hear q... and testicles in a
wrench...
             but it really is optometry with
ted berrigan... in his sonnet vx...
up
down
up
down
              i.e. in joe brainard's college its white arrow
does not point to william carlos william.
   he is not in it, the hungry head doctor.
   what is in it is sixteen ripped pictures
of marilyn monroe, her white teeth white-
washed...
  so it has to either be optometry or gymnastics...
because i swear i just did a cartwheel there...
up
down
up
down
             and it's done with such force...
like a pigeon talking cuckoo...
    and then the hope that the dust does settle
down, and our modern narcissist
  steers away from looking into the darwinistic
mirror and incorporates other animalistic
traits into defining his sole possession...
     i'd like to see man imitating man,
rather than create this chasm of:
    like jacob unto god, so god unto jacob,
but given we're dealing with realism:
like man unto ant, so ant unto man...
           and you really can't say you'll turn
myopic reading poetry...
   painting, in words, not mere graffiti...
if like me: you get tired of colour
  and feel no need to experiment with
colour emphasis high on l.s.d.
   well: you're coming to the party of miserable
sods, with Dante at the fore.
      and if i really did mind the Geneva convention
on punctuation, i wouldn't full stop
and refresh with an
and...                               conjunctions don't
belong at the fore, nor at the back...
    but here's to heresy in the secular realm!
but seriously: why say thought resides in the brain?
and that we need more brain-power?
      brain-strain, ice-cream stashed as quickly
as a turkey might say girball in between that
cocky-glug-glug while being forcefed / stuffed...
  and would you believe it: it still won't
sit on a dusty mantle-piece... but glittering like
oil and gold... on something as intrinsic
         as an impermanent table of pilgrims.
male turkeys yes: where once there was a larynx
there now hangs a angry-red *******.
but you really can't say that poetry
can strain your eyes, you can't say
the writing is claustrophobic,
   that it really does strain the eyes in
paragraph litany...
       then it's at least that...
written like advert 1 and advert 2 by the side
of the road, two miles apart, on
giant billboards... albeit without
the fancy writing or the fancy colour...
but it's there alright.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ******* blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
let's just say i didn't like the voyeuristic aspect,
of being bang in the middle
of people's living rooms -
people's lives however glamorous or
atypical - best comparison is that
internet traffic is like a street -
passersby everywhere - but being an estate
agent bothered me - new mantle places emerged,
like in the days when one lucky person
on the street owned a television, and people
came round to watch the football match,
or when some pivotal speech was made...
but it just got to me... i started to think:
shouldn't privacy be more and more understood,
in a new (Kant was accused, imagine,
he was accused of being a spy) way we approach
intelligence? other people's lives are just
passable... including my own - plus the website in
mention got too much bad press,
in most cases the night of long knives was
done at random, at other times? proximity,
one person on the list i can walk to a pub with,
he walks his miles from one side, i walk the miles
from my side... we head bang in the middle
to the Eva Hart in Chadwell Heath...
he says Desboys, i says De-boi - parle(z)-vou(s)...
parle(z)-vou(s) Anglai(s)?
                                                linguistics uses the
complex symbols... i use the plain and simple ear
and optometry trick: enclosed in bracket
letters  ( ) aren't optional, they're dropped...
also called the Merovingian ß-shearing:
but nonetheless written for aesthetic reasons...
and for aesthetic reasons dropped from pronunciation.
so i said... let's choose 24 randoms and keep
them poetry junkies... at least they're not
showing me their living rooms and their mantle
pieces of family life in extremes that i know of...
plus they're the only ones that might appreciate
Gregory Corso's poem Marriage... or i just don't
know anything at all... but what the hell
is going on in that poem? constellations?
he's going to show a girl constellations?
there are only about 3 in the night sky i see...
the scorpion constellation, the big wheelbarrow
and the small wheelbarrow, and something resembling
a rhombus - so that's a maximum of four:
the theory is the universe is expanding...
i don't even want a Hubble telescope to agree with
that... better than colonising mars, i'd expand
by building a permanent telescope on the moon
like the idea behind the international space station...
the moment when science fiction overtook
actual science... people just keep imagining things...
i actually think the French are worse than
the English, even though the diacritical marks
are applied, at least the letters aren't dropped...
well, we have the town of Re(a)ding,
we have reeds and reading, re(a)d and red -
past participles applaud.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
go to a brothel, you won't feel anything about what's considered the teenage atypical damning of events that make violins of us all.

