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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
    
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
                    herrdildomaschinekopf...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself
vulnerable...

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
             "mobility"...
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.

_______

.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
******.
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
     what?!
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             what?!
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
                      no...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Sep 2020
Roy Orbison was no Luciano Pavarotti, but then Luciano Pavarotti was no Roy Orbison. Born in Nowhere, Texas, Orbison had an inauspicious musical beginning. He was shy growing up, but got a guitar at an early age. He drifted around tiny towns as he tentatively began his career and over the following years signed with several different recording companies. He remained extremely self-conscious as he slowly gained some success and wore dark-tinted glasses to allay some degree of his unease on stage. But in the late 1950s and early 60s, Orbison made it big, so big, in fact, that his songs went to the top of the charts in the U.S. as well as Europe and Australia. But by the mid-60s with the musical invasion from the United Kingdom--ironic though it was, he became close friends with the Beatles who admired his talent and songs--and the dramatic culture-change in America, Orbison's career and his popularity waned terribly. It was not until the 80s that Orbison experienced a grand resurgence of popularity, which pleased him so. But he did not have long to enjoy it. He died of a heart attack in 1988 at the age of 52. He was buried in an unmarked grave.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, an essayist, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
these western leftist,
make us former commies...
look... really really
******* bad...

        my grandfather,
who was abandoned by his
father, spewed by the lies
of his father's brother,
found some stability
in the communist party...

sometimes did jury duty...
the communist party
gave him a house... etc. etc.,
but this, "thing" in the west?
the dissonance conundrum
of creating a collective hive?

it doesn't, and it will never work...
i already said this,
but i'll say it again...
communism does work...
but in only one instance...
post-war countries,
esp. given the plight of
Syria...
                
           it's a transitory period...
so the Syrian baker
can trust the ******* Syrian
taxi cab driver, once again...
communism is not a failure
in that it's applied as
a fail-safe concept,
a rebuilding mechanism,
  
like Poland... 1945...
through to circa 1990...
    it worked...
  **** it worked...
  eastern Europe didn't
receive funds from the American
Marshall Plan...

but Sweden and Switzerland
did...
   i thought they were neutral
countries in the conflict?

communism is a failure if its not
considered a recovery economy,
or rather:
    there's no or other at this point...

in post-war scenarios,
it's the only egalitarianism that works
in the short-end...
this is not English style of
egalitarian idealism...
   (a term i borrow from German
idealism of Kant)...
            no... the English don't know
that their egalitarian idealism
doesn't work...
it's too soft...
the war was harsh...
you're not going to rebuild
the same civic plateau with capitalism,
of a country that was either:
invaded by a foreign power,
or imploded into chaos via
a breach of ethnic-civility...

you can't rebuild Syria with
foreign intervention...
communism is far from a failure
of ideology...
   it was always supposed
to instigate a transitional
period, a post-scriptum...
   a communism can exist,
successfully, for... roughly 50 years...
once the tragedy passes...

and then the free markets can
take over, capitalism can have its
"stage fright", or rather its
wild west...
            but not before the circa 50
years are over...
  a Syrian baker,
   must begin a civil dialectic with
a Syrian taxi driver...
no amount of foreign intervention
will solve the problem...

it's not like you can reuse
the rubble to rebuild the same houses...
sure... the darkest hour
in Poland under communism was
when martial law (stan wojenny)
was implemented by
Wojciech Jaruzelski
(Roy Orbison, no, really,
Roy Orbison)...
food-stamps, long queues at supermarkets
rationing... only white vinegar on
the shelves of supermarkets...
the whole presupposition of war
against the Soviets,
  counter measures to
      avoid the instances of
the Hungarian / Czechoslovakian
occupation / suppression...
   the Parisian spirit of '68...
every time i look into your loving eyes,
one look, from you,
  i drift... away!
    i pray, that you, are here, to stay!
anything you want, you got it...
anything you need, you got it...
anything at all, you got it...
   bay.................................. be!


western Europe received pittance
pay-checks from H'america...
eastern Europe received the hard graft of
communism...
             and it worked...
because it was supposed to work
for the 50 or so years that it did work...
when it stopped working...
my home town lost roughly 20K
   metalwork jobs...
  the metalwork factory was scrapped,
cut up, sold to foreign investors...
Celsa? i believe that's a Spanish company...

some people grew old, retired,
some went on the dole,
some became homeless,
some migrated to other parts of the country,
otherwise took the bold route
and emigrated to other parts of
Europe and the world...
a town dies, the people disperse
if in a dispersing worthy age...

     but i turn on the tube...
and listen to all these leftist lunatics,
and i'm like...          what?!
communism works,
   it works, in exceptional circumstances,
and like i said, before an equal
footing competition market resurfaces,
you're getting ****...
             this is not to suggest that
communism is at odds with capitalism...
apparently... it never was!

         but... you can't rebuild
Syria with capitalism...
  first you have to return to a commonly
shared civility, a counter to what
already exists in the English egalitarian idealism...
best represented as:

a 200m race at the Olympics...
all the competitors walk an equal
pace for 100m...
        and the next 100m?
they do their sprint, they compete!
but not until communism creates
a basis for a mutual trust of civility
between a Syrian baker,
and a Syrian taxi driver...

      capitalism and outright
competition will never solve the problem...
because outright competition
creates nothing more than
an dystopian: post-apocalyptic
mad max: fury road endless cycle of
recurring opportunists...

scavengers...
                      it works... in periods of
roughly 50 years...
what... and capitalism isn't prone
to its own timescales of economic crashes?!
see...
             even capitalism has hiccups...
but like i said:
    communism works...
for time periods, post-scriptum of
the damaging events...
                        under exceptional circumstances
of it being necessarily implemented...
like world war II... the Syrian civil war;
and only then!

****... my grandfather and all the other
school children, actually cried
when news hit the country about Stalin's death...
i have access to an actual ****** source,
what do you have?
  a target of ridicule,
        donning a che guevara t-shirt
who still hasn't rid himself of acne?
MY NEICE IS A AN OLD ROCK AND ROLL SINGER OF THE PAST




YOU SEE MY NIECE CAITLIN IS A ROCK SINGER

JUST LIKE MY BROTHER IS

THERE COULD BE PREVIOUS LIVES STORIES HERE

LIKE SHE COULD BE ROY ORBISON OR RICKY MAY

OR SOMEONE BETTER, CAUSE MY NIECE CATLIN

IS SO PERFECT AT SINGERS, IT GOES FURTHER THAN  GENES

IF MY MATE PAUL BERENYI DIED IN 1995 LIKE A ****** TOLD ME

HE COULD BE CAITLIN, BUT YOU CAN’T TRUST OTHER PEOPLE

BETTER JUST TRUST THE NEWS

AND NO MATTER WHO CAITLIN WAS IN HER PREVIOUS LIFE

SHE SHOULD ****** CHOOSE, WHAT IS A HER CHARACTER

I AM JUST CRONUS THE POWERFUL GOD

I CAN TELL IF I HAVE THE INTERNET FACTS

I CAN FIND PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERNS

BY, WORKING OUT WHEN PEOPLE DIE

AND HOW MANY YEARS, AND NORMALLY IF THEY YELL

THEY WERE EITHER, KIDNAPPERS, OF OLD HOOLIGANS OF THE PAST

BUT CAITLIN IS A GREAT SINGER, AND SHE HAS SOME PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERN

I KNOW MY BROTHER IS A SINGER TOO, BUT THERE IS MORE THAN THAT I KNOW

LIKE, I WAS ISABELLA OF FRANCE, I WAS THEIR FAMILIES ENTERTAINER

I KNOW SCOTT MCDONALD WANTED TO TEASE ME

SO HE DIED AND BECAME TWO CATS, LUCKY THE CAT WHO WILL TEASE DAD

WHEN IT RAINS, AND MUSCLES WAS TO SAY ONLY ANIMALS DO WHAT I DID BACK THEN

THAT IS WHY THE GUYS TEASED ME

IF PAUL DID DIE, IN 1995, HE COULD BE MY NIECE CAITLIN

BECAUSE NOW I MENTION IT, IT COULD’VE BEEN BEFORE 1995 WHEN I SAW HIM

AT TUGGERANONG WITH ANTHONY COSTA WATCHING BASKETBALL

BUT I KNOW DAD IS IN THE ****** OF LISA CAMPBELL, WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS

WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO, IS BRING MY FAMILY HAPPINESS

CAITLIN COULD BE PAUL BERENYI, OR COULD BE ROY ORBISON

AND NO MATTER WHO SHE IS, SHE IS MY NIECE, AND SUSAN IS MY OTHER NIECE

AND I LOVE THEM BOTH TO BITS

AND NOW, THE RAIN IS COMING CAUSED BY PAUL BERENYI

SAYING NO MATTER WHO I AM, CRONUS SHOULD KEEP IT DOWN

GO TO BED USA, AS THERE IS A BIG SURFING TOURNAMENT IN MERCURY

ORGANISED BY THE TERRORISTS, TO CALM THE HEAT, AND NOT **** THEIR HOOLIGAN

BUT CRONUS TELLS DAD, TO KEEP THEM STRAPPED IN THE SUN

WHERE NO WATER CAN SAVE THEM, THEY’LL SUFFER
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i never used to understand why people
hid their pop preferences like
they might hide a **** room...
or like: the toilet paper ran out,
so i jumped into the shower story;
what's with pop music in older people
and getting the embarrassment sticker
that says: HI, MY NAME IS JEFF
AND I LIKE BRIE POP FROM SCANDINAVIA:
nostalgic culmination? death growl
dark metal: the frustration apparent throughout:
frustrated amateur singers with their
strained veiny necks... see that aorta?
opera singers? are they even opening
their mouths, or is this opera meets Roy Orbison?
and by god, that's the case, people are
ashamed to actually acknowledge their
pop preferences... no wonder Patrick
Bateman is fuelled by it...
it's very much like that... pop's the foundation
in you actually liking music...
shame i love music more than women:
keeps my sanity... 2 months apart
and you can't hear a vacuum cleaner,
maybe once a week... maybe...
then the radio starts playing some vintage Roxette...
Abba who? that's for those aged
40 and above... Roxette is my generation's equivalent.
Roxette's masterpiece? Joyride:
the entire album, yes, you'll listen to
this album like some prog rock feast:
          Joyride                 (      :     + italics
                                    is the same as bold:
          double emphasis                 )
*****, you will! Roxette's Joyride is the
epitome of pop!
he big concert in the sky forces meteor over USA


HI EVERYONE I AM SAM KINISON

and i sing wild thing, oh yeah dude let’s party

you make my heart sing, who let’s party dude

if you feel cool enough, you will be made to ****** dry

wild thing, as we are flying in the sky, pretty cool, that’s great, ya ****** see

and sam kinison screams real loud, and it makes your heart

crawl right out of your body, and make ya wanna bleed

wild thing, hey wild thing, i think you will move me, who oh oh oh oh

and then came the great elvis presley singing

you are nothing but a hound dog, your farting all time

you are nothing but a hound dog, farting all the time

you will never catch me a rabbit, cause your no mate of mine

you said it was high class, that is just a lie

you said it was high class, well, that is just a lie

and you’ll goodie every day and night and watch this great meteor with us in it really fly

and now here is robert palmer, how can it be permissible

to compromise my principals, that kind of love is missable, she’s anything but typical

it’s a craze, or a cause, it’s a powerful force, there is nothing wrong surrounding because

does our meteor we are sending to the USA look good to you, because we find it, SIMPLY IRRESISTABLE

And john denver, take me home, country roads, to the place, where we belong

west virginia mountain mama, take me home, country road

there is no heaven, can you understand that, we are up here flying over the USA

And we want you to understand this, that we want you to take me home

country road take me home, to the place i belong, we are travelling over your country obama

saying we have been taken home, by country roads

and now, george harrison has a song, i got my mind set on you

i got my set on you, roy orbison sang, ANYTHING YOU WANT YOU GOT IT

anything you need you got it, anything you need you got it, baby

wild thing, oh yeah oh yeah

we are flying in the meteor yeah, who who who who

you make everything so wonderfully groovy

you big despicable wild thing

and this meteor did a mercy dash to bring elvis presley sam kinison robert palmer john denver

george harrison and roy orbison over this nation to explode with total madness, oh yeah, dudes

KABOOM, IS WHAT IT SOUNDED LIKE IN SPACE OVER USA, BUT IT WAS THIS GREAT CONCERT, WAS REALLY GOING ON

TRUST ME, I AM A COSMIC SLEEPER, IT WAS TUESDAY NIGHT, WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON IN CANBERRA, NEARLY POETRY SLAM

I WAS A BIT QUIETER AT THE POETRY SLAM, BUT I SENT MY LITTLE COOL KID THERE, AND SENT MY OLD MAN TO THE POETRY SLAM

I STILL BLEW THE CROWD AWAY WITH MY AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE POEM, I AM COOL, MAN
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.if, and however many mistakes i made in typo... attempting to compete with Spawn, using the black panther... ******, please... it's like that "healthy" competition of butter, using margarine... Black Panther isn't Spawn... Spawn is... Spawn... yeah... thanks for ruining my 12" wish fetish... i was so dying... to... i was never going to **** an English girl to begin with... thank god.

you're seriously going
to "correct" me
using black panther....
seriously?
spawn was the *******
to what....
to whatever you're
doing these days....
i don't want to be
the blank panther...
**** being black panther...
*******...
i want to be spawn"..
******* quasi-******...
john coltrane...
you a *mariah carey

back-up singer or some
otherwise alien whacky
alien-backlog?
compared to spawn...
the black panther
looks like a ******* ******....
wing guy...
for what's deemed
12"...
             black...
mire like bleak Parthenon...
some columns,
no spirals...
  waste of time...
      black Panther, what?
so Spawn...
           was just a waste of time?
Spawn was the gran-daddy
where the Batman was the daddy
given the Joker
was the gran-gran-daddy...
you get me?
Miles Davis too much for you?
the blank panther is such
a ***** move...
it's like... come Kosovo...
when expecting Sarajevo...
******... this **** will not
stick...
high flying ****
if you think this will become
a ******* pancake...
   no, ******...
take your blank panther back
to Yakanda, or whatever...
your Spawn was cooler than
Lego Batman...
              **** your white *****...
and leave me to my existentialism
of... making a "heroic" exit..
akin to Elvis...
but more or less minding
Roy Orbison in a sing along.

p.s.
lego batman movie quote:
black panther *****!
spawn go go go! spammy!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
saying ******* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
the ethos of arbeit has overpowered the english speaking people, with a sarcastic notion of liebe, and made both work, and love, arbitrary, nay, nasally said: homophilic: too many phobias are spoken off, spiders in the guise of arachnophobia don't suddenly become islam! you see any gigantus aranea roaming the streets?! for the most part, i'm closer to see popes walk naked in a francis bacon sketch of the affairs... let's be honest, the holy ghost has become run over by the other spirit, the other phrase of sophia, the zeitgeist, not this church infested cockroach colony of the platzgeist with a few crimson cardinals numbed into mumbling their mea culpas ave marias... the senile old ******* just died, with: a few more thousand young men, born into a world without having to succumb to the "tender" female noir of a bambi (transgender times, live with it) harem ******* occupiers in the form of: zee heff! i'll be crying as much when, some other public personage dies... although i did grit my teeth when my great-grandmother died, managed to bite off a scalpel of tooth with my other tooth... funny, i can still tongue the canyon proof.

and it's the antithesis of the # (hashtag) generation,
namely? the súdokū...
   plus the english ******* explanation of
needing the hyphen, as a diacritical mark
to ease, sorry, forget the poncy ***** ******
talk of "proper": lubricate the dissection
of cutting a word open into alphabet street...
   it would otherwise look more like su-dough-coup
with the p in bracket form ( ), since the french
over the antithesis of dyslexia compared
to the english, they just add letters that do not,
require attendance / mention.
          but that's the case, every time i solve
this *** sushi riddle i can't but compare it to
the zeitgeist of the hashtag...
              so i perch on a windowsill like a
wake of vultures of a lion reaching gluttony scene,
and start thinking: hey, how about we pair up
and pecker off that sod of a robert plant?
give him the curly wurly momentum,
start to peck at his ***,
  and then give him a vulture's barber effect
of trichotillomania?
there's bound to be a lesson in that,
    what with ol' hef gone, we only 'ave to
worry aboot the hoff...
             ha ha... when hef met hoff,
           and the **** never stopped,
even leaving king solomon a tad bit jealous.

i sit on a pile of rubble, and call it a castle -
time ref. to counter the darwinist -
and yes, the saharan desert was once a
mountain range akin to the alpes - or the himalayas -
as any chemist would, side with the geologists
than than the biologists: mushy mushy doesn't
buy my effort, the biologists just expanded
history, we might as well make the *other

connection, between desert and mountain,
ergo: time,
       takes a lot of it,
          pretty much as much as space,
             apes have become debased genesis foci...
too many variations of it,
you'd have to start with eskimo and say:
  well: the orangutans seemed pleased with
a down syndrome replica...
                so just the chimps? no gorillas?
i still like my counter darwinism argument,
the counter biology, the lost mushy mushy
cushioning of certainty -
    like any chemist, i live for the hard stuff,
comes no harder than siding with geology,
saying: the epitome of times comes in
the form of the saharan mountain range,
that, given enough time (and we have a lot of
that now) - eroded into a sand-dial...
    irony, or divine intuition?
          and didn't the bible give off a whiff of:
and then a dinosaur went into eden:
   hey, be gods, try to, even,
  watch out, a ******* meteor might just come;
there's no fundamentalism contained
in a book that was written by an egyptian
prince...
    just a lack of poetic integrity in the interpretation...
i still don't see how poetry is slagged,
but the basic tenet of poetic writing is
taken, without a pinch of metaphor,
or counter-metaphor, in that it can be expanded
and be applied like a philosopher's stone,
to turn any known material into gold!

which brings me to another point, well, two,
how do you gain respect from the cats
you're petting?
             you sleep longer than they do.

point 2...

why has reading become such a "tedium" /
"accomplishment" -
   i'll tell you why, i don't like a language
of thinkers, i live a language realm of babblers...
the right to say blah is worth more than
the right to think oh...
                speaking has become too easy,
solidified by that fact that (if not even est.)
when someone writes a book, it becomes,
oh, the most glorious accomplishment!
     wow... these people really managed to
shut their gobs, and write a book?!
         wow... it's like seeing the fruition of
the event that didn't take place, that would have
been the out-doing of the hebrew architectural
tenure on the pyramids, that would have been
the hanging gardens of babylon,
that was, eventually, the poor nebuchadnezzar
crawling and snorting like a pig for seven years...
if you thought the pyramids were
a mad idea,  
    the jews finally solved the riddle exclaiming:
o.k., you know what, that's just
bonkers... you're about as mad as your hyena
grandfather, or father, or whatever he was
for asking to the seas to obey him by whipping
them (xerxes)...
  it's that unamazing to write a book these days...
or it really is, given that you have ghosts
writing them...
       ****, and they said the paranormal
didn't exist... really? ghost writers?
       maybe that's one of the reasons that when
don juan wrote his memoir,
  after bouts of not getting any, he invited
himself to a better pastime than jerking off...
well, might as well die a boring sod since
i'm not getting any, any more...
       me? i always thought of jerking off as
performing ****...
     i can't imagine the hand to be anyhow
different to the muscular ****...
    and for some reason,
i always end up thinking of the queen of england
waving: to add the seasoning of lacklustre
to the whole affair:
  like i'm there, but not really, there -
the roy orbison effort to make that:
strenuous effort at opera -
     and he was hardly the modern comparison
of a pop star with neck arteries protruding;
and he's still better than elvis.

word of wisdom:
  in the medium of poetry?
write by one technique, and one technique
alone...
          digression...
well, that's how i was taught english,
by a pict.
Hal Loyd Denton Jul 2013
I reference this not as the flower just of nature but in this case for the fact it is our anniversary this is an
Oleander of my heart yes the heart is a house all of my feelings and emotions are housed there the
Flower I choose to write about is my sister my wife’s sister Liz it’s kind of appropriate since she was the
Only one in our wedding party as we were married before a judge I guess she was a witness a witness to
The crime as it were to describe her I can use Roy Orbison’s song pretty woman a blonde cutie with
Southern roots in Tennessee now she is a near Chicago northerner take southern nights and northern
Bright lights infuse them with grace and charm you have begun to see the Oleander that lies beyond my
Door yard along my walk and borders the yard of my heart the glistening in the spring rain if you get real
Still you can hear tiny sounds of laughter among the joy filled faces the scented bloom fills my living
Room where ever I am eye catching satisfying delightful spring and summer what a wonder the spilling
Forth of fruitful life she matches the rose in pose an attitude of significance tinged with just enough
Brashness to hold your attention until you become beholden to the inner life that shows character
Wisdom authority a driven wind that lays down in the most beautiful fashion only to arise and make the
Trees sing the glass to shake in the most enjoyable way all in unison they dance the eye stormed by this
Profusion of elegance and color truly a best friend to the wayward wind carried near and far secrets rest
Within the heart that the Oleander knows and claims in darkness unflappable a sweet ghostliness an
Arbor found sweetly remembered but never forgotten unspoiled withstanding the day’s heat showing
Resilience a buoyancy of sprit uncommon the thrill that runs with deep rootedness when the sharp wind
Does blow she through power of will brings calm a flourish of maturity so lovely that is outstanding in all
these gifts she provides the greatest is she calls me friend thanks sis
Gather ‘round, warriors. This is your time.

This is your time to shine. It’s your day in the sun. It’s one-of-a-kind, o ye cheaters of death, but this is, nevertheless, your finest hour.

You found a home in war. You entered into a contract with bad company and gave up the rights to your body, your mind, everything but your mortal soul. They took advantage of the circumstance and you wound up deep in a bunk hole, hiding behind the tenuous wall of a manure pile. Bullets whizzed by your ears, fear possessed your frames like a demon taunted by the Lord. Death swooped in to put it’s fear into you, but you all laughed in his face and spat in his eye, turned your back on him without saying goodbye. Perhaps “See ya later” would have been appropriate. 

But no matter, husky gladiators. It is time to rest from your battle. It’s time to put away your swords and scabbards, your spears and your slings. Your automatic machine guns and your hand grenades. Your potent strains of anthrax and your agent orange. Surrender your arms, troglodytes. Cast them to the ground below. Consider the clatter they all make as they fall to the pavement. Take it in, breathe it all in, make it yours…

…for it IS yours.

Sorry, we didn’t get around to telling you. It was always yours, we just figured you would find it out on your own if you wanted it bad enough. No, I would agree: that is NOT fair. And I would also say this to you, “Fairness is a relative concept. When you consider the value we placed on you actually knowing this as a fact…well, I think it should be pretty ****** obvious. Don’t be a *****, you give all servicemen a bad name when you do that, you know?”

But enough of the self esteem-building fodder all, that is not why I have gathered ye here to-day. Nay, not even close. I have brought you all here together because I wanted to be the first to tell you. You’re all going home. That’s right, you’re homeward bound. Soon you’ll be able to pack your **** and take a southbound train to ride. You’ve lost your minds killing innocent civilians, you’ve struggled to keep your eyes open most nights, as staying awake meant staying alive. But you’re going home! Warm nights tucked between clean linen sheets. Soft goose down pillows to bore your heads into. The smell of coffee in the morning, bacon and eggs if you’re lucky. The prospect of another day that won’t be defined by the number of lives you’ve ended between sunrise and sunset.

The journey home will be a victorious one, indeed. You shall see it from the comfort of a first class seat on the most expensive airliner we can afford! A small bottle of gin or whiskey is only a few feet away and all you have to do to get one is ask the attendant. If you ask nicely I don’t doubt she might let you have more of those little bottles than administrative policy usually allows. But she sees it in your eyes…you’re a grizzled soldier. You’re still warm to the touch from the heat of battle. You know this. This is who you are, it’s what we made you. And she will sense this. It will drive her mad with desire. Her knees will quiver, she’ll blush, she’ll radiate ****** charm…but all you’ll be able to think of is that Vietnamese farmer with the plaid shirt. 

A ***** plaid shirt. Dripping with dark, brown mud, he smiled at you from beneath the brim of a straw hat that looked as if it had seen many better years. A smear in the drying clay was on the right side of his face where he’d wiped sweat. His lips were dry and cracked and his nose was a little runny. 

The buttons on that plaid shirt were the cute mother-of-pearl finish jobs, the kind that snap shut real easy. How many men would have noticed that? How many of the sharpest minds in the known universe would have missed how his left boot didn’t quite seem to match the right. But you caught it right away and you stored it into that immense data bank that is your United States Marine Corps certified brain. 

If only you could forget it, though. Right men? I see a few tears in a few eyes. I know I’m on the right track here, so if you still think I’m not talking to YOU, I have an invitation right here in my back pocket that will entitle the man to whom I give it a 6 month stint in the back of a mess peeling spuds. You don’t want that, now, do ye? What? No takers? I thought not.

But where was I? Oh, HOME, that’s what I was on about. You all have very nice homes, no doubt, and I’d bet there’s not a single one of you who isn’t just itchin’ to get back to ‘em. Is it the one you grew up in? Is it one you just bought? No matter, when you leave this place it will either be in a body bag or on the better side of Uncle Sam, who looks after all of those fine men and women who have risked life and limb in his service.

So what’s it going to be, worms? Death? He calls often here, and don’t think I don’t know that his is the song of the siren to many a worn out Spartan. But faileth not, loyal comrades. 

Will it be insanity? Will the wage of life and death struggle prove to be nothing more than a tug-of-war between lucidity and madness? Yer going home, grunt, why should it matter? Either one’s better than lying face down in a pool of your own guts. Don’t worry about it, just get on the plane. Baby, it’s your ticket to ride.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I stepped onto the tarmac with a firm determination to forget the last 2 years. Maybe even the last 15. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just tired of looking for an answer. I’ve listened for the still, small voice of reason and wisdom, but it seems to have stayed behind in the battlefield. Probably where it belongs. 


The night was cloudy and the stars shone like pinpricks in a dark black veil that covered the most brilliant light…ha, I almost said “life”…I may not have been too far wrong there. I wanted to cut the cord of gravity, float through however many miles it might take to reach one of the punctured holes. Then I would tear the fabric and crawl into the other side. Disappear into the brilliant aura.

Only a dream, only a wish. I drug my weary frame from the bustling airport to the highway. An old two-lane road, dangerous after dark. It doesn’t bother me. It’s purpose is to facilitate the traversing of distance from one point to another. I could care less about where it could lead me. I only knew that I would not turn back no matter where I wound up, so I stuck out my thumb and waited for someone to give me a ride.

Does anybody stop to give rides to strangers anymore? I wouldn’t. It’s not something I condone. In fact, I have only done it once in my life, when I was just a kid, before seeing “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer”. After watching that seminal film I resolved to never, ever pick up hitch-hikers again. I wasn’t going to help anybody on the side of the road, either. **** being a “good Samaritan” if it means getting my brains blown clear out of my skull, flung to the side of the road like rotten fruit. 

Despite all of this I still had my hand stretched out, thumb in the universal position that signifies the need of transportation for the “down-on-his-luck” traveler. I remember asking myself what could be more pathetic. I was reduced, by circumstances beyond my control, to hitching or hoping that someone might be clueless enough to pick me up.

Yet, that is exactly what happened.

A hookah smoking caterpillar sat behind the wheel, and he seemed glad to do a small kindness to me. He could tell I was a veteran of psychic wars. He felt obligated, I was sure.

“Hop in, friend,” he said. “I can see that you’re a little down on your luck. I been there ma’self a time ‘er two. Just throw yer pack in the back seat and climb up here with me.”

I wasn’t shocked in the least that a hookah smoking caterpillar was driving a GMC Jimmy east on Route 66. It did, however, give me quite a shock to think that he would pull over and offer me a ride. I am no fool.

“Off we go,” I said to him. 


The road was a long one that took us out of the state. As we crossed the line the caterpillar turned the radio up real loud and started singing along to a Journey song they were playing on the classic rock station.

“Ooooh, wheel in the sky keeps on turning,” he wailed. “I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!!!”

I turned to him. “You have a very distinct grasp of Steve Perry’s vocal mannerisms. Have you ever sang professionally?”

“Oh no, not me. I could never go onstage in front of a lot of people and sing. I just don’t have it in me.”

“Well, you aren’t afraid to sing in front of me. What’s the difference between one stranger and a hundred strangers?”

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s not that at all,” he repeated. “I had a friend who used to play and sing in a lot of the bars on the circuit between California and New Orleans. It was a job to him, you know? He told me about a lot of the stuff that goes on in those places. He told me how one time he was singing a Roy Orbison song when some pool-shooting loser throws the cue ball right at him. Beaned him on the forehead, BOP! Had to hurt. Said the bruise swelled up so bad directly afterwards that people started calling him “the Elephant Man”. I was a beginner in the days when he regaled me with these anecdotes and mister, I’ll tell you, he put the fear of God in me. I was so terrified of getting conked in the head with a pool ball that I never pursued the craft.”

I felt a tinge of sympathy for his plight. “I’m sorry to hear that. I bet you would have been a star if you’d gone for it. Bigger than Steve Perry, even.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I don’t feel cheated or like I’ve missed anything essential to my happiness. As long as I’ve got wheels, my hookah and something to put in it, I am a happy caterpillar. Remember that: I am merely a caterpillar.”

“I will do that, but you’re a caterpillar who could kick Steve Perry’s *** any day of the week!”

“Wheel in the sky keeps on turning!”

“**** straight…I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!” 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The caterpillar held the wheel steady and kept on truckin’. He sang along with every single classic rock song that came on the radio. From Kansas to Boston to “Sweet Home Chicago” he knew them all and, to be perfectly honest, he did a **** good job. He belted ‘em out like Springsteen, he crooned like Bryan Ferry, he croaked like Joe Cocker, he wailed like Janis Joplin, he screamed like that dude from Slayer. No two ways about it. This hookah smoking caterpillar had serious talent. 

I was curious. “So, mister, what to do you do for a living?”

“My friend, I am a mortician. I deal with death every single day. I do a job that most folks would find distasteful and not a little disturbing. And yet I love my job. I do, oh yes, I do. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the whole world.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said. “How does a man get a start in a field like yours?”

“It’s not too hard, really,” he replied. “You come with me, I’ll make you an apprentice. You lookin’ for work?”

“No, sir. I can’t say that I am right now. Still got a little cache stashed away from military days.” I made a gesture with my hand that signified that I was grateful for the offer, but would have to pass. “Maybe one of these days I might change my mind. I think I could handle it. I’m not squeamish. No, not at all.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could handle it. I can tell by the way you look straight ahead, you don’t look back, you’ve got a grip on everything in this world and you think there’s nothing that could ever shake your foundations, whether it be from the east wind or the west. The north or the south. Do I read you correctly?”