now i know why i prefer bourbon to whiskey,
my usual stock went missing today
at the supermarket, i was thinking prior
recycling a plastic bottle of coca cola and a glass
bottle of whiskey... three Buds on offer for
£5 and then a bottle of Scots' Club at £11 (and
a bottle of coke): for the extra walk to buy
£5.99 Chesterfields at the Bangladeshi outlet?
hmm, that's a tough one... solved, Scots' Club
dried up, they've been watching my predictable
pattern on c.c.t.v., either that or i honed
on ant-mentality - which is far worse than
what Nietzsche described as herd mentality -
post-Nietzsche post-religion existentialism?
ants... not oxen, not sheep, not wildebeest -
simple, ants... compactness perfectó!
the antonym of deus ex machina, i.e.
the deus in machina - we all have our roles,
plumber electrician poet... cashier drill sergeant
bus driver... with me i imagine a Michelin star
kitchen... yes chef... yes chef... what is this ****?!
throw that under-cooked scallop away!
if it ain't perfect throw it away!
most would beg to cry and run out of the tense
environment - ooh look at me, bourbon makes
me rosy cheeked - the smell of it makes me summon
the gluttonous honey thickness of a prostitutes
lubricated **** - in Amsterdam with the laws
being lenient they call them sanitation workers
from Bolivia, this plump one told me her life story,
****** into bucket in front of me, told her
child minion to get beers for me, laughed
when i wanted to lick her out - opened the window
to fish the punters into her abode - true story -
i have absolutely no imagination, experience
counts - Amsterdam is fun - you should go there
some time... it's so much freer without
this Victorian-like theatre of courtship in England,
20 years in England, never ****** a swan -
she's too into her feminism away from the "naughty parts" -
darling... and what does your lover call you during
******* while you're drooling on the Ajax?
hmm? sloppy Samantha... or just ****?
***** words during arousal makes the geek take
the noble toilet paper given to them by the maidens...
(psst... they think it's a hanky)...
and with all that space, poets have a phobia with
punctuation, hence verses, hence missing colon (or alter
italics), semi-colon - maybe a full-stop along the way...
and the most annoying part, thus examples:
Prose writers speak a lot,
They draw the matchsticks by the lot - (oh hell, forget the hyphen,
that's reserved for Oxford acceptance of new words
requiring agility and optometry's rediscovery of origin:
Saxons in Istanbul running a sausage stand -
no no, ****'s Halal, we promise!)
But when they speak, they speak to the grey matter -
Never quiet the sparkler parts of the brain...
CAPITAL WITH EACH NEW LINE...
toss-up between learning punctuation and not using it -
i doesn't matter if poetry is the opposite of the claustrophobia
of prose's skeletal rigidity of a paragraph -
poets could become less tedious by using punctuation,
i'd begin with an exercise - count to one-hundred -
ensuring the space between one and ninety-nine
is uniform, i.e. a second apart - can't happen
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
| | | | | | | | | |
   11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
    |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
         22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
          |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |;
when in Edinburgh i had a mental implant, the compass,
mostly thanks to the locality, and the Firth of Forth -
i knew my west and my east, esp. looking at Prince's
Street (scoot-ish Manhattan - squares and linear
and diagonals, picture perfect) from just off the Royal
Mile - honestly, from the old city i could see America
don't below. but bourbon really does have a brothels'
perfumery feel about it - it really hits the cheeks and
warms them up... whiskey oddly enough doesn't...
that's what ****** her off... high-brow ******* -
a boy a girl a ******* - not romantic Marcel Schwob's
Monelle* - harsh realism of de Sadé (who also
wore the t-shirt with the slogan: I'M A FEMINIST!
while cursing from his cell window in the Bastille) -
the Saudi oil billionaires will run out at some point,
last days of the **** - i know, i prefer de Sadé -
adds a bit of spice - and if i'm going to be brutally
honest as his critics are, well, i'll be honest
about one of his works - ****** - crispy mint.
debates on the Man Booker prize - old guard and new
guard - that's the problem with the English...
they pretend to read on their Summer holiday...
who the hell reads in summer? they spend
their Winters in front of the television - i thought
that winter suited reading as it does writing?
the long nights, esp. the long nights -
the Russians said: our future is in your reading public -
the Americans said: our future is in the pulverise(d)
by images public - iconoclasm of words, trademark
logos (telegrams from time to time) - just recently
an advert at a bus-stop by some Asian car manufacturer -
no nuance, but definitely nuanced: GO FUN YOURSELF -
also called the state of literacy rates in England,
a girl writes her G.C.S.E. English exam paper
in text acronym (UR v. you're); so they locked up the Marquis
for obscenity, but Anaïs Nin walked free to everyone's
applause - the part where you tell me Kierkegaard
made a meal from the tree of good and evil
with his work either / or attached to Nietzsche's
beyond... muddles muddles and pumpernickel troubles;
sure, call it word salad - but i hardly think you're
a vegetarian; going to a brothel makes all this
****** warfare seem rather obsolete - esp. when it's prompt
for books and debates and serious action -
all the prostitutes of France came out in protest when
the government wanted to punish the pundits -
hey! do a Jesus! side with the "filth"!
these girls aren't going to be nuns, the feminists won't
save them, not one of them will be a star in a real-life
adaptation of pretty woman - and not, a, single, one
will buy the feminist arguments of the bourgeoisie actresses -
me? i will not ever have a girlfriend who experiments
with her child niece in a theme park imagining me in a
daddy role... or reads me a questionnaire about complimenting
differences from a Cosmopolitan magazine.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
we really have created a new equivalent of a phone-book (remember, the english language utilises hyphenation for compounding two words as an antidote to its Saxon origins, whereby all German compound words: noun interchanging with verbs, and more nouns is not accustomed to the utility of the hyphen... but then again the english tongue is shrapnel off german, all these conjunctions and prepositions of limited spelling: and those two Dajjal eyes, the one protruding (the definite article), and the other, an emptied cranium socket (a-, the indefinite article, or, as expressed with a missing eye - thus treating the indefinite article by making it a prefix with a hyphen is what's revelatory). i wonder though, of the finite and infinite articles in language... could the possessive article ('s) tell us more? re-categorise these scraps and you get two very different vectors: the definite is plotted within algebraic form a straight line incrementation, y = x... the indefinite article, mathematically speaking? razor-blade (0, 0) coordinate fizzing chaotically about to explode in a direction no one knows exactly which one.

Antisθeνes and his prodigy Δioγeνes (yes,
yet another optometry appointment),
the former beat the latter with a stick when asking
for wisdom, both under the rubric of cynics and
sceptics, Antisθeνes: i rather be mad than delighted,
or awed.
               give the English atheists, botanists and
biologists all the delight and awe they can muster and
digest... the City State is on a comeback,
speak the words London, Paris... you're mentioning
city states... but you'll hardly hear of a 101 year old
in some obscure village drinking extra ****** olive oil
in the vicinity of the Tuscany region...
Diogenes who's faeces were featured on the coinage
of Frank Sinatra's pennies from heaven,
'better the faeces than some mugshot of a king on
this base metal!' Nietzsche: trans-valuation of all
bases: form the coin and you ask a blacksmith for a sword,
ask for a banknote and all books turn into toilet paper.
Cynic, derived from *canine
, Diogenes was such,
Greek buddha without a statue, instead, a burial urn...
thank god we can write about philosophers:
my fear of losing the luxuries i accumulated are due
to me shutting the window at 5 a.m. detested by
birdsong... and my lack of interest in brick-walls,
the luxury of having a book to ease the strain
of a summer sun... Arabian more or less, black fudge
burning and my scraps of what's hardly predictable thinking.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
you will only convert them by desecrating their alphabets, you will only convert them by plucking out their eyes, and inserting arabic Braille to touch... but given their alphabet created computerised encoding, programming, due to the many holes in their phonetic optometry recognition; you will only convert them by desecrating their alphabets - teaching them the odd protruding arabic word will not due... even those who claim the faith do not speak arabic fluently: thus endorse reaching to those who have protruding arabic in them, but speak with an east london bad boy boy'o wannabe gansta' style - recruit here your obedient servants.