“I reckon you do. I’ve had a hard run most of my days. Experience has taught me one lesson, but it taught me good and well: Nothing is as you really think it is, and it could all be gone tomorrow. ”
Bardo Aug 2023
< So how far back can you go then ?
How far down the Rope of Songs can you go ?
You were a Rocker weren't you, you liked Rock n' Roll
In the 80's you had a Walkman, you'd be listening to tapes and songs on the radio
You also wanted to be a drummer once, you loved the power and energy there
But what about the early days though, I'm interested particularly in the early days
How far back can you go I wonder
Yea! How far back and what memories do they bring up ? >

Back in the 70's watching Top of the Pops every Thursday evening on the BBC, essential viewing
With its exciting Whole Lotta Love intro
It was something exciting, thrilling
Waiting to see your favourite Band
And to see the Charts, how they were doing
In the Seventies there was Glam Rock, my eldest brother and me we were always arguing and fighting with one another, sibling rivalry I suppose
If he supported United then I'd have to support City...silly stuff
He liked the band Slade whereas I liked...I supported Marc Bolan and T-Rex
Solid Gold East Action I really liked that song
It was very fast, he rarely did fast songs Marc
Telegram Sam..."you're my main man"
Metal Guru..."is it true"
Twentieth Century Boy..."I wanna be your toy"
The hair on your neck would stand up when he'd come on...
Slade were good though, secretly I liked Slade too, they had great songs
*** on feel the Noise/ Girls grab the boys..
Coz I luv you...Mama we'er all crazy now...
Skweeze me Pleeze me "You know how to squeeze me..."
But there were lots of other good bands and so many great songs
We used to play cards for small money...pennies, a series of different card games, and we'd put on records while we played
We even learned to play Chess and we started a Chess League between us,
We'd always listen to the music as we played.

The Sweet's "Blockbuster" with its intro of police sirens, it spent about 5 weeks at No.1 in the UK Charts...
It reminds me of...of Fish that song...Fish on Fridays, we used to have fish every Friday, I didn't like fish there was bones in it
I wouldn't eat it then Mam would get angry
One time she took a mouthful of my fish trying to prove there were no bones in it
Then suddenly she started to cough and splutter and choke
A Bone had actually got caught in her throat
I thought it was my fault, I thought I'd killed her
She had to go to hospital to get it out
I was going to tell her "I told you the fish was dangerous"
That memory just came back to me when I thought of that song and that time

Yea! I liked Marc Bolan and T-Rex, songs like Metal Guru, Twentieth Century Boy
I remember I didn't like the lyric "Twentieth Century Boy/ I wanna be your toy"
It sounded silly to me that lyric, I suppose I wanted things to make sense
And when he did that song "New York City" with the lyric
"Did you ever see a woman coming out of New York City with a frog in her hand"
I thought then he was maybe losing it a bit
< You...you were a very serious child then weren't you ? >
I suppose I was...like a lot of children are...maybe I just wanted things to make sense.

< I'm interested in the early days, even the very early days and the memories you have
How far back can you go ? What about the funny novelty songs ? >
Chuck Berry had a No. 1 with "My Ding a Ling" playing with his Ding a Ling, we all thought it was very funny
Stayed at No. 1 for several weeks
"Gimme that thing, gimme gimme that thing (or Ding)" was another funny song
"Mouldy Old Dough" by Lieutenant Pigeon a keyboard song with the constant refrain of just "Mouldy Old Dough"
Cat Stevens had a song "I can't keep it in/ I gotta let it out/ gotta show the world..."
Novelty songs were important, they'd interest even your parents
They'd pass a comment "Ha! Ha! That's a funny song"
< And there were sad songs too, weren't there, really sad songs ? >
"Billy don't be a hero don't be a fool with your life" by Paper Lace about a young bride trying to talk her young fiancee out of going off to war, he doesn't listen and never comes back, he gets killed
The Government sends her a letter, she throws it away...
"Seasons in the Sun" by Terry Jacks, 'Goodbye Michelle my little one/
We've known each other since we were nine or ten/ We climbed hills and trees skinned our knees...ABC's / O! Michelle it's hard to die when all the birds are singing in the sky..."
You'd nearly be in tears listening to it.
We used to buy Top of the Pops compilation records with lots of hits on them
Sometimes Mom would like a song, 'Stay with me' by the band Blue Mink
"Stay with me, lay with me/ Love me for longer..."
Always reminds me of my Mom that song
'Killing me softly with your song' Roberta Flack was another
'Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree..."
At school every Friday the teacher would have a spelling test, I used win it a lot, I was good at spelling
The teacher used to give some sweets as a prize, I used bring them home to my Mum.

The Eurovision Song contest (all the European countries would put forward a song), I remember being let stay up to watch Abba win in 1974 with 'Waterloo'
In their fabulous outfits...they looked like Stars, Giants to us, Norse legends from Sweden.  They were amazing!
And what about our own Dana, the young Irish girl from Derry who won the Eurovision for Ireland for the first time with 'All kinds of everything...remind me of you"
I was too young to be allowed to stay up to watch that one
But you could probably hear the adults shouting for Joy from the room below
Happy Nay amazed to see one of our own having done so well, being recognised, flying the flag for Ireland
And then there was seeing Thin Lizzy playing 'Whiskey in the Jar' on Top of the Pops, the first Irish Rock band ever to appear on the show
It was so exciting watching them on our old Black and white TV...an Irish Band one of your very own up there on the World stage
And what about Gilbert O'Sullivan from Waterford I think reaching No. 1 in the Charts with his lovely song 'Clair'
We thought it was a love song but at the end it was revealed it was in fact about a little girl he used babysit for...so sweet.
We used to get comics and magazines secondhand, bought at jumble sales (remember jumble sales)
There was a music magazine for young kids, mainly for girls I think
It was called 'Jackie', there'd be a few in our bundle
They'd have big pictures of all the current hearthrobs
Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, the Bay City Rollers
The young fans would go crazy for their idols
I remember Donny Osmond singing Puppy Love and his version of The Twelfth of Never...
"I'll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom
I'll love you till the clover has lost its perfume
I'll love you till the poets run out of rhyme
Until the Twelfth of Never/ And that's a long long time"...
They were beautiful words about loving, a forever love
And Baby I love you by The Ronettes "Baby I love you/ I love everything about you...
All singing about this wonderful mysterious thing called...called Love.

<Can you go back further than that?>
When we'd go up the village where the amusement arcade was
There'd be songs playing, there were dreamy songs
Albatross by Fleetwood Mac, A whiter shade of Pale by Procol Harum
There was an instrumental I remember called "Sylvia" by the Dutch band Focus
There was a lovely leggy blonde girl named Sylvia in my class at school
And yes! I think she was actually from Holland
(We had a few foreign girls in our class)
Y'know I think she fancied me...did Sylvia
She used to smile at me a lot.
I have a memory of being at the fairground in the Summer with its swing boats and bumper cars
It's roundabouts with the horses and swings, the shooting gallery, the stall for throwing rings over things and taking a prize home
I remember candy floss and ice cream cones
I remember playing the penny slot machines in the amusement arcade, all the different machines
I remember a song "California Man" by The Move... wonderful Summer days.

In the Sixties an Elvis or a Beatles film was a big deal
I remember A Hard Days Night in brilliant black and white
And then "Help" in wonderful colour
Trying to get a fabulous Ring off Ringo the drummer's finger... great songs
Watching The Banana Splits "One Banana Two Banana Three Banana Four/All Bananas going right through the door...
Remember The Monkees"Hey!Hey! We're The Monkees/You never know where we'll be found... We're the young generation and we got something to say"
Last Train to Clarksville, I'm a Believer... great songs too
Remember The Age of Aquarius "This is the age of Aquarius..."
The Sixties yeah!

<Did your Mom and Dad have a Singles collection, the old 45's. Do you remember?>
On our old Dansette record player Roy Orbison singing In Dreams and its B side Sharadoba a magical Egyptian sounding song
And also It's Over about a love affair breaking up
And its wonderful B side Indian Wedding, that was my favorite song among the 45's
It told the story of Yellow Hand and White Feather two Indians getting married
But then going off into the swirling snow never to return
Gone to the Land of the Rising Sun...
You'd listen to them over and over again those songs and that wonderful haunting voice.
<And what were you thinking about, what would be running through your mind when you'd be listening to those songs?>
I remember I wanted to be special that I'd have some special powers and be able to do great things
Something that would make me stand out and that people would be amazed
Maybe some of the girls too, would be very impressed.
My Dad he liked Jim Reeves, he had a lovely velvety smooth voice
He sang Billy Bayou 'Billy Billy Bayou watch where you go/ You're walking on quicksand/ Walk slow/ Billy Billy Bayou watch what you say/ A pretty girl is gonna get you one of these days...
He sang a lot of slow love songs "Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone and let believe that we're together all alone...
Anna Marie... Anna Marie
Four Walls to know me...

<Tell me about Christmas, the Christmas songs?>
Christmas was a magical time in our house, we'd have the Christmas tree with all the decorations and coloured lights on it
We'd have long concertina like decorations going from wall to wall, so colourful
And lots of glittery things
The songs... Slade singing 'Happy Christmas Everybody', Wizard singing 'I wish it could be Christmas everyday', Mud singing 'It'll be lonely this Christmas (without you to hold)' sounded like Elvis
Johnny Mathis singing 'When a child is born',
'Little Drummer Boy'...
In those days because of school and family you had a strong sense of belonging, having friends, attending birthdays and sports and community events and church
I remember the Christmas party in Primary school (Kindergarten), you had to bring your own treats
I'd only have some biscuits and diluted orange juice
Most people were relatively poor in those days
I was a bit embarrassed having so little
There was one boy and all he had was a bottle of milk to bring
Some used make fun of him, kids could be cruel sometimes.

I remember the teacher brought in a tape recorder once and taped every boy and girl's voice and then he'd play them back
I used dread when my voice would come up
'Cos suddenly the whole class would erupt in laughter
For some reason my voice sounded funny when taped
Even the teacher used smile
I felt so humiliated nay destroyed with them all laughing at me...
I remember... I remember singing the Christmas Carol 'Angels we have heard on high' with its chorus
"Glo..ooria, Gloria in Excelsis Deo"
It was Latin I think but I didn't know this
I thought we were singing "Gloria in a Chelsea stable"
I thought to myself "Jesus must be a supporter of Chelsea football/soccer club" heh!
We had Perry Como's Christmas album with the story of 'Frosty the Snowman' and 'The Christmas Song' ...
"chestnuts roasting on an open fire/ Jack Frost nipping at your nose/ Yuletide carols being sung by a choir/ And folks dressed up like Eskimos..."
And Bing Crosby of course, singing White Christmas
I think we all dreamed of a White Christmas
At school we'd sing 'Away in a Manger' and 'The First Nowell'
Y'know if I sing those songs even now to myself, I can... I can almost remember...

<What about the other songs you learned at school, funny songs, sad songs and the memories they bring up? >
There was a song 'Those were the days (my friend we thought they'd never end)' it was in the Charts
I think the teacher taught us it
The people in the song would be having a great time laughing and drinking and dancing in the taverns
But as they'd grow older their lives would change and they'd get lonelier and sadder...
'Puff the Magic Dragon' I remember there was a very sad bit in this song
Puff and his childhood friend would have so many great adventures together
But then one day, his friend he came no more (he'd found other toys to play with)
Poor Puff was left bereft, he slowly slunk back into his cave... this used to make me sad...
We did patriotic songs 'Roddy McCorley' (goes to die on the Bridge of Toom today)
We had a songbook at school, I still have it
It had lots of old folk songs
Oh! Susanna, Skip to my Lou, The Camptown Races
"Michael Finnegan beginagin/ He had hairs on his chinagin/ Poor old Michael Finnegan"
We used laugh at that song
"What are we going to do with the drunken sailor... early in the morning "
'Marching through Georgia' "Hurra! Hurra! We bring the Jubilee/ Hurra! Hurra! The flag that sets us free...a rousing song
The teacher would play a musical instrument, a melodica I think it was called
She'd blow into it and it had keys on top that'd she'd finger to create the notes
She divided the class into those who could sing and the others, the Crows she called us who couldn't
I was among the Crows
It made me feel bad being called a Crow.
In Primary school we used to play soccer during the breaks
It was usually the Boys from the Housing Estate versus the rest of us from the Village
There was never any tactics, the whole team en masse would just run after the ball LoL
I remember I used to get angry sometimes probably because of something someone had said to me
When I was angry I'd become like The Incredible Hulk
I'd go through the whole lot of them, beat them all
I was Unstoppable
I was the first boy in my class to ever score a goal using my head
The school would also have soccer leagues and we'd get put onto teams
But we were so small compared to the bigger older boys we'd hardly ever get a touch of the ball
But I... I managed to get a goal once which was unheard of from someone in our year
I was so happy.... delighted! My teacher even announced it to the whole class
That I'd scored... I was so chuffed
When I went home and told my parents though they didn't seem to think it was anything special....
My Dad he liked accordion music, he liked The Alexander Brothers from Scotland
They had a song 'Nobody's Child'
"I'm Nobody's Child, no one to love me/ No mother's kisses no mother's smiles/ I'm like a flower just growing wild..."

I used to sleep alone in my room
You'd be afraid there in the Dark on your own
There'd be a nightlight on the wall all lit up
A religious picture, the ****** Mary holding the child Jesus
I'd get Mom to leave the door open so I could faintly hear the voices downstairs
Sometimes I couldn't hear anything and I'd be afraid everybody had gone and left me
So I'd get up and sit on the landing listening
There was a few times when I'd actually go down the stairs
I'd be so relieved to see them all still there
I used sing songs in the dark to keep the fear away, songs we learned at school
"We're going to the Zoo Zoo Zoo/ How about You You You/ You can come too too too..."
Old MacDonald had a farm E-I-E-I O! and on that farm he had some...
"10 green bottles standing on a wall/ And if one green bottle should accidentally fall/ There'd be nine green bottles standing on the wall...
Sometimes I used recite poems we'd learned
"Two little blackbirds singing in the sun/ One flew away and then there was one... One little brick wall lonely in the sun/ Waiting for the blackbirds to come and sing again "
I also remember trying to recite to myself the multiplication tables...

<There were funny rhymes and nursery rhymes wasn't there? >
Christmas is coming/ The Goose is getting fat/ Please put a penny in the old Man's hat/ If you haven't got a penny a halfpenny will do/ If you haven't got a halfpenny God bless you...
Hickory Dickery dock/ The mouse ran up the clock...
They could be strangely violent sounding
Jack and Jill went up the hill/To fetch a pail of water/ Jack fell down and broke his crown/ And Jill came tumbling after...
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall/ Humpty Dumpty had a great fall...
Three blind mice/ See how they run/ They all run after the farmer's wife/ She cuts off their tails with a carving knife...
Girls are made of all things nice... sugar and spice/What are little boys made of/ Frogs and snails and puppy dogs tails...
Adam and Eve went up my sleeve and never came down till Christmas Eve...
I remember the early games we played, Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Tiddlywinks trying to flick little plastic counters into a tiny plastic bucket, also playing draughts and marbles...

<Can you go back any further ? >
My Mom singing in the kitchen doing her daily chores singing some song off the radio
Dickie Rock an Irish showband singer singing
"Come back to stay/ And promise me you'll never stray/ I promise that I'll be true...
Sean Dunphy another Irish singer singing "If I could choose" (came second in the Eurovision Song contest)
Tom Jones 'The Green green grass of Home '
There was a lot of easy listening type songs on the radio Burt Bacharach type songs
Andy Williams, Englebert Huberdinck (Please release me let me go/ I don't love you anymore), Doris Day maybe
There's a lot I can't remember now
Val Doonican another Irish singer who'd made it big in the UK
(Had his own TV program for many years on the BBC)
He had a big hit with the song "Walk Tall"
"Walk tall and look the world right in the eye/That's what my mother told me when I was about knee high...
I remember one magical Christmas we got a present of a plastic projector
It came with several slides, they had wonderfully colourful cartoony pictures on them that told a story
We'd turn off all the lights and project it onto the wall
I remember it was like magic, the colours they were so vivid, they were like the colors off stained Glass windows...
The colour of things was very important when you were a kid, they'd almost create feelings inside of you
Colours came first... before words ever did
We often didn't understand the grown ups with their big words...
I remember getting collections of different kinds of toy soldiers and then staging battles
I remember collecting little toy Dinky cars they were called, that was their brand
And Matchbox cars (another brand) ... even today when I see certain colours of cars I am reminded of those old toy cars I used to play with... strange

<What are your earliest memories then? >
There was a question I always wanted to ask the adults but I never did, I thought it kind of funny and didn't want them to laugh at me
The question was "Why does Life always show me ?" An existentialist question even then.

We lived by the sea so you'd be lulled to sleep every night by the flowing up and flowing back of the sea... the tide... its gentle swaying back and forth motion
We had a black cloth picture/painting on the wall, a night scene with swans on a lake and an exotic house in the background with the Moon shining
It was so quiet and peaceful to look at...
My bedroom wallpaper had lovely red or pinkish roses
There was a colourful flower design sewn onto my pillowcase
It used to be lovely getting into bed with fresh linen...
I remember I used to get funny dreams even then, sometimes scary dreams
But I remember you were always safe 'cos in the dream you had a special ring you could put on and then the scary dream would go away (I've often wondered after was that maybe where Tolkien got his inspiration for The Lord of the Rings and Wagner the music composer for his music opera "The Ring")

<Can you go back...any further ? >
Going back further, you're almost falling off the edge of the world there
To a time... to a time when there were no words
When a child comes into the world they have no words
There's only... only The Silence... The Great Silence,
Silence is a strange thing, you can hear Silence
The fact that you can hear it means it must be changing from moment to moment
It too is just like a music, it's probably the first music
Without it there could be no other
The Music of the Spheres someone once called it
It just stays there in the background... glistening... your constant companion
Probably the first sound you ever heard, and probably the last you'll ever hear
It can grow very loud
It wasn't threatening, there were no monsters in it
Not until you went to school and learned words and heard scary stories
Did the monsters come
Words they can cast shadows... sometimes very long shadows...
There was a cot with wooden bars, I remember having a blanket with lovely warm colors on it, soft light blues and yellows, wooly sheep, Bo Peep or Bears or something
We had a golden coloured curtain with lots of designs on it in the bedroom
I remember if you looked hard enough you'd start to see faces in the curtain
Sometimes they would frighten me, they'd look very sharp and angry looking or maybe very sad unhappy looking...
I suppose today I still see faces, in my mind, in the great curtain of all my memories, all those I ever met and knew...

I remember looking at my Mom's face and not knowing what she was
Babies their a complete clean slate, have no words, they know nothing of this world
Gradually they warm to their Mom's affections and come to trust her and bond with her.
Because you had no words when very young there'd be huge gaps in your consciousness
When your consciousness would be completely clear and still
The silence and stillness would envelop you
... and there was something else... something else there... something deep in the silence
Out of it would come something very strange and quite wonderful
It'd come upon you suddenly...it was like your consciousness was changing, opening up
It was like you were descending into some great... some great complex
Your eyes would be closed but still you could see it and feel it... you were part of it
And it was so natural and so familiar...it was where you came from...it was Home
There was a first part that would lead into another part... and then another, all different
Yea, it had several stages and you'd pass through each stage from the outside going inward right to the very last stage... the very Source of Life itself
And you'd be completely at ease with yourself, you'd be completely at Home there
It'd come every night... that Special thing.,. that Special Place
Y'know sometimes when I see a little baby asleep in its pram, I know... I know where they are
Their away now, away in that Special Place
Far faraway from this world of care, so peaceful and so quiet there
Guarded by unknowingness and the Great Silence
With no fear or confusion there to bedevil it
Knowing only a relaxation so deep and a great Stillness within...

But me! I was the youngest in my house, I was always fighting with my brothers
And I was a terrible worrier just like my Mother
I'd be worried about school and the teachers, and trying to understand my (school) lessons
And there'd always be problems, arguments, confusions... humiliations and cruel harsh words spoken
At night I remember I used shake my head vigorously as if trying to rid my mind
Of words that had been spoken, words that hurt or stung...or confused me
I used bump my head gently against the wall
But no! I couldn't escape them... my peace it was broken now...it was gone
And that Special Place just like in the song Puff the Magic Dragon
It came no more...it was lost to me.

I suppose this is all I can remember, all I can recall
I guess this is where I must have come in
I suppose I must have reached the end... the End of my Rope here.
More a series of reminiscences than a poem, a bit like a meditation. No one ever writes about the very early days of their lives, it's a closed door, written off, a time forgotten, that goes unvisited. But perhaps there was something magical incredible behind that door. Everyone should maybe take a trip down their Rope of Songs.
Skipping stones, Breaking bones
Jumping stones on riverbeds of jones
Dancing to the Stones while smoking bones

Crashing cars under the stars
Driving cars through concrete jars
Shooting stars way above convertible cars

Warm air passes through there
Cool brisk air blesses Blue Day'd fair
Oh where art thou fair, It was there soon it will be here

Dancing away the night dressed as a modern day knight
Way above floats a kite, Oh what a blessed sight
Closing night, don't put up a fight

Dressing to the nine Bump and Grin(d)e
You looked so devine, I shall sit a while and pine
Through the withering pine, We shall go at nine

Enjoy me for awhile as we sharpen the crocadile
Hot waxed tile, Drinking oxen bile
Stay around while, For I am about to get on the dial

Video spin DJ Twist up a jay
As we begin to sway In a new way
Never gay Today I will stay

Enjoy don't be a toy
A girl and boy listen to Tolstoy
For Orbison of Roy will begin to destroy
copyrighted by Aiden L K Riverstone
Jeffrey Robin Jun 2016
.



...


depression

( ny city street --)

The homeless veteran !

Nah ! He ain't gonna be no policeman !

)(

The subtle abuse

( The way anyone talks at all )

••

are THEY really trying to **** us with chem-trails !

//

CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT

••

Oh


For some human dignity

<>

Some idiots believe in god

Some idiots don't

But why do  we care what idiots think (?)

////

Some hello poetry babes

Say they believe in love !

//

But

They're only the lonely !

( Roy Orbison )


)(

)(


Yeah


Human dignity !

///


The true communion

The marriage with the stars



..
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
i seem to have found a new impetus
to write,
   when i was embarking on
a £3000+ a year tuition fee
at UCL's SSEES school,
   i had this diabolical desire to write
a book about Hey-Zeus!
   but then the nag hammadi
came into orbit...
   and i suddenly lost interest
reading footnotes of encyclopedic
entries...
      so i had to find something...
against the trend of poets
who write about reading books
in the upper echelon of society -
yeah, that kind of artsy-fartsy poetry...
i write... about...
   not having the resources
to write a book...
   about the geographic anomaly
of the spread of
    of the beulenplage,
         zee...   schwarzplage...
within the confines of the immune area
of europe, in which i was born...
just between old capital Cracow,
and Masovia...
           this... little... scratch of land...
which apparently first established
the content for the idea
                   of quarantine...
i only write these little "poems"...
because, i know,
  that i will never have the proper
resources to write a book about
this anomaly, in the phenomenon
that was the bubonic plague...
genghis khan could appear in this
time period and say:
   ****... more effective than me...
i don't write about reading
books... i write about not being
able to write a book of my eclectic
interests congregating...
   why this geographic anomaly?
given... the islanders of Britain were
not immune...
             i wish i could have
written a Hey-Zeus book...
   but, like i said, the nag hammadi
library crept to my attention...
but... how come the region of Europe,
where i, and my ancestors were born...
had some immunology working
in their favor?
   plus... i figured...
  i already have a chemistry degree,
why not play the drop-out card...
given that i was studying with
people 3 years shy of my post-21...
and...
         they just met London
coming from the suburbs of
Birmingham....
    who, later, invited me,
   to student theater production
depicting the Gaza strip mentality...
telling me: WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU!
i sort of nodded... imitating
a suggestion: a ha...
                and supposing myself
offensive by not speaking...
   left with a supposed phantom
of Roy Orbison (who was always better
than Elvis).    
             i swear to god,
even in high school, you made alliances
with certain bullies...
   you befriended them...
    the ones that succumbed to trouble
by physical assault...
   and you became sort of friends
with them... like Ryan Curmy...
   could have been a great footballer...
last time i met him,
high as a kite...
popping ****** pills... aged...
in his early twenties...
           who smacked dreadlock Ashley...
tall as Goliath, dumb as a ******...
it's not like we were even friends...
but we shared a pax non bellum...
     so yeah...
i write, because i have a shadow impetus...
i wish i could have had enough
resources to write about the geographic
anomaly of the bubonic plague...
      surrounding,
the, probably first, conceptualization
of               quarantine.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
of course i believe in an after-life,
well, let's say ~life, or
passing on tradition "life" -
however you note it down,
because that's what this out-of-every-instance
is described: a second chance -
however hellish or heavenly,
that's beside the point,
either way the idea is not a torture rack -
but nonetheless,
serious intellectuals are reduced to
smithereens by merely considering
arguing such realms -
the **** do it better with Manga cartoons,
so ******, so exotic -
by the way? Tokyo Tribes is the
most ******-up film i've seen
since Battle Royale - new-age propaganda
spinsters... Alistair Cambel looks
like a boy-scout by comparison...
oh, rolls-Royce- royal, roy-all - not the
tip end of ale from Roy Orbison,
roy-all - ******* missed the diacritical
marks and went mad with punctuation
nobody ever ******* minds:
laugh now, pay later.
but with all these people concerned
with their body image, their hologram
selves, it's no wonder that Darwinism
is apprehensive about it's archaeology
(******, please insert the presence of
the æ γραφημ) - when the fashion
industry is doing, what the hell it's doing -
why would i believe in this world,
this world alone, when people
are adamant to perform hologram spectacles,
the: let's try to make it all look pretty,
but ******-up beneath all the fake aesthetics?
it doesn't take questioning the entire world,
or abstracting this world and questioning
reality to provide the answers...
it simply takes the fashion industry
and the ******* industry -
or 17th century sensibilities of painters:
plums versus twigs -
                                        and you think this is
the only world? given that people around you
are not being who they deem they are
because they're more concerned with
projection rather than perception?
i love these alphabetical clues...
                                  they're the rhyming couplets
i live for outside the reach of a thesaurus -
if a person stages concentrating on
a hologram ambition, and empties himself
so that he's constantly c.c.t.v. prone to
sit up, never pick his nose, wipe his *** with velvet...
well... how can you experience this world
for its worth, when a person also involved in
this world, monetises the world into
a hologram flip of the otherwise dormant stone?
only a fake world would ever provide fakers
to reside in it and reside in it as the highest authority...
there's the television / Plato's cave to mind also...
i just don't see it fulfilling in what Heidegger
deems being - comfort in concerns -
or simply there - so what compliments
this world is illusory, a hologram that isn't neither
being nor non-being -
                                 i'd call this world
and all the powers involved in keeping it
an assortment process - allocation in extreme -
at least a way to see the full potential of
humanity's free will... or the least desired
verse alter of the collective: making your mind up.
all in all: thespians and make-up artists!
  and the need to keep animals for company
to shy away from social-mobility (lying)
                       of the everyday and tell the truth -
to animals, who bark and meow,
the true onomatopoeia poets of our truant morals
and they too: truants of speech, knock on wood,
lick the testicles, play ping pong.
Crying?
well
we should be,

this country,
the one we call
our country
appears
to have gone
quite contrary

and we
should be
crying.
g clair Jul 2014
Roy
told it like it was
of love and loss and beauty
knew about deep pain
trusted the bigger picture
and played his voice
like a violin
wrote music to suit
that amazing tenor
a follower of Jesus Christ
brought a sinner to salvation
and singing was your thing
your voice, oh, Roy Orbison
could melt the hardest stone
I miss you in your old age
but you are not old anymore
you are young, healthy, strong
and can see...you have been restored
to your peak of perfection
and I believe that Heaven
is a better place now

http://youtu.be/J4ki93EqjHU
I love this man's voice and am so grateful to God for preserving his voice,  but even more, His Spirit.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
\alt

work-around title: Çymru among the Ottomans (Ę vs. Щ)

a propos: pre-scriptum... in the background demdike stare's - janissary , for one reason or another... the fantasy of being in the legion of either the janissaries or the mamluks... hell... let the sultan have his harem... he's still going to favour the slave girl from the north... Hurrem... give me this one ******* from a past of romance... this Khadaia... i'll see her once more just to catch her name properly: all i have is the prefix Khada- while she hushed the suffix... over all that's on offer in this playground of freedoms... hedonism never tasted this... limited... when it is so freely available... 4 years without touching a woman's body and then... resurrected with a pulverising urge to touch one once more: over the debacle of grooming a female cat who was eagerly entertaining trans-species ***... *** is ugly esp. when animals come to the fore...

in all honesty: i wasn't convinced when i initially
read the list of ingredients...
not at all: or one bit...
i wasn't going to read the instructions
or... watch the video...

   i forget which flatbread i used...
gözleme? no... there was a SH grapheme at the end
of the name...
not the SH of hiding the H with
a Czech caron:  š...
the Turkish variation...
               the cedilla "s":    ş...
certainly not bazlama...

lucky me: first the Turkish barbers...
then the Turkish prostitutes...
now Turkish food...
i had a similar fetish for Indian girls...
hardly a fetish: one uneventful
summer: should we say...

ah... here we go... lavash... flat... bread...
funny how...
oh i can just imagine...
the year when... the ancients stumbled
upon using yeast when mixing
flour and water... watching the first
yeast infested bread rise up
like a sunrise in the heat...

blame the French... or don't blame them...
it's hardly mesmerizing watching
a hot pan with a tortilla on it...
the earth would still be flat for thoese
civilizations...
or how... yeast was used to make:
wine rather than drink ultra-sweet
grape-****-juice of the diabetic h'arabs...

no... i wasn't expecting the recipe to turn out
as it did: better than the local Cypriots
making imitation turkish with their doner-kebabs...
all those raw vegetables to somehow counter
the grease of the lamb...
raw (albeit) spanish onions... i.e. sweeter
and juicier... raw iceberg lettuce...
raw tomatoes... raw cucumber...
pickled chillies...
two sauces... a diluted chilli sauce and...
yoghurt garlic?
i've been gagging for some yoghurt mint:
but no... no... none of that...