only among the many can a real chance, chance fleeting
become noted to a lake turning into mirror for
Narcissus at night by the gleering bluish moon of winter -
as if my heart, a heart of a poet was to be entombed in Iran -
and indeed i ran and ran to that tomb of poets -
hence their protest at the Surah damning the poets
(ash-shu'ara),
a proud ***** of the poets that
Iran is... well... it says the many -
and indeed with the many
the few can truly protest for the many,
for the few must accept the
protest of the many as a sign
that there's a different route to be taken,
not the whimsical route of undoing
any chance practice of the skeleton
and the tendon strings attaching it
to godly muscular - a funnel of activity -
indeed the damnation of the poets
therein, and my identification as one,
brings the weight upon me as if
were to identify with all and defend all
who profess such an occupation -
minding that the profession bring
the rewards akin to banking, or cheap
smear novel writing - who would not
dare to think, in abode of their
comforts that - *one day poverty
-
over the past year or so, i have not received
a single letter being pushed through my
door - it's as if already the ridiculing
violins are playing - and as of this being
a 2nd critique of the western practice of
writing haiku - they're too enshrined in
the everyday - no chance - no drunk chinese
sage receiving a haiku with tear or
laughter - and here the sense of impeding
criticism, as Ezra warned at the end of
LXXXI
            'what thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
             first came the seen, then thus the palpable
             the ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
             pull down thy vanity, it is not man made courage,
             or made order, or made grace, pull down thy vanity!'

and indeed, what of Iblees? is that not god in reverse?
who made the previous world, known to us now,
this quote in the Surah al-hijr, about a fire which
wished not to become prostrated before the new creation,
after having suddenly revolved around not crafting
an asteroid belt to prevent future mishaps -
that this quote in al-hijr is the intelligence of the elders,
the former inhabitants - who's descendent remnants
still haunt our world - the slithering abstract of limbs,
the lizard spine - the i remember when rock was young,
me and suzie had so much fun, holding hands and
skimming stones, had an old gold chevy and a place
of my own but the biggest kick i ever got
was doing a thing called the crocodile rock
-
well at least he didn't do the blatant Liberace to elder
gems for a fur coat & chandelier - social mobility of
third party parenting laws came in - in france a law was
passed criminalising pundits of prostitutes...
the prostitutes came out in protest...
while the upper tier 9 month surrogate prostitutes
just laughed - so yeah... the inversion of some sort -
with that quote about the dinosaurs being the highest
creative product of god, the universe, whatever...
after all, life's just: one bunch of *******, telling another
bunch of ******* - 'we've got all the ***** and had
threesomes and ******' - my my, let's applaud
for our mutual embarrassment of the 2:1 ratio
of women to men living out a life of grizzly bear mothers
in little ****-holes on the English Riviera, like Clacton,
or Southend.
Sterile-cold and smelling
slightly of antiseptic
two leather half-moons
press into the crests
of your cheekbones.
The lenses click
swirling in their sockets
cover first one eye
and then the other.
Can you read the
writing on the wall?
Lovely lotus eater
swallowing desire or
wallowing in an advert
you’ve reached a
new peak
you are the epitome
the consummate consumer.
Your new glasses
may compliment your
cashmere
but they won’t
help you see.
4 Dec 2019
Hudson Everett Mar 2013
Alone the mirror,
Cracked and ugly
Stares blankly at nothing
Waiting for a face to draw upon
For images protruding
From behind my glassy eyes
Reddened without sleep
Speak softly to the morning me
And tell of unwanted future’s plan
I recklessly endanger hope
For self-satisfying ambitionless wishes
Defying optometry, optimistically,
I see beyond the pleasant and mundane
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
e.g. máteùš

i admit, i could have added another acute e to the spelling,
but i thought: that would really be too crowded,
a bit like, from the depths of hades, there arose
a sentence, that, might, have, looked, like, this.
                   too much punctuation, a crowded space,
what was necessary was some fresh air, and an open field
  somewhere down the middle of the word.
             ah... noticing this... chemists write numbers associated
to elements and compounds *subscript
...
     hence punctuation is like a chemistry script.
               diacritical involvement? that's like mathematical notation,
i.e.  write out                       x cubed, or y squared...
                   where do you place the 3 and the 2 with respect
to the algebraic hypotheticals? well, they go above,
   well: to the right corner of the hypotheticals;
              very much like diacritical marks; but of course,
this is language, so they are placed directly above the letter -
       but the comparison stands: both are punctuation statements,
chemistry of subscript notation of punctuation, inter-words -
mathematics of superscript notation of punctuation, intra-words.
    nietzsche once noted: polaks are the french of
                                            the slavs.

                now... about that congestion, and a due comparison...
  it comes down to the relation between acute, grave and the caron.
     in french:        e.g. the word crème fraîche
          ah **** the antonym of the caron, the circumflex! that too.
       thus into the aesthetic...
                the grave e (è) in the word crème?
                   the aesthetic ugly would look like this crèm...
               because that's the function of the grave e - it's as if
to pull back the word to the beginning, or at least reigning in the m,
     so the second e is not even pronounced.
         now the word fraîche and the dynamic of the circumflex
iota (î).      it does something similar to the grave diacritical mark,
       simple optometry... it's a constrictive symbol,
                       a biblical comparison to Samson pulling
    two pillars so that a temple falls...
                      î
                fra    che
but once again, the french aesthetic, the e is once more redundant,
  but, good heavens, imagine simply writing         fraîch... ?!
      so the circumflex and the grave accents have their similarities.

now, the second word, máteùš:
          here we have a different dynamic,
        the reason i didn't write it as mátéùš -
                     for one, having two diacritical marks on letters, side by side
is already pushing it, but three? and the fact that one of the letters
   doesn't have a diacritical mark, namely t? well, that already excludes
the letter from the word, which would make the word morph
   into máéùš:         otherwise, the original would be noted in algebraic
form as                       x = letter without a diacritical mark
        v = letter with a diacritical mark,
                                                           ­                  i.e. xvxxvv,
but imagine the variation              xvxvvv.
    anyway... what's the difference between the circumflex and the caron?
the caron? it hides one particular letter with regard to s;
   in slavic, that letter would be z...          in germanic?     h.
how you'd say shish (kebab).
                             i was once accused of pronouncing the word kebab
in arficaan... i can already see an entry point of diacritical
marks into english... africaan?   acute accent on both e and a
   so i don't say the word with a macron on the a (ā)
                                             kebāb (kebaab), africān (aan) -
**** this digression...
     back to the story...   what happens in the word     máteùš
which is antonym to the french aesthetic? primarily the grave u (ù)...
   and its relationship to the caron s (š)...
    the grave u suggests to the s: put on a cloak, put on a fez
of magical properties, so that the z will not see you, standing next to me.
        so the s duly agrees...
               without the caron above the s? how would the word look?
     z would come along, and rip off both their diacritical marks
z: u! give me the grave!
ù: no!
z: oh ****** well yes!         (pluck)
    right now i have a torso.
       s! the caron!
š: ok ok, just don't steal my curves.       (pluck)
z: ah... both arms and legs.
      now all that's missing is a head...
      oi! fake iota! the overdot!
i: sure, whatever, i never needed it in the first place,
        this is me sitting down, i stand up, and it's as if it was never there - I.
                                (pluck)
ż: aaaaaaaah...        (āāāāh, alternatively, i.e. ā = a x2).
  
p.s. and yes, ż is an orthodox letter... e.g.?   żart.... joke.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
some claim it's an aesthetic, others claim it's the mystery of lawlessness, because in all honesty: upper-case Q could be written in lower-case as ǫ, rather than q, all too familiar is ρ (rho) - and there is no law suggesting any convention should be kept to a model of standardisation... hence the dichotomy experienced by dyslexics to the familiar argument: why the disparaging phoneticism from optical aesthetic, why write that and then only say 'y'? much of modern English borrows from the seemingly unnecessary h insertion borrowed from Hindu... dhal... the aesthetic insertion of a surd-letter into an otherwise convenient phonetic-encoding... although either an umlaut or a macron is missing above the a to prolong it; and depending on your aesthetic palette... i'm already advocating a change to sz & cz by stressing the replacement using the caron: š / č... in English the equivalent is bound to words like shrapnel and chatter.

as anyone would say *idiot
, i'd say tuman,
that's because:
                          when syllables are inconvenient
i'd stress that, and write túman...
if i were saying swamp, i'd be right
in also saying bägno - obviously
there are distinctions, akin to punctuation
marks, diacritical marks are effectually
"punctuation" marks, well... inccissions
embedded in words;
these aren't rhetorical assertions, they're
biased on the basis of optometry.
then i might add: with a straw
                      alternatively słomką...
otherwise the noun słomka, i.e. straw,
wheat shaft... a shaft hollowed out
and as Polish girls know all too well:
snakebite (at English universities,
half beer, half cider, a head of
                            blackcurrant juice),
but back east it's just beer and raspberry juice
concentrate: funny... where's the rhapsody?
if the ą is used at the end of the word
then there's an intended action involving
the stated thing... but it's not a universal
statement, just this particular instance...
it's odd, i wake up from my Alaskan vigil
and realise i didn't take my sleep-synthetic
requirements to go to sleep during the night
and wake up during the night...
  that means i'm annoyed, putting it mildly.
words that shoot into my head like sunrise...
newspapers are the bearable versions of Proust,
   bypassing publishing houses can allow
for diarrhoea talent, and no to constipated
critically acclaimed blah blah...
    it's 8:36 in the morning and i don't know why
it's ****** beautiful... everyone's so content
with being busy, doing something, anything,
everything... it's that critical moment in autumn
when the leaves on trees have lost the stalemate
with ******-twisting winter frosts,
   and fall into the ***** of death and rot...
and then these random words enter my head,
words i either forgotten to use or are too obscure
to use in the first place, polish slang...
e.g. kumam, i understand -
     p'stro, a condescending consideration
     for explaining something worth contempt
to the other, but not the self, i.e. the magpie attitude.
   i can't help myself, seeing English *******
on by lazy ***** with :) and :( and acronym talk
i feel i have to provide an antidote...
  the ' in p'stro?         bulging / building up,
there's no p in any language with a syllable
distinction worth a diacritical mark...
   and now it's 8:42 in the morning, and i have half
a litre of whiskey to sniff... should i?
what's Copernican west to Copernican a.m.?
   gentlemen only drink in the afternoon...
yep, and Ben Hur drank in the morning for
the calories awaiting the chariot races...
ha ha... i'd love to see a drunk goldfish...
    but it's fun like that... so many serious people out
there who learned the Pink Floyd march of
the hammers... i don't think i can take a bishop
with a bishop's attire seriously...
                   or a skinhead Buddhist monk...
they're all baldy baldy vaseline hoping for the sheen...
can any authority be taken seriously?
       now i'm truly bullshiting...
i lost this one word in my head... sieve:
motyl, butterfly,
           ćmá, moth (that's a slingshot need
          for acuteness on the a, slingshot is the stress on
the c, and the stress on the a is the actual missile,
   oh, by no means is this orthodox),
  język, tongue / language,
  ozór, edible cow tongue: very tender
in creamy horseradish sauce accompanied with
Silesian gnocchi...
            Q is the acute version of K & C,
i.e. what would otherwise be deemed é to an e.
   wolny, a penalty kick / someone who's free,
  wapń, calcium...
                  what i'm basically saying is that we encounter
so much vocal poverty in this world,
so many words are disused or underused or simply
abandoned...
                        someone weeps over a disused building
weathered by the elements...
   i see an opportunity to engage squatters,
or in the case of words: poets.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
after two visits, once seeing Werther another time seeing Don Quixote, i realised that poetry is the perfect tool for the claustrophobic surroundings... Kant is too much custard and like all philosophy books, always reminds us of being anti-social and park benches... movement and philosophy don't mix, all they did is posture with two essentials so far removed from each other (time & space), that it's almost impossible to imagine the two colliding to create movement, which is why reading a philosophy on the tube is so ****** daunting - next time it's Ezra's kind optometry (as any other poetry) to make the journey quicker - from Hainault St. to Holborn and then Covent Garden? about an hour or so... via the murk of East London... into the glittering heights of the good life, where everything essential is turned into non-essential bling and peacock boast; a girl could walk past with a Gucci dress and i wouldn't even know or care... but she would.