- now i'm back from the days of drinking ms. amber...
i'm back on the drip of "blood":
wine sooths... wine... progresses: slowly...
esp. cheap wine in the form of kalimotxo:
the blood of Montezuma!
a toast to Montezuma!
    gradual involvement in intoxication...
never a lag like with ms. amber...
never waking up still drunk...
             drunk in the process of drinking...
much better...
and when enough lubrication has been
downed: 2 bottles for a night worth drinking
through...
3 hours of sleep at best: but all this...
mind like a whirlwind...
ms. amber: you have stiffened me for the last
time... your supposed
cure for my ailments come too late:
i'm stiffened: i'm numbed by you...
i will no longer associate you with good
tidings... never mind my own deeds...
now i prefer a drink that will creep up on me...
there will be a statement surrounding:
succumbing to gradation...

- the same year the ancients
invested their genius / imagination into pursuing
the use of yeast in baking:
making flat-breads become sunrises
as they... started to ferment... grapes?
all the stags and the bears are in on it
come autumn when they fill their belly's full
with rotting... fermenting fruits...
and stumble around the world
like they might be inclined to acknowledge
the existence of Bacchus...
a bear's drunken walk: i can't match
with a dance... perhaps these words might
just suffice...

- come to think of it... since i'm in all my 35 year old
splendour...
i think i fitted the bill for being
an "angry young man"... most of us were...
but... thankfully... as i've aged...
i've noticed how so few people have
the capacity to drink some sense into themselves...
even Nietzsche preferred barbiturates...
i can't say that i would:
in vino vivo! veritas comes after...
animation... scandal... trenches...
at 35 i can say the anger has... slowly diluted itself:
i guess the anger was at youth itself:
it must have been...
to be angry at being young is every man's
ball & chain...
with two exceptions of Paris and Adonis...
now... the sweet melancholic cloud
that makes my sense of humour subtle...
sharpening my ridicule: since i'm still yet to
receive pointers on wit
and...  reactionary tongue-whip anecdotes...
oddly enough i picked up a copy of
Rousseau's the social contract & a letter
about spectacles...

why haven't i picked up Rousseau earlier?
mind you... with this tongue i now use...
i could never read Rousseau in english...
i can read Bertrand Russell in english...
but every philosophy book i ever read was
read in my mother tongue...
the tongue with all the fancy diacritical stressors...
"so-called" by the people
who don't use them... who have Charles Dickens
calling a spelling-mistake
an orthographical transgression... ******* to that...

- suppose i wanted to paint...
well... writing is not exactly painting:
Frank O'Hara noted how terrible orange is
on canvas: unless the orange stands as
synchronised by actual oranges
in a still life depiction...
orange elsewhere? on a metallic alloy
on a bicycle... i cycled a few schoolboys
once on my Trek Marlin and heard
a compliment about it...
i should have painted...
but then i like that self-deprecating joke
i once heard a Glaswegian say
in class: how was copper wire invented?
two Scots arguing over a penny...
i have diacritical marks for contorts...
and if i'm really desperate:
as i sometimes am: i'll lend an eye on reading
some katakana...

why haven't i read Rousseau earlier?
perhaps i was too stupid too young too naive...
perhaps i should have a tattoo of
Robespierre on my buttocks...
perhaps... just... perhaps...
like someone might have a tattoo of
Roy Orbison to counter all that's Hey-Lvis
in that waterboy flick...

wine is like oil on a bike chains...
for the brain... the wine tide as i explore...
a slowly breaking of the dam
of formality...
but i'm not painting: come to think of it:
i'd hate to paint...
i like skeletons: i like sounds...
i like to walk into a forest at night
and listen to some wild animal tender itself
on breaking a dry branch:
or... misstep on a crunch of dry
autumnal leaves... while i bask shirtless
in the moon on a throne of a stump:
where once a tree stood proud...

that there exists a culture of celebrity:
a vacuous life-support machine of cringe...
in my vicinity: some trees have a higher
status than "people" in the greater prospect (potential)
of the world...
of note... this tree: let's call it Henry-eta
near Chigwell... bulging: crass: entity...
breaking all manner of contemplating girth...
famous: by my concerns...
hard not to miss...
try figuring out: celebrity in a forest of pines...
stilettos or anorexic models...
by then: prostitution doesn't seem that
bad... that bad when compared with
what "they" do with the models...

skeleton and skin being adorned with:
a second layer of fabricated: skin... nothing more...
a body that grieves its former status
of being: mandible... all over:
i think of models as i might think of glass...
a shattering: a breaking...
a variation of... arthritis...

        oh... well... in between the wine:
ms. amber returns: like a stimulus... an injection...
to keep me focused on the cascade...
i'm yet to cover the ground of narrative
i was keeping fresh in my mind...
ah... yes...
of note... only in England...
the multicultural project...

  i still retain my native tongue...
in the privacy of my own abode: i speak it...
i don't speak English...
i speak English to the people who speak
English...
a formality...
English in England is a "lingua franca":
i pity the natives for not have enough
incentives to learn another European tongue:
i guess that's what's happens with
"spazzial relationships" in the shadow
under the yoke of cousin ******* the h'americans...
pity them?
oh no no... blame them...

who was Yusuf Stalin? a Georgian...
tactical subversion of the Russian people...
where is the Georgian alphabet and where
is Cyrillic, or Greek for that matter?
where is... Armenian?
"where" is code for: comparison...
   like the supposed people integrated into
English society:
these... born & "bred" types... typos...
they speak English... at least i can resemble
an Englishman...
most likely i'll be mistaken by some
quran pushing ****- as being a German...
insult?     (oi oi... mr. -stani, don't worry...
the English just slosh with slang sometimes...)

the people of the subversion...
they speak English but... ha ha..
if they only managed to retain their mother tongue:
perhaps something of England could
also be retained...
clamouring like ******* ***** in a bucket
to no avail...

Napoleon's ditto: a man who knows two tongues
is worth two men...
all these new integration projects
who want to integrate so bad... so so bad...
that they "somehow" forge their mother tongue...
talk English as the language of mediation:
it's not yours...
it never will be!
**** me... if all these people retained their
mother tongue rather than playing:
i'd feed you to the pigs for playing
this ******* drive-by stealing mobile phones
"gangster":

what if ol' Adoolph was Swiss and not
Austrian?! imagine that... no... wait...
you don't have to...

- of note: if ha ha h'america of the united
is supposedly this beacon: this success story
for all the english speaking people of the world:
it should: by now... be... a well oiled:
bilingual Behemoth...
like the Swiss "project": of the Benelux or
the Scandinavian heap of blondes outbreeding
gingers...
h'americana should be well embedded
in a fluidity of come English come Spanish...

if h'america could be a success story:
it would be a bilingual conglomerate...
i guess it's just easier to speak only one zunge...
no?
how many tongue arrived on these isles?
i should be learning Romanian come to think of
it...
no one is going to meet me half way
concerning my: tongue...
while these asiatic ******* abandoned
their mother tongue to play petty
gangster... i sometimes fall asleep:
counting teeth... i have no worthy comparison
with the point of sheep:
i like to imagine teeth...

how they become the lesser half of Mongol:
with their mongrel "forgetfulness":
if we just cherished the medium
of the tongue used to invite commerce:
real or meta-...
perhaps... we wouldn't be cycling through
Barking looking at people feeling comfortable
donning those Pakistani pyjamas!

don't get me started on the Rotherham
"livestock" affair... i have no sympathy for
not being ******: looking elsewhere
at ol' Turkic raven hair...
at £2 per minute i'm not going to...
suddenly... "suddenly" do what?
pity the high earner
while she *****-off the concept of *******?
thank god i still have *******:
which implies i can ******* with pleasure...
but while interacting with HER...
she can peel it back and i'm left with
her tender mouth and my numbed metaphor...

castration, mr. ******... doesn't feel so bad...
compared with having your "excess" skin
guillotined...
i started to ******* long before i had
any use for *******...
the thrill is in the shaft...
aged 8 i did it myself...
circa 10 i taught a boy a year younger
about the joys of jerking off...
in a bath... while my mother scrutinised us
while she ironed some clothes...
oh... the gloves are off...

it might be a bare knuckle fight:
but i wrapped a leather belt around them
for a sense of purpose... alias for security: covert...
if the beacon of the world
grew up: sensibly: as a bilingual federation
it was supposed to become...
what? the Swiss are all schizophrenics:
for having the capacity to use 2+ languages?
******* retards:
you live with the reckoning that:
some people deserve their own bollocking...
you hear it... in the distance:
like churchbells...
esp. at night... when the air thins out...
i have no sympathy...
no empathy...
the remains of Malcolm X's mantra of
how there can be a never-ending war:
a "cultural" war:
just use the women as ammunition and
shields...
they're dump enough: Sabine as they are...
bring women to the fore of warfare...
you're not dealing with Gaza strip slingshots...
you have invested yourself in: trenches...
show me a Panzer i show you a naked
white girl...
the prize for all these sub-Saharan gambits...
i don't want to **** sub-Saharan girls:
maybe Boko Haram might...
can i... tickle a Turkish *******?
wait: do i "have" to?

you bring women to the fore: this little shitshow
will never end...
drop an atom bomb: no difference...
the supposed "collateral" becomes
the biggest asset... mind-bending load
of: otherwise what a sword ought to do:
the biggest killer: compassion...

don't worry... the recipe is still invested in me
scribbling it down...

- persisting with all these: Asiatic bundles of
"integrated" joys...
living among these isles...
you begin to wonder:
now... i generally think of the Welsh as a bit...
cuntish...
but... at least they have this...
unnerving ambition to retain their:
Briton spreschen: before the Anglicans
and their Normandy landing quasi French
came along... the Welsh still retain their
*******:  Çymru...
i lost faith concerning the Scots...
they're just... accent clowns...
accent clowns...
          they trill their R and sometimes forget
to F their TH with: t'ings...
like their elder cousins that... perhaps:
might... usher in some Gaelic...
astounding: the concept of the Welsh:
because: they are more a concept than some
concrete evidence of nationhood...
oh: they're beyond merely organic...

some says the king's route was to mind:
from London through to Edinburgh: more like St. Andrew's...
all this time, though...
it was en route to Cardiff...

- of these isles... these glorious isles:
where's the Gaelic in a man from Edinburgh?
the Sikh beat you to that tartan turban
or something:
posers of accents... the whole lot of you...
one up with the Velsh...
at least they still retain their concept of mother...
and tongue...
accented pretenders: it's not what they speak:
it's how they might: speak...

******* sing-along sprache Gael...
i simultaneously don't want to stop writing this
as an excuse for: not wanting to stop drinking
wine!

back to that Turkish recipe...
i had to make a full roundabout at some point...

even now i still can't believe it...
frozen beef, which implies: it would be more easily
sliced into an imitation pancetta:
carpaccio?
        **** me: the whole bonanza of nouns!
most not "gender neutral" too!

wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
wine wine wine wine: to hell with whining women!
wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
she can't feed me... i'm the devil in the kitchen:
i'll cook my own!

the "government" of delayed words in
transit toward: a proper translation...
notably?  sunak...
   not aleppo pepper...
   not sunmak...
    ah... SUMAC!
red onions sprinkled with some
salt and sugar... fiddled with...
crushed... a dash of lime juice:
to get the pickling going...
tender hands of a Cyclops...
then the addition of fresh parsley
and some SUMAC...
that's the radish for you...

the meat? beef... beef and rosemary?!
fair enough: let's have "us" a go...
it only takes 10 to 15 minutes since...
the beef is sliced oh so thinly...
plus... the marinate:

4 tablespoons of oil...
2 tablespoons of red... white... either...
wine vinegar: for curing the meat...
after all... you dip any seafood into acid:
it'll cook...
Bolshoi cannibals of ambition
and all that ballet on the side:
raw herrings as: Baltic sushi in a creamy
dill sauce...

believe me: the Ottomans have interrogated
post WWII Germany...
they're stiches and tattoos by now...

tzatziki...
but the marinade of the meat only takes
about 10 to 15 minutes... since the beef is sliced
so thinly: from frozen...
the marinade?
ol' pestle 'n' mortar...
black peppercorns...
4 cloves of raw: living garlic cloves...
2 springs of rosemary...
sea salt... 4 kashimir dried chillies...

strips of Turkish mozzarella...
i'm of the persuasion:
let's see what the Ottomans had on offer...
the ******... the barbers...
this... pristine cuisine...
it sounds like: shuk shuk shugar shig shig:
chug a fog... chappy chappy chim-shee...

bound to the anchor of a revision:
of these isles... i'm starting to harvest more and more
respect for the Welsh...
i'm starting to suspect that...
the Irish don't require:
the Scots seemingly never will...
but the Welsh: forever will...
display their adamant decorum...
to keep in mind their mothers and their tongue...

let me stress is:
ich bin nicht Ęnglisch:
    lie down... szczeka: it barks...
Щ...              

Copernicus Copernicus: seriously:
where are you?! literally: "where"?!
not literally: a somehow a now...
    
counting matchsticks i presume...
to hell with these semi-literate folk who have
the supposed reins: yeah: now... for now...
but not when time is allowed to imitate space
and stretch...
the currency of shouting for "justice"
dies a death slower than a death succumbed via
a crucifixion...
i'm no sadist... i love animals above
the status of fellow humans...
but... there comes a time that...
i'd rather... savour the company of a dog...
above... someone that might resolve itself
to speak letters back to me...

- you can only insinuate when dealing:
dwelling on the furore of the Hebrews...
but in the confine of these isles...
i hae no greater respect than might be allowed
for what's already arrived at:
they have: KEPT... KADŁ...

      EI CWSG GYDA COCH CLORIAN:

almost every Jew will amount to the maxim:
i be: the citizen of the world:
which is borrowed Greek...
   somehow there come to excuse when:
strip-down... striptease...
the last of the Holocaust survivors is dead:
appeasing the h'arabs and h'americans
for their deepened trough and
monzzie?
  yeah: sure thing...
             me and my stupid
delusion concerning that ol' chestnut
of the certainty of death...
i'm not willing to pressure
the delay button... to be honest.
Sarah Sep 2015
I found a
cassette tape
at a
vintage
store
while you
hovered over your piano

and later realized
inside
there was
an autograph-
Roy Orbison that read
"Hugs & Kisses - Roy"

I could get it checked
get it appraised
get the papers to
prove it's
true

or I could keep it
on my
dashboard
let the tape spin out
its days and
smile to think that
it's signed,
touched by the
artist who
made it.

In that same way
I could force out
how you feel for
me
make you rise from
your piano,
focus on me
tell me that I bother you
or maybe,
even that you love me

but instead,
I'll let you
spin out your days- be a
friend to
you as you rise
to the top
(I'll always be yours
in candor, I'll be more)
& I'll smile to think that
I've been touched
by an artist
who made it.
Dave Hardin Jan 2017
Lines Laid Down By Others

Days of measles spent cloaked in darkness
Veil of curtains and dime store sunglasses  
Between me and a sun gone cold with evil intent

Hell bent on robbing me of sight while I was busy
Looking inward tallying up the wages of sin
Bedeviled by an itch that needed scratching

Hands sheathed in white tube sock condoms  
To ward off nails rendered, I’d been warned, poison
As the fer-de-lance snake that glared back from the jungle

Overlay in the World Book Encyclopedia
Slammed shut for the sanctuary of a coloring book
Prophylactics and perpetual twilight incompatible

With proper grip and waltz of a crayon
To stay inside lines laid down by others
Alone in the dark with nothing left to lose

But Roy Orbison shades and a pit viper
Coiled, biding time pressed between pages
Made as much sense as a malevolent sun.
Dennis Willis Nov 2018
Only ever
a temporary synchronization

'tween fleshy machines
green beings

knocking against
some

never known
limit

with our
self hardening hearts

support system commencing
to sell tickets

make itself
small sandwiches

little i-know glances
held back smiles

whoosh

we mesh now
"could it be I'm..." - is playing

hard by comes
Orbison's "pretty woman"

"Leaving" -of course always follows
"on that midnight train"

Love the molecular
puppetry

Love the cascade
of you

Stoning me
Exuberant

"Someone told me
there's a calm before the storm,

I know, it's been coming
for some time."

I think belonging
shifts

and we
are reformulated

targeting
some other limit

dragging our souls
on a hopeful leash

Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Pray for the poor bald eagle
Felled by a bullet from a gun
Killing eagles is surely illegal
You better harness your weapon and run

Play for the old bald idiot
Who pays to see your ****** old band
It's him who keeps hollering "Play Free Bird"
When you've just finished playing "Free Bird"

He's an idiot
Killed a majestic bald eagle
Someone took photos
Isn't that also illegal?
Just an idiot
weilding deadly propulsion
clinching the deal with precise aim
He's no amateur
Just sloppy, careless
Might as well be an amateur
Don't feel sorry for the creep
He killed a big old bald eagle

Stay in your homes, for no reason leave
Comfortably dumb in the webs that you weave
Trapped by the ridiculous things you believe
Pray for the eagle, and grieve

Now you come to realize
Roy Orbison was the man
But you never played any of his songs
In your dreadfully ****** old band

The crowd could chant "Pretty Woman"
For all the good it would do
Your ****** old band couldn't play it
Even if they wanted to
Hi dudes and welcome to the Saturn community concert and our first guest is Kathryn Roswell who was my grandfather in her previous life and she is singing with Martin the Martian
With a top hat here they are
Their first song is agadoo
Which goes like this
Agadoo doo doo push pineapple shake the tree agadoo doo doo push pineapple grind coffee which was Kathryn’s fave song where she knows the words and the actions to and then she sang elvis Presley’s song love me tender which was a song she loved to sing to me ya know her last life’s grandson and then after that Martin the Martian who was John Mahoney from the tv series Frasier singing
I am a Martian with a top hat and I have no tie and I am ready to party all night when your young you will party
To forget about reality and have a little fun oh yeah party right
Yes everyone is ready to party with
Me and Kathryn yo here on Saturn
And I get my top hat and as I am wearing no tie
Just the perfect shade of green
I am a Martian with a top hat
With a naked green body
I am ready to party yeah
C’mon get out your top hat
And put on your dancing shoes
And party party party all night
And then Kathryn and Martin the Martian played a lot of seventies and eighties songs and everyone got down and danced, the songs were
Dancing queen abba
Sweet home Alabama
American pie don McLean
Standing on the outside cold chisel
Duncan slim dusty using all the names of the people here
And then they left the stage
And bon Scott came on stage with Michael Hutchence and Roy Orbison
Michael on drums Roy vocals and bon
On bass guitar they sang
Pretty woman
You shook me all night long
Suicide blonde
You got it
Who made who
Need you tonight
Handle with care
Thunderstruck
Devil inside
And then they bowed to the audience thanking them for dancing and left the stage
Then the crazy hip hop dancers from Jupiter who were Daniel morecombe
And Graeme Thorne who is me now on earth and Caleb Logan and they danced to great songs like
A hip hop version to YMCA village people and Stan from Eminem and another hip hop version of karma chameleon from culture club standing on the inside looking out which is a song I wrote and performed at the poetry slam and the last one was come on aussies come on the old cricket song and now we have some cosmic belly dancers coming out
Their names are Kim Davidson and Bridget bromhead and Ruth cracknell and they shook their bellies to chicken dance
And nut bush city limits and a Christmas song jingle bells and good ship Lollypop and rock and roll music
And after that the swinging yobbos came out slim dusty Alfred Waldron who was another previous life of mine and my currents life’s late father Barry Allan who is now Betty Campbell
And they sang songs like waltzing Matilda and fly burgers which was my first poem I wrote and a tisket a tasket which we showed our inner ***** and then we played all the afl theme songs starting with Sydney Adelaide Carlton Brisbane Melbourne
West coast Fremantle port Adelaide
The gws giants Gold Coast suns north Melbourne hawthorn st Kilda Essendon Richmond and Collingwood
And finished with the green machine
Canberra Raiders song and we left the stage then I came out to sing this song before the fireworks
It is called the schizophrenic Macarena
1 2 3 4 do the schizophrenic
From the first day you were born
To your current situation
With medication you can be reformed
Yeah mate yeah I am schitzophrenic
Don’t worry about my best mate
His name was rob butler
I wish I could explain it because I know
There was no best friend named rob butler
You see if I was married to Susan brown mate and if I had a family
With two sons David and mike
I know they don’t exist
But in a way I wished they did
And I am schitzophrenic
1 2 3 4 I am schitzophrenic
From the first day I was born
To my current situation
With medication I can be reformed
Wow yeah I am schitzophrenic
I like Christmas
But I am a Buddhist
I like the peace behind it
Despite being anything but at peace
With my crazy mental illness
Then I jumped in the back seat
Of my best mates cab
But the thing about it is
No mate of mine has ever drove a cab
Except Stan niemic but it is not him
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
From the first day I was born
To my current situation
I wish my childish dillusions will go away cause I hate being schitzophrenic oh yeah bow bow
And now here are the beautiful fireworks and that lit up the sky for 21 minutes, it was beautiful
Bye everyone and I will see you at the next cosmic community concert
Goodbye dudes
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.where we going? asks an old crazy... i reply: we're, heading for the 1980s disco inferno! happy? **** yeah... good good, we're bringing Helen of Troy with us... happy? **** yeah! in the interlude some jokes about the, cue... modern crazies; hope you have a pleasant journey.

this is forced, lady Nikita / Natasha /
***** is forcing me to unwind
my tongue in this topic...

so... whenever i self-lacerate,
watching videos by someone like
laineybot...
and her... whatever...
"her"... please, define the masculine /
feminine nature of the word...
chair... i'm dying to know....
oh wait, in English, the grammatical
consensus suggests that
the word, chair...
was, and is, and will be,
gender "neutral"...

me? i'm worried about the PTSD,
the psychotics, the schizophrenics
mind you...

so... transgender "boy" = manic pixie
dream girl?
   **** me... show me your hands...
if i see traits of a geisha...
nope... non-passable...
but a girl with short hair?
so hot...

        so... excluding the PTSD
and the psychotics, the schizophrenics?
hurting?
hurting?
               well...
let's listen to how the following
categorized people...
start, randomly shooting people...
so... who's hurting who, p'ooh bear?

do we seriously need this *******,
where a girl who dons short hair,
and looks like a pixie,
is magically a "boy"?!
                                  what?!
she's just a ******* pixie!
   god... a girl with short hair is so
******* ****...
           why do we have get into
all this defensive *******
about trans-gender?!
i get trans-generation,
i like Roy Orbison...
   but that's not a protected Koala /
Panda project!

oooooooooooooh
ooooooooooooooooooooooh
we w'ah w'allah...
                   no, you lost me...
i started curating to the old school
crazies...
the PTSD, the psychotics,
the schizophrenics...
you know, the ones ready to arm
themselves with a full set of teeth,
M15s and machetes...

so i should be worried
about transgender "males"...
who are actually **** pixie
girls armed with short-haircuts
and strap-on ******?!

i need to watch these sort of videos...
i need...
this self-laceration...
the girl's a ******* pixie!
and she's "thinking" she's a boy
because she's donning the sort of
clothes (baggy) when i took
up skateboarding!

i'm seriously going to concentrate
on the old crazies...
they're the ones with plans...
and the sort of plans...
that usually have the patron "saint"
Shiva behind them...
Shiva? the auspicious one...
   the successful one...
most of the proper crazies' attacks...
actually end up
satisfying the grim reaper.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
mein gott!
trinken im der nacht: im der kalt, kalt
fingerbetäubung winter nacht:
was freude! was genuss!

hier mit mein: liebe der lieben!
Fräulein Bernstein -
       mich, ihr Herr Schnurrhaare...

that's the thing about choosing the right
of suitor... i went out looking for
Athena... i went out looking for Sophia...

all of sudden... they jump from one body
to the next... it's not reincarnation
and it's not incarnation...
it's an archetype modality that i put forth
onto each woman...
what is my return? perhaps the odd old
lady that's curious to me...
wisdom, from an older woman?
i would be a stranger, she wouldn't give it to me,
i trust old men to do that...

Athena and Sophia teach... from a woman's youth...
now... if i were looking for Odin...
if i were looking for Hades...
i'd be looking toward old men...

all of course just an amusement park for my
thinking & looking at an entire stand
of people in a football stadium...
i shopped for "souls" in those eyes & faces
transfixed by something so trivial
that it could only be:
22 ballerinas kicking a ball about...

a game of tennis usually employs a football
team of judges... if you were to add
the ball boys / girls...
a game of 7 rectangles...
no wonder it's not a popular game for
the public to engage with...

oh, the old gods of the fabled Europe...
did they suffer the same fate as
the Semitic gods that the Hebrew deity...
quiet simply ate? like the fate
of Beelzebub, poor sod...
no, i think they just went out of fashion...
as if Odin sent his son Thor (you sure it wasn't
Loki... playing that trick of turning
water into wine, resurrecting poor Lazarus...
send me back! send me back! he screamed)
to conquer the European gods...

i think they just went out of "fashion":
before there was even a concept of: fashion...
before donning animal furs etc.
of the old gods: sure... the Scandinavian
& the Greek ones survived: miraculously...

i have no qualms with the Hebrew god...
it's genius! it has no form... it's purely a god
of the script... a bit like... Thoth...
hmm... theta omicron theta or... FOF...
i could spice it up a little...
given: (ph)ilosophy-O-(th)ought...

Thoph or Photh?
                                 i'm liking this....
it's ideally compatible: the Hebrew deity with
language itself... what with the Hebrews
hiding their vowels like some Europeans
employ diacritical marks...
a caron "hovering" over an S can hide either
a H or a Zed... "magic"!

the suffering sun, tortured on the cross...
what a great banner to march up north!
subdue the pagans... but... no... don't invite them...
scare away their old gods
keep the people at the distance...
howling, chattering obsenities,
gnashing their teeth... when the narrative was
swallowed...
sooner or later everyone looses track of
a narrative of any kind... myth becomes fiction
while... people are bonding over...
journalistic crowd control mechanisms...
fear, scare mongering... miss-information...

let's begin afresh...
for me, the New Testament very much resembles
the book of Genesis...
a Judeo-Greco conspiracy manifesto against
the Roman Empire...
i guess the Greeks despised the Romans
for plagiarising their gods &... since they lost
their vigour, their vitality:
they couldn't believe that reinventing the old
gods could bring such refreshing mana
to a people with no prior knowledge...

what the Romans accomplished by turning
Zeus into Jupiter...
the New Testament is equivalent to the book of Genesis
(insert debate) -
the garden of Gethsemane...
Mt. Golgotha... a book... riddled... with...
metaphor, imagery...
no... oh no... you're not getting off that likely:
you're not cutting corners...
i'm not even going to bother myself
with the Book of Revelation as the Exodus part
of this story...
if you really think i'm going to settle for
the sort of Exodus "you're" talking about...
we ******* via genocide & what not?
you have to remember...
we're talking... circa 2000 years of a Hebrew
exodus from Palestine to... so far north
as to mingle with the deutschemensch &
subsequently conjure up: yiddish!

managing to undermine the Roman empire was
one thing... but thinking that the northern
barbarians could be accommodating...
sure... some were... the Polacks were benevolent...
king Casimir welcomed the Hebs who would
later become Yids to Poland...
prior to world war II kicking off...
the Juices used to brag (as recalled by my
grandfather): wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets... our tenement buildings...
basically insinuating:
you can be homeless if you'd like...

i like the idea of the Hebrew god... why?
Juices are masochists...
they feel a need to be punished by their deity...
hell... the Holocaust happened...
at least they know when they're doing
something wrong...
the Holocaust happened & what?!
no divine intervention?!

i also like the idea of...
a... ahem:

      wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann...

a benevolent SS-man, basically...
i drink, i'll start speaking German, why not?
i'll drink, get drunk, start speaking German
& even if it kills me... will be listening to some
Roy Orbison! Roy! you're the man!
all the plebs can have their Elvis... you're the man Roy'oh!

why... wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann?
well... borrowed from my "late" grandfather...
memories from world war two...
the Russians? colts... fresh from Siberia
or what other *******...
slept in barns with the animals...
rugged smelly... Russians, you know...
but... the Nazis, stationed in my hometown...
home... town-of-birth...
London is my home...

from someone's who dead memory:
i still love how he said the following with
very poor punctuation,
he said it like a German might... compounded
i.e. herrbittebonbon:
herr! bitte bon-bon!
       & the schwarzbekleidet SS-mann would give
him sweets, bon-bon... he would run back home
& put his hands that were stuck together
by the sweets under  running tap of water:
to unglue them... ergo?

die wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann...
i think i look the part...
if i look the part: that' enough... optics is king...
just look the part, no matter whether you fill
the specified role... lucky for me, as a steward
i get to do a little bit extra & engage with
the public...
i have to, i, simply have to:
meditate on a frightening excitment..
how, i put that into practice is... my private
******* deal, savvy?

- guess what, i'm happy people taking up
the classics, it almost feels like the good
old days when...
books like...
were printed in 1967 for people studying
for their O-levels (ordinary level)
of the G.S.E. before... G.C.S.E. *******
came in and standards were dropped...
so... basically people circa 16 years old learning...
Cicero... in Latin... no... not in English...
in mother-******* Latin...
books like? the alpha classics...
the thought of Cicero...
selection edited by S. J. Wilson
(G. Bell & Sons)...
general editor? a Mr. R. C. Carrington, M. A.,
D. Phil., headmaster of St. Olave's School...

sample (why not?)
wait wait, imagine my delight... back then...
an S. J. Wilson would rather put
the title B. A. after this name...
than a Mr. at the front... trans-****** "issues"?!
almost subscript: senior classical master,
Methodist College, Belfast...
sure... sure... have to be doubly sure whether
or not the ******* Irish are literate...
let's check if they still speak Gaelic
like the Welsh speak Velsh...
no? oh... then like the Scots...
capitulated to the English and just retained
their ****** accents...
Scot's a sing-along-because-it's-a-****-up-Friday
and Hibernian are playing Harts...
or some other load of *******...

some people seem to WANT to become extinct...
& the English... the people who conjured
up Darwin and Darwinism...
i'm thinking... these people... espouse...
half-wit ****** Darwinism...
the Dodo project people...
Christian "compassion" (suicide) sort of got in
the way of... the cruel, sane, objectivity
of the origins of Darwinism...
well... is that a sort of... "oops", moment?!
if Darwinism was discovered under
the cloak of Islam... ha... ah: ha ha ha ha ha!
brown people breaking the backs of brown
people...
camel jockeys taking charge of Bangladeshi bodies...
but... no... i will not feed the narrative as
as a reactionary...

sample: unlike Cicero's Roman Gentleman...
shunning physical labour... me? i adore it...
arbeit macht frei... even if it's merely standing...
minding the crowd... sure... i'd rather cycle for 40 miles
than stand in one place for 4 hours
looking out for some elder perhaps having a stroke
or a heart-attack... my feet are killing me...
after a long period of exercise i feel, sort of, relaxed...
oddly enough: doing something for which you
are being paid: drags you down into Mammon's pit
of suffering... compare that to cycling out of
your own volition... wow... 40 miles is like a breeze...
you feel it, you don't feel it, you feel it...
you don't feel it...

iam de artificiis et quaestibus, qui liberales habendi,
qui sordidi sint, haec fere accepimus.
beginning with... ending with:
omnium autem rerum, ex quibus aliquid acquiritur,
nihil est agri cultura melius, nihil dulcius,
nihil uberius, nihil homine libero dignius...

that last line... i think i can conjure a translation
on a *****-nilly... nothing human dignifying liberty...
loosely...
if Cicero were to be reborn...
comparing the supposed slavery of physical
labour...
to... non-physical labour... whereby there are
two options... getting fat... or...
having to get on the ol' hamster wheel at the gym?
who the ****'s loosing out, &, more precisely,
on what?!

personally... i'd rather be tired from physical labour
& enjoy my free time... than...
do "work" that's all pickled-brain & juice
"inspiring" extension... to then have to...
"enjoy"... exercise! ha ha! the conundrum!
shouldn't those treadmills & exercise bikes be...
producing electricity, rather than, wasting it?
shouldn't people exercising generate energy?
they're not doing anything useful to begin with...
shouldn't they jump on the queue and generate
battery life? wait... what?!
physical labour is frowned upon...
from the time of Cicero...
get fat?! you need a crane-"lift", mate... ahem...
beached whale beauties!