i should have mentioned a third book on that
shortlist - but it's not really a book,
but a method - if it was in Greek
(and i am playing ping pong with the New
Testament using the prophetic methods
kept hidden by rabbis) it would
resemble something aesthetic, not noun related,
meaning it would probably look something
like σ                        ς      
                                ­        θ                 φ -
that's in ref. to the two haystacks in the tetragrammaton -
although these two variations do not
have the same meaningful connotations as yHwH,
because both sigmas and theta and phi are referring
to an aesthetic, not an actual name - but you
get the picture - two completely different
approaches as to why man decided to grant two variant
encodings the same pronunciations -
only aesthetic reasons, after all, art can be art
and be pretty pretty and all theoretically relevant
once the job is done, but writing is not exactly
a job for a calculator, we don't write for functions,
in essence we write for beauty, in essence that's
what writing always required, variations
of what some would call kinship to third person
or first narratives, 2 dimensional expressions
and 2 dimensional expression, i.e. theta and phi,
but only in Greek, that being *th
e point of it all -
Fe is in Mendeleev's speech denoting February -
yes, behind the iron curtain... god, you just have
to make it painfully obvious sometimes.
that said... Kant is really bad when commuting,
i've had two visits to the Royal Opera house recently
and i took Kant with me, the critique will be read
fully, i promise, i can spin 40 pages at a sitting
in a chair, but on the tube? can Marquis de Sade please
take the podium... it's horrid... this time i'll be
taking Ezra to see the Bolshoi le corsaire -
which will add to the spectator sport of one -
if you ever go, to that brick ****-house (last time it stank
of raw trout, but still the wankers sat at their restaurant
tables trying to invert the paparazzi epilepsy
of ogling them like tourists in a zoo of materialism -
i'm half of that would-be quarter-knitted-plonker -
it's mostly polyester and 1% Afghani cat-****-smear) -
or those looking "cultured" with champagne flutes,
of coffees, look all excited... Hazlitt, this one's on you...
and all you do it walk around with a book...
you're wearing cheap clothes that nonetheless
look presentable, and then you start shooting ducks...
thump... another one... puck... another one...
i'm sure you'll begin to notice that hate is a perfect
cure for egoism... your posture changes, your body is
there among the sardines but you turn into a shadow -
you end up watching lonely girls on their would be dates...
and it just hits you like a pharaoh's acid from a tomb...
you're strapped on hallucinogenics of some sort from
the mere topography of the surroundings...
but then the lights dim, the music comes on,
the sadistic dance begins... and you forget taking Kant with
you... and just enjoy the show.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
one thing being concerned with
ideograms like with the Chinese defences
having preserved an offshoot from
Egyptian depiction,
but another thing to be in a sandpit
playing with orthographic changes -
by now you realise the Chinese encoding is
too complex to change, not enough
plasticine in it, nothing mandible,
you need skeletons, and even though
i'm not quick to boast, i think the matchsticks
of the affair deserves a pat on the back -
how a new aesthetic was born
from simply looking at the ß - to compete with
the Germans was necessary,
i ensured the Polish orthographic was in need
of revising, hence from sz (sh) came ß -
an ultra-diacritical suggestion of uniqueness,
but there had to be a twin to shorten the
rz into a ż of equal aesthetic concern,
hence the ʒ. in writing it's so wired, so dynamic,
no number of Mona Lisas can match up to it...
it's a ******* Frankenstein by the feel of it
with five blind-men and an elephant...
i know this will not become a standard of educating
people, i know this will take some time before
the revision takes assurance of survival,
but i will vouch on this revision via optometry
of how people read, perhaps reading more than
their current diet allows.
Stephen S Feb 2019
Left eye,
Right eye,
How's your vision?
Clear or fraught
with indecision?

Follow the light,
and ignore your  
your dread.
But be careful not
to move your head.

You must endure
these tests
a plenty,
If you hope to earn
that twenty / twenty.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
even though i was educated to an university level,
all i've learnt to be worth anything came after, self-,
i learnt english literacy after i hid
my competence in expressing it in learning
history by way of hiding
a knowledge of it, and i learnt diacritical optometry
learning chemistry;
so much of history is scientific,
a failed artists i am, but hardly a failure since
i'm not married, and hardly a basis for income
to raise a family: Nero was a failed artist,
but also an emperor, i hardly think
there's an analogue comparison for you to
breathe a fear into...
if the emperor suite is to suggest failure
it's a failure with bride in tow but entitlement...
a failed artist placebo, always backed up
by an emperor's credentials, which hardly
translates into all failures of art...
a failed artist from my rank of birth
is one who attempts both art and parenthood;
art as placebo is quiet simply
oeconomica non sono quaestus... although
ars placebo is quiet simply moratus quaestus -
as all sales of fine artefacts prove...
a poet's manuscript involves less haggle than
a painter's piece ordaining an oligarch's mantle piece...
more leisure, less gym, less cognitive tattoos
and more optic tattooing... i know a lament
when i see one... not a personal one,
but one attached to the art per se... had anyone
bothered to become a Kantian poet rather than
a phenomenon? make sure the violin or guitar is
handy to entertain the crowd. it's DEAD...
you can't teach me the correct grammatical arithmetic
of the tongue, i'll use it as i'll please...
you can't teach me what's correct and what isn't...
i know my A to Z.
Ksjpari Aug 2017
Browse through the history
Money is increasing industry;
Let it be business or peasantry
It is omnipresent mystery.
Everyone for it see palmistry
Ready for money do idolatry.
Money make man go to optometry;
It has capacity to test sociometry;
As without it there is no entry.
With main, welcome complimentary
For development of our poultry
In which we live and do sentry
Our future which acts on ministry.
Browse through the history
Money is increasing industry.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
those Elm Park girls are crazy... i never really cycled through Elm Park before, only past it on my way to Rainham and the marshes by the river Thames... Coldharbour used to be one of my favorite destinations... riding this beast of a Trek bicycle... compared to my Viking this is a beast... my Rolls Royce... i mean... the tyres alone slow me down... they're a bit like me comparing my hands to the hands of a woman... i love watching my hands and then watching the hands of a woman... i focus on the thumb... i'm about 1.5x her size... if not 2x larger than her... yeah... i looking at my hands now... i could chop off my pinky finger and the knuckle too and i'd be about right... but these Elm Park girls are crazy... you get to the roundabout... three of them see you coming... teenagers... obviously... and you make eye-contact for... whatever the reason was... the loudest of the three, the most plump looks into your eyes, mind you... the rest do too... and shouts out... OI! OI OI! she approves... no no, it wasn't a mean OI... it was a sort of call girls do akin to what women used to do to women they found appealing when they were amongst other men... whistled or hollered... how this is seen as ****** harassment these days, i will never know... i was just waiting for a follow-up to the OI OI! with a: juicy ****... Elm Park girls are crazy...