**** me, at least i managed to walk off / cycle off
20kg, down from 120kg to... fluctuations
of 96kg through to 98kg...

haven't the people picked up the classics, though?
last time i heard there was some:
DO
to perform... a virus spoke & people started to
enlarge their... spoof presence to:
DELTA-OMICRON!
oh look... people are relearning the Greek alphabet,
guess William Wallace's uncle is back...
if we're really lucky... we'll get an Omega
"variant"...

coming back to the Hebrew... deity...
what's Y? a DEL implosion...
what's DEL? the up-side-down delta... nabla...
so why is it, "omicron" when the delta variant
could be be called nabla?
oh... right... not many people know about...
said "X"...
what's that? (ch)AOS or (ch)eat or... lo(ch)?

that's what i love about the Hebrew deity...
it's a soul-eater... minor deity eater...
poor Beelzebub... from a minor god of the Canaanites...
to a demon...
a bit like...
the archangel Michael... reduced to...
St. Michael... so much for the suffering at
Golgotha... Jesus / Loki...
oh pity me, pity me...
in the background... Santa Clause was waiting for
someone to inact the: Satan's Claus...

look at it, the tetragrammaton:
Y... the imploded ∇ (del), what happens
when ∇ (del) intertwines with delta?
you get... the star of David...
see... it works perfectly inthe Latin script...
H... one is a surd...
the other... a source for laughter...
what would the mensch do...
without... the Hebrews' definite article?
probably not laugh... i.e. why HA HA
and not... MA MA? or GA GA?!
well... rugby works on goal posts being
H shaped, anyway... so: we're good to go...

ah... W... W is a ref. to trigonometry...
cosine starts from 1 down to 0... through to -1
and then wave? no?
M... starts (sine) starts at zero... up to 1...
back to zero then to -1... wave...
we're talking about a Hebrew god...
it's not like Odin became... the ha-shem's *****...
he sort of... fell out of vogue...

ha ha... Loki oh, hey! hey "Zeus"! ******* ******...
at least i had enough of a ***** bank in me
to not play the narrative of a ******:
and actually **** a *****!
ooh... not comfy... is that supposed to be:
my sort of variation of a, "problem"?
i'mt not even going to bother myself with
the hard-core h'american believers...
that ship, that ship has ******* sailed...
wave, bye-bye... pretend it's the ******* Titanic...
o.k.?

circa 2000 years later, there should be a book...
allowing for the congestion of history
of the Hebrew people moving north...
trusting the barbarians...
it was an exodus 2.0... take it, or leave it...
culminating...
yeah... i "forgot" to tell you...
these people wouldn't be constructing a pyramid...
actually laburing for the construct of
someone's vanity...
there would be a brick... this brick... you'd move to
some random place... place it there... pick it up...
then move it back to its place of origin...
a sadistically ingenious joke... if you ask me...
but no, not building of pyramids...
necrophilia: directly...
nothing... metaphorical...

what other, nuance of the words, among the English?
terms like, orthography,
without an application
of diacritical markers?! what, are,
your, *******, islander, intellectuals, are, on?
Dickensian prose?!
*****... don't be coming from Devonshire...
or anywhere Bristol, slandering Essex...
******* westernlandfotzen!

in the meantime:
let the dolls play with their toys...
lassen die puppen spielen mit ihr spielzeuge!

i have enough time to wait...
fingers like spiders...
space...
       like cobwebs.....
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
oops...
  there's really an oops,
with a follow up sentence?!

****....

  sam cooke,
              roy orbison...
   when did
frank zappa not become
    the next
roberto, Dylan,
and half the Disneyland?
tommy pet the zoo...

gone with the ****...
petty grievances
of the worthlessness
  of ego, in concet;
i hasten to abhor mineral
water that's not
                 fizzy enough...
Perrier, carbonated water?
      anything else?
san pellegrino...
  anything else?
like a prog rock record
                               bonanza....
                          i.e.
have a
of an hour to spare me,
to become the next
Richie Branson?!

              let#'s face it...
what was and what wasn't
Tubular Bells,
    by mike oldfield to
the enterprise?!

    zilch.... nothing...
                 i scratch my beard
and start thinking
about freshly baked bread...
and then i return to
the fetish of shaving off
the stubble.

came the Canterbury scene...
   with the, plethora of acts...
            and...

it's the same question,
rather, less the rolling stones
"vs." the beatles...
             given the song
solitude" by black sabbath...
  and led zeppelin's
                   *living loving maid
...

hmm...
frank zappa...
   i hate myself for having attempted
to source the oeuvre
of bob dylan...
                   ****!
****!
                ****!
it should have always been
about frank zappa!
and never about bob dylan!

             oh well... by now
it's simply:
  
      yeah, all that, and... whatever.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
chem. soup brain... or Brian...
no song of no more new to come,
no new song of all that's to come,
no bride of either westminster
or wandsworth or walthamstow...
not within the confines
of the ****- burnings of the dolphin
skins of the yorkie-pies
of the ol' shire... coal-mined veins
from no, to no lesser Silesia...
among the Picts... dear widow
of London that's the current spirit
of lemon-suckling brine?!
oh my dear, what no aloof...
shying from the haggis, from the neeps!
the tatties!
and the myth of the deep frier
marzipan...
the fidget of the fudge explorers
of the Rhine of Yer **** Messieurs!
come to think of it...
i came to england as a fleabag of
eastern europe with a nietzschean moustashe
i borrowed and burrowed from and into
my father dear...
but when in SCOTland...
i arrived as a Dane...
this beyond past comparison arrival
willing to... **** a lass beside her senses
and her geography...
and in that... all was made sane...
because i see no reason to believe
these metropolitan daughters and sons
of fairies...
should they still exalt the ghost
of shakespeare...
and his art a mode of transcendence...
when all his works require!
actors!
the gob and goblet with my tongue
pickled in it like
the body of frederick barbarossa
arriving at Jerusalem...
London: the Salem of my Trials...
will ever and forver old Burns make
a speech: to later sigh...
because the English girls from Leicester
and Norwich arriving in Loon'don
will make it plain and far...
we from the foreign lands:
from the countrtyside will but and but
and but some more!
dear starlings pure... please! recite me some
of your love of Shakespeare:
as long as it rhymes... it's poetics;
ticks... those lesser tapeworms off...
here's a better terminology concerning
a cow-bell... roy orbison will never be allowed
to reign over the status of a black sabbath riff...
but...
he has the rest... nazareth and...
flea of the dog...
royal scots dragoons: this unison of
a non-continental aspect of land...
these isles...
and the english swans these english girls
will have to return,
cite their sonnets and never lend themselves
to "anecdotes" from the plays...
what did i say?
it is worth as much a misnomer
as it is worth a metaphor...
because for all of Shakespeare's worth...
he too would gladly rest,
his final sentiment via Bach's rolling technique...
should it be, when it is already well known...
no one recites a sonnet by a Shakespeare
when old Hogmanay is over...
when St. Sylvester's is celebrated...
and never this, very english... cold-ce
firecracker fore-warning the:
part and parcle of Guy Fawkes' night
of toy-terror...

what words and what words aren't...
and then those words better sung?
of never have,
of never heave...
of never baron over: of never "steve"
(stephen's claim and rite)...

so much for Shakespeare's sonnets...
when come new year's eve
and all that resounds...
is auld lang syne...
and all sing to embrace...
and none sign to what's...
nonetheless later sung...

was man ever to fathom being
so disillusioned to early...
to early as to catch a prosper from
the scent of thyme?
i can't stomach the recitations
of Shakespeare...
they sound to me like a clogged toilet...
i do not require a new recitation...
i require the proper reincarnation
plumber for this gobshite blockage
of what doesn't require to be ******* out:
re- again re- again re- again
and once more until another ted hughes
calls it: an "event at Wimbledon"...

**** it... yes... it was Primrose Hill...
unlucky for me... the Prussians never made it
into the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
nor was there a deluge to recount
on the canvas of a Bayeux Tapestry....
but sure as Sherlock ******* Holmes knows
his Watson...
cite and recite all the Shakespeare pedagogy
all you want...
the man would prefer rotten cabbages
to be thrown at the stage than having to endure
the immortality of a Bach...
esp. when... the words of a scotman are
sung come the eve of a new year's day...

by abide the Roud Folk Song Index...
this poo'em will too, not disappear as frequently
as the next to "new" viral video...

if only i wandered as far among
the Welsh... perhaps...
among the Richards of Little Ireland
and all the clever deargfriochta!

what's there to compensate with?
Southend... Colchester... Clapham Junction...
Prince Irvine of Clemence & Chelmsford...
epilogue of Epping -
as glutton Loon'don and...
fair well... bride Bethlem...

a song to not having parted...
a song to not heaved a last farewell...
a song for yesterday...
a song for: everyday!
a song for the domesticated dog...
and never the abides of a lost
leash that also calls itself a dog in horse-ridden
stirrups!
a song to bypass Leicester,
Doncaster, Newcastle, Carisle and...
the lesser domains of Hadrian's scare...
those BIG in domine dominos of history...

my putrid lot to have to remind...
it's not Shakespeare that's sung...
come the advent of anewed...
bubonic Edinburgh...
or how the first skyscrapers were born...
how the first bridges were raised
over no river or any manner
of a body of water...
how i came across my first
scottish "witch" and even if she was
the 2nd or 3rd Fiona...
i didn't fall in love with her...

old clinginess of a mythological Kiev...
somewhere between
Warsaw and Moscow...
yet again... it would have been
better that i return to the squalor of...
forget me to remember:
London 20th century 90s and 80s.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
title: humming
body: beside Kafka; one of those 502 bad gateway hacks...


i'm not going to write about how i'm being an *******,
forget that,
i had two weeks of living alone to figure out:
yeah, very doable, i can do this alone...
only once or twice did i find myself talking to
myself... i said something in English then
answered back in ******... wow... two very different
people... they must have met up Berlin: of all places...
but i was glad... didn't get into a boxing match
scruff with my shadow... so no black eye...
thank god my left is returning to normal:
when that psychotic ***** of a cat bit me while i was
trying to wash her for having taken a lazy ****...
wow... i can count four... knuckles...
sure... the cigarette burns on the middle and index
are still healing... but as someone who enjoys pain:
i'm not bothered...
mein gott... we were expecting havoc at the Oxford
vs. Bolton Wanderers match...
only a week prior the fans of the latter team threw
a man from his wheelchair...
maybe it's just me... maybe i look the part...
i'm not some scruffy anemic Asian kid that a good
gust of wind could blow over...
perhaps i belong to a cult of: put out cigarette butts
on your knuckles... make them wonder...
but i'm not even a south-paw...
but like Louis XIV once remarked:
the trick is in the optics... never mind that:
i always admired his brother more...
                                     philippe I, duke of orléans....
him an frederick II, hohenstaufen -
well... there is also philip II augustus,
from the Captetian family...
               but no... i'm not going to be made
to feel like an *******...
Jeminah: Jemma... i thought it was Gemma...
she slandered me...
i already know she fits the stereotype of
an ava max song: oh she's sweet but a ******...
at night she's singing where's: m'ah m'ah m'ah m'ah my mind...
i should have gone to the brothel...
take off some steam...
          girls can hot yoga all they want...
i need a proper good **** to get things off my chest...
i tried psychiatrists,
priests?! i guess i'm a poet...
but prostitutes were always my go-to therapy
sessions... i need to "talk" by touch...
well... i didn't... i also forgot about *******...
i'm so into this little ginger ***** that:
don't get me started... too many *******
obstacles to begin with... the prospect of raising
a boy with her... i'd be keener on raising a girl...
but...well... even Henry VIII didn't get what he
really wanted... so, go figure...
plus... if i landed that lottery ticket of being
recognised as the father... he's 11 now... so that's what?
7 years of coughing up child support?
in the meantime i already sent her a text...
so... you threw that banana loaf in the bin, yet?
knock knock... i left you a bouquet of flowers
at your doorstep, in the middle of the night come the 14th...
and that card and all that sigh and onomatopoeia
and how i hate roses but pink roses can pass...
esp. if they're a pale rose... but sure...
no... it's not purple... it's fuchsia pink... blah blah...
go figure... no reply...
i'm not going to reply her... no chance...
i think she's playing the game of: ooh... when i see
him, next time, in person... i'm going to lay it into
him! he's going to regret it...
yeah... the girls on the stewarding team were having
a spastic mr. fantastic fall-out...
i told her... it's my fault... i just waited...
but when your boy's friendship with the other girl's
boy that's on the team came to the fore:
i stepped in... by telling you:
you slandered me... then blamed it on the other girl...
i even used a confused emoji in the message...
i never use those modern hieroglyphs...
ugh... i must have recoiled with that sort
of drunken spasm of: w.t.f.?!
i even texted her: listen, my grandfather was an alcoholic,
as much as i loved him,
we'd go cycling, fishing, mushroom foraging,
but every time i visited my grandparents
during the summer holidays when still school
he'd disappoint me by having a week-long
drinking ****, black out... **** the bed...
and i know that women that live with alcoholics
build up with "sixth sense" of smelling
alcohol on a man... you've lived two violent
alcoholics, they beat you and your boy...
but the alcohol you smelt on my might have been
my cologne...
stunned... i'm guessing she still hasn't motivated
herself to leave a reply...
what day's it today? Tuesday... ergo tomorrow
is a Wednesday... the day she spends talking to her
female councillor... so she's going to bring me up...
she better talk to her about... meeting me for the first time...
being engaged in a healthy professional team-work
interaction... but... at the same time...
slandering me... while i gave her a bottle of homemade
wine... a banana loaf for her son...
and a bouquet of flowers on Valentine's day...
there's only so much a man can do...
the rest is up to the girl...
            if she want to be around abusive alcoholics
than... drinkers that'd prefer to fight themselves,
who cycle to end up getting thrown off their bicycle
from: there's no adequate onomatopoeia for a sigh...
AH doesn't cut it... it's that's obviousness of the remark...
and HMM is too inquisitive...
i mean: how do write an word that's merely
a sound that's a signifier of: exasperation?
of defeat?
     write it for me... i know i can't...
so back to the "party" song list:
bruce springsteen - human touch
rihanna - cheers
lionel richie - dancing on the ceiling
kool & the gaand - celebration
pink - get this party started
roy orbison - you got it
ghost - call me little sunshine...

   i'm not the ******* in this story... i should be the *******
in this story... very much so...
but since i played the girls against each other...
like i already said... 10 years of drought from
female attention... then... all of a suddden...
i'm getting chest constipation from feelings...
i'm getting constipated and bound
to that metaphorical-misnomerism of
claustrophobia: of the chest, too...
my head is aching: it feels like it's shrinking...
10 years of no attention... if not more...
and then: wham! bam! thank you ma'am...
10 of them show up... with kids...
and they're like: hey you...
                                               what?
the avenues of possible romance have dried up?
now you're all here... and you're each playing
the Brutus role, back-stabbing each other?
but at the same time... with such: obviousness...
you must have forgotten how it was done back
in your high-school days...
you're getting lazy... no: you've gotten lazy...
if a guy can play you off each other
by simply waiting? i told them... lies have short
legs... the truth will come out to the fore:
of its own volition... just wait...
lies breed contradictions...
they're not some ******* array of Zeno's Paradoxes...
there are only contradictions that leave
loop holes in the narrative...
they reveal contestations... irregularities...
x + y ≠ z... even though... it most certainly ought to...
yeah... less English soap opera akin
to Eastenders and more... Jane Austen's Emma...
a trivial load of *******...
but i know i'm going to get the back-slap from
all of this: because as a man i'm sort of expecting
the worst from a #metoo / #metoyou aftermath...
if they're not all clamouring to get into my good books...
i don't know...
i stopped trying to understand women a long
time ago... i love them too much...
but... if ****'s going down this route...
    i'm going to have to think about doubling down...
get some extra armour...
love them a little bit more...
sort of... apply more metaphors of violence...
dismember them... bit, by bit, by... bit...
**** it... we're game...
i'm already half and half away from a drowning
man crazed with saving himself by gripping
to a razor... cutting my hands in the process of saving
myself... gone with the wind...
no... this ***** is going to learn a lesson:
the hard way... by someone insisting that she can
be loved... she will not get away so easily...
i'll give this doe some time to digest some of her
*******...
               maybe she'll do her backwards and forwards
with her councillor and the councillor will be like:
oh, you, stupid girl...

by the way, that's now how algebra works...
but if she's outright willing to self-sabotage...
i know a little a bit about that...
but not so outright, like that...
and just imagine, we used to be men
that would glorify women in song and in verse...
what has become so terrifyingly real
in our quest to rid ourselves from being
influenced by women... that... we no longer
seek, or therefore need,
to be influenced by them?

shocking... i'd want to be a Chris Rea singing
about Josephine...
or an Eric Clapton singing about Layla...
oh man... i wish i could have been those guys...
but how can i be?
my best options are: either prostitutes
or single mothers...
there's no in between!

idiot, serves you right for falling in love
out of touch, out of time, out of what would be deemed
respectable! ******* ****... idiot...
you better slap yourself awake or i swear to god,
i'll find a 4th, a 5th arm to do that for you!
******* plonker... blunt knife...
headless nail... ugrh!
as much as i'd want to sign about women...
i, simply, can't! they're already mothers!
now i have to play the ancient Roman game of
the good, willing, dog with a tail between its legs
goody-two-shoes...

no... the Rolling Stones and the rest of them
can *******... right off the map of time...
right off!
i don't need their influence...
they had their fun... they can take that ****
to the grave... come to think of it:
i would have never liked to have the easy life...
but come on, outright...
give me the pain... don't play this
carrot & the stick game with me...
i'd rather the pain than this game...
like she can... am i going to be writing
generously about single mums?!
i can, sort of, try... i can write a verse about
having smelly socks too...
but you know... it's not going to exactly stick...

shtick...
      nothing around right now expect how black
guys banging white party girls
with sharpnel of language: in the affirmative...
yeah... hmm.. uh-hmm... blah blah...
at the same time...
white boys looking at black girls
"thinking": no, sorry...
i'm not attracted to that...
you better spike my drink with
some ****** before i bed that *****...
sorry... i'm not going to sleep with her....
she'd sooner be Mongolian than i'd sleep with her...
once more... the Pontius Pilate side
of the story...
   i'm... washing... my hands... clean...
of any affairs... that might arise... come from this;

but sure... have your little interracial escapades...
i don't mind seeing more pseudo-Arab tanned
people... the whole interracial antic is sort of
diluted out of existence come the 2nd generation...
you do you...
but i don't want to feel forced into purposively
having to love a black girl: because being
anti-racist is: just about right...
can i just be: non-racist?! do i need to have to side
with the white leftist quasi-liberal anti-racists?!

no... well thank god for that...
i'm not getting sold life for propagandist reasons...
i'm not about to raise a mixed-race child...
sorry... the mammoths had their chance
to **** with the African / the Indian elephant(s)...
but they missed their chance...
no! how did the dachshund come about...
someone broke a few bones
in the frame of the dobermann?

enough, of the gammon... i'm an albino pinky
chimpanzee... sorted...
  enough of this racial pandering...
  deaf! hello? sorry... what?! falling on deaf ears!
it's just so ****** terrible that i don't think
any man will be available to write a love song
using a girl's name in the near future;

Jeminah... yeah... that ***** that slandered me,
then figured out that she was into me...
well... wow! a bit late for that... don't you think, babe?
no matter... now the sadomasochist has
come out... i'm going to ******* drive
you into the ground;
with past experiences from the brothel...
i'll harrow you... given your previous boyfriends,
drunks... battered you...
i'll make having a heart a living hell!
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
this heart throws itself into an architecture that
once was...
whatever it may have been:
now... a "slacking" off-shoot of a pyramid:
piled up as such... but: a stagnant heap
of rubble...

                    i have to dare to call it a heart...
a heart will be content with such matters...
a hill of rubble or a glistening pyramid / sun-dail...
but the mind:
    if it's a cube... and it is a kabaah...
                               would the ottoman mind it
being precious... when he sights his envy
of the hagia sophia?
                       the mind couldn't possibly be made
inclined to revel in a heap of rubble...
this... what would be called:
the revisionism of Samson... begin! once more...
oh but i can be permitted...
having burdened myself with over 10 years
and 20 of these torpedos smoked each day...
i can... relax... enjoy the: leftover days...
give a hard tug at the reins... refrain from...
excesses...

       wait with the annoying patience
of a spider...
                  for the ritual... a packet of cigarettes...
how many rubber bands enclose it?
ten... perhaps eight... i take them off...
and satisfy myself with putting them around
a wine cork... i light up...
i'm 18 years old again: getting drunk for
the very first time...
there's the disorientation... there is that
great stone in my stomach...
   such a brief interlude...
            i feel my limbs failing me...
         such a brief interlude with...
   allusions to: crack-*******... the ****** hit...
this whole plethora of stepping up
the gateway "drug"...
                     at best metaphors...

cutting down from 20 cigarettes to just 2...
             it will: reveal so much...
                          that was otherwise...
a blunt reading of the whole "affair"...
                             and this is just before going
to bed... more like: falling asleep on the floor...
then jumping into bed...
such the tremors... now i can't imagine myself
having smoked: 20 in a day...
if it is supposed to be ritual...
               it couldn't ever be coupled
with a coffee and a cigarette: first thing in the morning...
that... jack daniels has aftertastes
of blueberry bubblegum...
and that jim beam doesn't...
and that... after drinking any bourbon...
even the more tame: middle of the road scotch
is... overtly smokey...

              even if you... shove it into a fridge-freezer
and wait for... the gomme syrop consistency...
did anyone write... a poo'em about tobacco?
well... whoever said -
a cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.
it is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.
what more can one want?

that must have been oscar wilde...
then... what cigarettes am i smoking?!
my sense of taste is sharpened...
the fog has lifted... two days ago i killed
a man in my sleep and was known as
the zodiac killer... on the stairs someone mentioned:
a truly literary invention of genius:
the ******...
      i draw blanks on the ******...
but... now i can enjoy the alcohol...
more... since... and the smoke has lifted...
and i no longer fall into the chasm of sleep
with a mirror... i fall into it with rubble and broken
glass...
the universe can finally **** my head
in with a dream!

            and once the ritual one is smoked...
i wait for about an hour before smoking
the second... and close the chapter - a day -
   perhaps mr. wilde wasn't referring to smoking
a cigarette... within the frame of mind of...
"sobering" up... or going cold-turkey for a day...
my third day of quitting...
on the third day: pangs of conscience...
why am i deriving so much pleasure from...
well... lucky me... tobacco is taxed...
it's not ******... but... i have allowed myself
to elevate it to: status...
of being 16 again and getting busy-buzzing
from the froth of cheap white-lightning cider
in a youth-club with a snooker table and sleepover
permission...

to hell with chewing gum and:
synthetic approached of nicotine patches...
imagine it: a priori...
  fake it... whatever... the analytical approach
says: curb your "enthusiasm"...
from 20 down to 2... and these 2... at the end
of the day...
                   that's the analytical approach...
the synthetic approach is:
run to the pharmacist! be weak willed!
slap on a nicotine patch... chew some gum...
forget the original smokers of tobacco...
calls them apache: high for five minutes...
no time for herr-schtyg 30 minute marijuana
"menopause"... and laughter...
for the full seance of gravity... of drowning
while breathing air...
please! don't mention the choco-bytes of peru
or: whatever came from that...
splinter continent...
            
       departure points...
   capitalists... neo-capitalists...
youtube... video making...
  sponsor hustling - ad-revenue 'clops' -
capitalists...
            the capitalists...
that were the engineers that made...
video-streaming...
         not all...
   a capitalists... by... 19th century standards
and: prior...
KRUPP... the krupp family...
                  em... ford...
                        a snap-chat... twitch streamer:
capitalist... venture...
                  venture-capitalist...
roy orbison: robinson crusoe capitalism...
magic strings and usb-oyster insert:
button...
        i like the old capitalists...
the power brokers...
the... mean-toddlers...
                  capitalism for the sake of money...

no... wait... geoffrey faber - 1929...
publisher... publishes... sub-contracts
authors...
capitalist... well thank god...
ultra-pseudo-capitalist: platform...
             content is free: no... wait...
you have to invest in the platform...
                  drug-addict: the best piece of ***
in the world... froth-at-the-mouth...
content... it's not legit: no paper...
              capitalist...
a capitalist that: gives work to...
200 engineers... 2,000 metallurgy workers...
or... 20,000 homeless poets and "poets"...
in waiting... capitalist: ask.fm: capitalist...
spotify... £0.002 for each song streamed...
capitalist!
                neu-band-windth...
                        pimpin'-******...
               neu-brave... neu...
                    the logistic of the enterprise
of: optics... would... ah... never mind...
what isn't solved by £130 once a year... or two...
in an hour in a brothel...
than... otherwise... renting a flat...
having a loan on a car...
     spending too much money on clothes...
perfumes... drinks...
for a what otherwise becomes...
a gambling addiction...
             ******* to that... sign me up!
straight to the bulgarians i go...

- by the tender-roots: a loving grace...
           a fatherly delusion...
                  none of my own... yet with...
mother death...
the illusion of pandering to...
                the conclave.... of... we...
about... to... change... the world...
using... nothing... more... than...
the logic of... Archimedes...
              by the tender-roots: a loving grace...
        and that: ****-load of...
impulse and: leverage... just about right:
tight... straining in all the right... place...

sore thumbs: misfits of knuckles...
to give up writing poetry is the energy of youth...
to become a retired: et al.
of teacher, activist... humbled sea-gull...
a richard levine...
   not to diminish the reading...
  to entomb it... to squabble with a moth over
the insomnia of light and...
the ready-and-*****-waiting:
access to the wardrobe for her to
deposit her larva of...
then the argument with the cat who
pretended it was all about alcatraz:
through the window he jumped onto
the roof with my back turned...

         hoarse worth of voice attempting
to woo him back: to sleep sensibly: not as a stray...
in the garden with the foxes...
this is hardly an over-arching Dickensian
chapter... it's a quasi-taped-together
lot of... 3 paragraphs worth... at worst...

- these capitalists... "capitalists": major majors...
treating "mental health" like it's some
gimmick for: talking intelligently
to low i.q. people: the juggling act...
                left to their own purposes...
the gnashing of teeth...
the song sung... when... wood is broken...
chopped... contra.. when it is tailored
by a carpenter to suit a sitter:
via a chair...
                         is it really a contenst between
the quadratic of:

marconi                        fessenden




dubilier                         popov?

i much appreciate the comment section?
sideline: hobby... am i being paid for...
writing + pandering to... what?
cheap ****: hot bagels...
you either like it or...
        i would be pandering to an audience...
if... i was... but i'm just content with
having the canvas: made available!

"too long"... too short... i guess i wish i was
a teenager once again...
fortunetly for all of "us": i'm not.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                   is this one of "those"

the beatles vs. the rolling stones

                                 "debates"

   surrounding

   elvis contra roy (orbison)?

already expressed,
the former is equal footing (vs.);
but the latter?

               a non-contest,
in contra format...
       goliath (elvis),
contra ol' roy (i.e. david)...

in the former instance
we all speak like a fishmonger might,
in the latter?
   like any freaky larry
on a university campus
attempting speed-dating...

there really are worse things
than living with your parents,
1. a slap in the face for reasons untold
2. sikh neighbour killing your cat
(ensuring you drag a part
of a gravestone and bury the ashes)
3. ****... just a plain ol' ****...
supposedly an englishman,
who thinks all englishmen are
charlie zee dritte
when it comes to other,
foreign whites:
     but sure as **** he will gobble down
stinky-finger curry on a friday
night out...
4. at a supermarket:
   chirpsy - like a sparrow -
and came the laughter from
a hardened copper complexion -
5. there is no 5.

certain "things" just reach the core...
and i'm asking мамаРоссия:
to give me a chance
to grieve my anger -
   at cushioning it,
  without the expected exposure,
of expression...

        i can understand a king telling
me what i can, and cannot do...
but this ******* english peasant?!
who doesn't acknowledge
the sanctity of property rights...
of an occupied space...

    you ******* english gluck!
**** it, let the muslim hordes
come your way,
and **** away,
what was in that d.n.a. replica
of yours you call a child,
      that i call a mr. penguin.
Mary Gay Kearns Feb 2018
I close my eyes
And dip again
Feel the moments lie within
Move into space
Dressed in lace
The loveliness of your face.
I close my eyes and look again
What was imagined
At an end
Yet the glow
That you showed
I find it in the words we told.

In memory of Roy Orbison.

Love Mary
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Sep 2020
I am taking a wide interpretation of what is poetry here, but after all, what singers sing is poetry. I am 76, so I have listened to a vast number of singers, individually and in groups. But like you, I am particular. So here it goes:  SIMON AND GARFUNKEL, JOHNNY MATHIS, BING CROSBY, ANNE MURRAY, THE PLATTERS, WILLIE NELSON, LOUIS ARMSTRONG, TONY BENNETT, JOHNNY CASH, PATSY CLINE, B.B. KING, BRENDA LEE, ROY ORBISON, ARETHA FRANKLIN, BEE GEES, THE CARPENTERS, CAT STEVENS, JANIS IAN, THE MAMAS & THE PAPAS, ROBERTA FLACK, ELTON JOHN, BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN; CROSBY, STILLS, NASH & YOUNG; DON MCLEAN,  FLEETWOOD MAC, JAMES TAYLOR, k. d. lang, COLDPLAY, and ALICIA KEYS.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, an essayist, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.

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