Bukowski was such a musical snob,
he also preferred classical music,
         he also only turned on the radio instead
of collecting records...
i abhor the idea of a d.j. - i don't like someone
choosing for me what music i ought to listen to...
sure... i like classical music: i was raised on it...
but even i can say: classical music is not eternal...
its association with names of people who
conjured up the notes is not the same as...
for example: Frank Zappa was into Bulgarian folk...
me? i'm into everything Medieval...
i think that Medieval music is joyous...
it's less rigorous than classical music...
    give me anything from the Germans singing
come the 13th century:
ai vis lo lop...
         or... ich was ein chint so wolgetan...
   i'm all ears... and no one can name the man who sang
those songs first...
like no one knows who discovered beer...
i'm pretty sure the first beer was an ale...
since it couldn't have been carbonated...
how much tastier a carbonated beverage tastes
after you quickly take your glug glugs...
you end up drinking so fast once enough chores
have been done that you burp first... then **** second...
ungarischer tantz...
      orbis factor: strange how modern man looks
toward his predecessors as these savage: idiotic brutes...
concerning modern singing "eloquences"...
and those of the past? the purest noble hearts
even among the most unworthy of heart...
this expansion of the mind has left us...

                  but unlike music... one can easily return
to the style of Ovid... poetry with conversational
overtones... not claustrophobic poetry of rhyme...
of rhyme and lyricism...
yesterday i carved out an epic worth over 5 thousand
words... today i feel like relaxing while:
nonetheless typing...

an article came to mind... oddly enough i still do buy
a newspaper once in a while...
the only newspapers worth reading arrive on
either Saturday or a Sunday...
i once implored for a journalistic Sabbath...
to be honest? you could care less for a Monday
to Friday strip-search of history by journalism...
there are only two days worth reading a newspaper
on... a Saturday and a Sunday...

a Dr. Greg Matos wrote in Psychology today
about the rise of lonely men...
the reply? one from a 67 year old: serial dater...
one from a 28 year old...
i was... hoping for a more stark comparison...
house? will have it... when my parents die...
it'll have to wait...
cook? yes... clean? yes...
     car? no car... i'm "worried about my carbon
footprint" (ha ha.... i thought saving the planet
was a "thing"?), cars are not practical in London...
unless: you're moving something from A to B rather than
merely travelling from A to B...
cooks... cleans... good with children?
i like children...
wait wait... who the who said that cats are
animals best petted by women and that dogs
are a man's animal?
why do people think that cats effeminate men?
you'd kidding me, right?
so you never had the glorious opportunity of...
second time... on the second time...
the first time these two cats... i walked into my bedroom
and found a **** in my bed...
oh you mother... *******... i smacked both of them...
both the male and female...
because i didn't know which one was *******
enough to not do a **** into the litter-box...
i waited... second time: gotcha! you little **** for brains!
it was the male... the larger one...
a tornado embodied me... i stripped off the sheets...
prior to collect the ****...
catching a cat in the act of ******* where he's
not supposed to be ******* is great...
after i put on the washing i returned to him...
oh... now i'm going to wash you... after i smack you again...
you don't **** where you sleep!
he's sleeping where he took a **** right now...
under the shadow... wriggling *******...
washed him and his ***...
then... mummified him in a towel... wrapped it so tight
that only his head was poking out...
by the time the washing was done
i had enough washing-line clips on his freshly washed
body... sitting on a table in the garden
while i hang-up the washing...
then... oh... by then i thought anything would
be a good idea... i took him to the bathroom
and perched him on the windowsill...
plugged in a hair-dryer... started to dry him...
yeah... oh yeah... sure sure... dogs are lovely creatures...
men are emasculated by owning dogs...
but when it comes to cats they are somehow effeminate...
only cat ladies... no devils in the mix
with the likes of Behemoth in Russian literature...
chess playing drunk....
like William Burroughs pointed out...
you ever heard of a cat **** a child?
i've heard countless stories of dogs killing children...
i myself almost lost an eye when my Dobberman
attempted to bite me in the eye...
after i smacked him for biting my Alsatian *****...
mind you... he gave a friend of mine
a nose-bleed for no reason when he bit his nose...
point being... cat's are great... Quarus is my best friend
right now... he talks very little...
i like friends that talk very little...
i don't even talk to him: i meow to him...
saves me the pointlessness some people grieve me with:
i get so annoyed when i need to repeat myself...
third time i'm asked to repeat myself:
you're mumbling... you're speaking too fast...
i raise my voice and people think i'm angry...
i'm just frustrated that i need to say the same thing:
for the third *******, time!
with him? onomatopoeias... which is grand for me...
but this first time i tried to use a hair-dryer on
this ****-lord's ***... i will never forget it...
a 9kg animal... he jumped onto my hand
and gripped it with such ferocity... both the front
paws and their nails and the rear paws digging
into my hand... and the teeth biting into... hmm!
he went straight for the adductor pollicis'...
for my capacity to pinch...
now that i fold my hand i am assured that the grip...
is born without a relationship between
the index and thumb finger... but if i lost my index
finger... i wouldn't lose my grip...
i would lose my grip if i lost my pinky finger...
since grip is allocated to the relationship between
the thumb and the pinky finger...
he was aiming at my pinching capability...
well... he did take a **** in my bed...
and i did wash him in the shower and i did try
to dry him off using a hair-dryer... hair enough...
hmm... i used to clash teeth with Bella my Alsatian...
i don't think it was a dream... i actually think
we clashed teeth once...
dogs are great if you're a child...
but once you get older?
**** me... take them for walks? a cat takes itself
for a walk... they come when they're desperate for
attention... and leave when they're not...
and if they're in your company they're so considerate
as to sleep throughout your shared space...
a cat that's awake is a cat unto itself...
a sleeping cat is a cat unto you:
i imagine they sleep so much because they are
the quintessential architects of dreams...
you project onto them a world that's akin to what
men of old stipulated: a heaven and a hell...
no other animal sleeps so much... well no domesticated
animal sleeps so much...
there must be something in this riddle...
why do they sleep so much:
they sleep for all of us... these Bonsai tigers...
also... why is the lion considered the king of the animal
kingdom? terrible idea...
put a lion next to a bear...
                     the bear is the king of the animal kingdom...

- i find it absolutely terrifying that cats don't
think their lives a waste by sleeping so much...
for a person that usually dreams only sounds
or letters... on the odd occasion will: conjure up a form
of sort... it probably stems from my earliest memory...
of my maternal grandfather... sitting me before a plaything
piano while he sat before an actual piano...
and we played together... i have more access
to memory than to dreams: he was a shadow-form...
a great grey-engulfment...
      but it's absolutely terrifying to see these creatures
(i.e. cats) sleep so much...
it concerns me because then i start thinking
comforting thoughts about death...
i start thinking of death like cats demand
of the deity of sleep more access to sleep more...
being alive is almost being more dead than alive...
cats become alive when they sleep...
double on that statement: as William Burroughs
mentioned: there's never a wasted moment
in the company of cats...
sure... he succumbed to Scientology...
does it matter? i have no ad hominem approach
to this particular writer...

unlike with music... you can easily go back
to the writing style of an Ovid...
i'd like to break away from any sort of erotica for at
least one night...
a night such as this when you can pleasure yourself:
because you have the ******* to do so...
it would be pointless to pleasure myself should
i be circumcised... that's what the ******* is for...
my ******* = no need for a woman's compensation
with a the torturous NIQAB... or anything
the orthodox Jewish girls throw at you...

but a lion is not the king of the animal kingdom!
the bear is...
bears are omnivores... bears hibernate...
bears are far more superior creatures to man...
bears are not governed / manipulated by ideas...
faiths... obligations... a lion will require a role
of protector of a mass of land for his harem
of lionesses to hunt and provide for their litter...
bears? loners... they like their own company...
just like a crown, the emblem...
enjoys a head not attached to neck
or a neck attached to a torso...
a bear standing on its hind legs is less intimidating
than a lion growling? a bear: standing on its hind
legs and bellowing out less a growl but
the unleashed summons of pre-history?
    
             i don't think a lion is the king of the animal
kingdom... if he were... then his cousin tiger would
not sneak in his bonsai cousins into our homes...
we'd have little bears running around...
as pets...

gratifying little taste of a day that leaves my
breath stinking of whiskey
while being cooled come this hour
by the wind... with such an expanse of time
before me yawning at my efforts to justify
my existence...
perhaps a life not living... but i'd live it one more
time and tell myself the second time:
to not be so invigorated by a happy:
infuriating anger...
then again: i wouldn't change a thing...
not my stupidity in youth...
not my wizened self coming to my zenith
of mortality... i wouldn't choose to become
a gladiator of the modern sense
by kicking a football between 22 ballerinas
into order to break off to become a philanthropist:
or for that matter: FLAUNT my money...
in order to gain some incremental
gain in status...
i can't be post-modernist when it comes
to the individual: but in how society is organised:
what is societally expected?
i can be very much post-modernist...

for example? i am yet to meet my intellectual match
of the opposite ***...
i haven't... i can't bemoan the fact that
i haven't... the sun rises... the sun sets...
it's as simple as this...
no number of scientific facts will tell me
that gravity is not at work whether
a body falls from a height or whether a body
is standing still...
there's the microcosm of gravity
and a macrocosm of gravity...
the earth moves around the sun rather than
the sun rising with the sunrise and spreads
its glorious ****** and legs across the sky:
life's all the much: pretty much the same...
whatever Copernicus achieved... well...
that wasn't a "faux pas": a trend a... fashion...
Darwinism feels more like a fashion trend
very much coupled with Freudian thinking than
anything... given? men are outside of the natural
order of things... the strong? no... they do not reproduce...
they smart? they don't reproduce...
among men who reproduces?
whoever is most desperate...
and who creates these desperations?
desperate men... today i cycled past a couple...
mein gott! you really have to be thirsty to couple
with with such a beached whale of a woman...
i take care of myself:
i don't take care of myself:
but even i know that there are limits...
concerning the ergonomics of: in transit...

are we? moving, *******, cattle?! cattle seem more lean!
a little taste of starving would do a lot
of good for some of these people...
i don't wish to demean them...
but sometimes demeaning someone comes
naturally... unconsciously...
i think think that's synonymous:
to judge someone "unconsciously" by way
of natural selection...
man was never going to overpower clarifying
nature with, "some": argument that might make sense...
not among solipsism, narcissism, fate, chance...

then again Bukowski was a gambling man...
i don't gamble... maybe that's why i collected records...
moved into dealing with vinyls...
only today saw the Royal Mail advert for
Transformer stamps...
just in order to keep the legacy of my grandfather
alive... i think... i'll buy them...
i liked the original Transformers as a kid...
i don't really like stamps... but he was a stamp
collector...

i'm thinking: brothels...
  or like in Japan the ラブ ホテル
             (rabu hoteru)
                            what's the ****** difference?
i'm thinking: syllables... rather than atomised
lettering... there's so much of my thinking that
is incompatible with a woman...
even at work... i can talk, with women...
but i have yet to talk about something
that truly interests me...
i just... fake it... if women fake ******* during
***... i fake interest during conversation...
obviously i've seen and heard the "hot shivers"...
outside of work women are just passerby daydreams...
i'm not lonely: i sometimes get an auditory hallucination
from time to time...
a hallucination that... upon changing the tongue
of my thinking: addresses me with my name...
lonely?! i'm... not... alone!

but i am yet to have a conversation with a woman
i'd find suiting my interests...
it's usually talking about cartoons... the past...
and their problems... it's always talking about their problems...
rubber ear says: in one out the other...
my patience is stretched...
in that hierarchy of:
people who talk about other people...
people who talk about themselves...
thirdly? people who talk about ideas...

i'm so unlucky to be wanting of someone of the third
category...
not yet... and probably never...
Medieval melancholic songs sooth me...
at least i'm not one of those modern men
so quickly jumping on the route of despising women
akin to Jack the Ripper style ******, pillage...
i love women too much...
the women willing to be loved as best they can:
if by sensuality alone and no lazy Sunday afternoons...
i'll take that... if that's what the fates decided...
i can enjoy music and literature and artwork alone...
happily...

i was a romantic once... mein gott: i was just a naive
romantic... what was it that robbed me of my romanticism?
mystical Islam? Gnosticism?
Kant? the existentialists?! Walter Sickert?!
probably none of the above...
only today i couldn't stop laughing... a ******* cat for company...
well... if you really want to perform well during
*******... and the *******
of you arching over a woman doesn't tire you
but rather invigorates you... you need to do?
press-up! no... **** going to the gym...
what i learned from rock climbing...
what i learned from cycling and what i learned
from swimming...
never trust a man with biceps... hands... thicker than
his legs to be of a natural disposition...
he's juicing himself up...
i should know: i used to walk marathons
and cycle twice that length...
your legs are naturally thicker than your arms...
unless you're a gymnast...
but a gymnast is not... is not... someone who simply
goes to the gym for aesthetic reasons for ****** appeal...
most of these guys look the part...
but pit them against a profession like roofing
and... all that "supposed", ahem, "muscle":
if ******* cotton-candy!

   operatic(s) of optometry! the deceptive: it looks like...
but? actually?! it... really isn't...
you couldn't ascribe an aesthetic that's pleasing
for a man, more of a joke...
should a man's hands be much larger than his
legs in girth... impossible!
it's unnatural: perhaps pleasing to a woman...
but between men... it's no testimony for him
to be able to fulfill any serious manual labour:
rigour... it's a doped up aesthetic...
it's hardly practical... lifting weights in the gym
is not maneuvering weights around a construction
site... i ought to know...
i did my joyous worth of it...
it was! joyous!

i was allowed to abandon my mmd and justify
the existence of my body as detached from ever having
a mind...
by tonight i'm being soothed
by... Kyrie: Orbis Factor...
a time of: when men were men and women
were women...
even now i tense the muscle in my legs...
and think: i could walk 30 miles in one day...
rather than do 300 press-ups before i'd turn around
and **** about 300 ******...
for 30 minutes at a stretch, of each!

but that's tonight... tomorrow: there might be
some other me of me that i'll have
to bring a challenge to!
Available?
absolutely.

Who's going to shoot
me a line?

This is a rehearsal
before the performance
I take my chance
and play to an
empty
auditorium,

Is this an audition
or just
a transitional state
I am in?

Reality never looks
real to me
it
must be something to do
with optometry
or maybe it might be
my ancestry.

either way whatever
reality never looked real.

Under the shadows of mountains
I watch sherpas who are all
wearing turbans
they seem a fine team of men
who reach to the top
stop
turn around
and come down again.
words agitate me out of sleep:
i figured:
this schizophrenic night and day
duality of how the earth orbits
no wonder we become
disorientated:
to counter-protest:
i recently purchased a BASIS
road-bicycle...
a slender frame
a Grecian statue:
i believe the military Christ
side by side with Michael
is hanging around Greece:
if i'm going to believe
in Christ: i need to believe
in a militant Christ...
but only until the phantom swords
of the crucifix disappear..
not until then...

caffeine is as bad as music:
as an agitator:
the alligators of Afghanistan
ought to know...
i'm writing for a New Elite...
maybe that's why i feel so...
so... disgruntled...
i'm tired of the consciousness
allowance:
subsequent hangover...
reaping no rewards...

but my body is also tired
of drinking so much:
so many people don't allow
their bodies to have a voice...
i know that
i see that:
i have parasitical worms in my eyes...
which is why
i don't mind her suggesting
i have pin-worms in my tickling
****:
i'm kinda happy with:
the symbiosis to counter
the man's dimensional abstraction
via dualism:
i'm talking symbiosis:
Christ the Parasite of Satan
and Satan the Parasite of Christ...

symbiosis: Peter, St.
where those Aztecan dances:
i had the stupid thought
of cycling into London wearing a Taylor Swift
t-shirt:
words are not words:
words are just words:
Pepsi: Coca-Cola: Smirnoff...
Jackie Judo Daniels...
i scratch my forehead:
you scratch my ***?!

words are meaningless:
said the dyslexic pastor
and i was like:
do you see past the letters:
to envision the sound
to then descend into the realm
of words:
words like abstracts
like punctuation
like grammar:
like subscript chemistry
but superscript algebraic mathematics:
doodle doodle...
doodle...
i don't want to live among Europeans!
the great wind
is not with them:
such mediocre: fire,
earth,      static...
wounded and doubly wounded
with sepsis..

               Chopin's bride...
   will this relationship save me:
is she the black widow redeemer...
have i finally crossed the Rubicon
of women who despot
by despot
analyze my attention giving prowess...

fold the pillow: to make a croissant!
fold the pillow! to make a croissant!
don't make me ask you
twice on explaining to you the spine!
and how two pillows won't work:
stop pretending to be Anne ******* Bolyean...
Boylean.... Bolyean:
Bolyon...
will you seriously ask me for the proper name
of Anne: and Henry: sitting in a tree:
one chop two chop
three chop the tree...             is a stump:
m'eh wowd...

          Bo-lane... no... but who reads poetry
on poetry websites...
if not poetry MA graduates:
who writes:
Police novelist...
Security guard: diarist...
Hairdresser: protagonist...
and that ****** up daughter of hers
that has me believing in the Red Flags
of Yugoslavia that i also
believe a Second Byzantines will
thirst for reviving the Ottoman barber barber...

but if poetry could be understood
as the antithesis of journalism:
current: given: what year?! 2025?
if poetry could be given this allowance:
and there would be a purge:
Stalin says hello,
sister: hello: thank you Stalin:
if i had a cat
of my own...
i'd become Hades...
if i had a dog: of my own:
just a little cluck towards a chicken...
puck puck:
hog hog onomatopoeia queer of queen:
said:
HULK TU'AH...
hawks?! hawks?!
all praises to the gods extinct...

Jesus is saving ****:
just about shaving his ***
so that his girlfriend can
perform: more than just ****...
time wasting: oral as much as
optometry...
***: invoked...

i am: being: cannibalized
by: lazy thinking:
no visualization of the gravity
of 0...
of nothing...
to craft ego from nothing
to create the ego-ergo...
like Virgo... Zodiac... hmm...
are we going to be that weird
couple
that just **** like rabbits
and digest world news like
bad dreams:
are we going to be that couple
that's so solipsistic that
the world will give us a
snippet of Alzheimer-Warhol
15 minutes...
or would, rather: those descending:
descendant:
you beat me to that
cross-hyphenation of complex:
my ******* is your
******-catharsis:

don't believe me?!
                        i'd peel off the skin
of the fore:
but i can't... because of two protruding
veins of the vine:
so... drink your wine twice:
then, Turkey:
i'll make sure i gag you with the nibble of bread!
now: i will turn you:
into a slave...
i will not liberate you:
i will turn you not adherent of the Greek
tradition of the militant Christ:
i will ensure you become
adherent of the Reformist Christ:
the pacified Christ:
the cuck Christ...
the Protestant Christ...
this: English Antichrist!
Onoma Jan 14
nightmares purport--a

****** furnace, or the face

lift of beauty sleep.

Wes Craven's optometry.

cast Freddy Krueger,

whose red/green sweater's

color schema, is said to be

the hardest to assimilate.

leathery exo-glove.

metallic nails...manicured

with taunting scratches.

— The End —