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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
where was i? right, anywhere but here,
listening to some medieval music,
i sometimes sit in one place,
fade, and then find myself sitting
in the same place with a question
on the tip of my tongue: where am i?!

hard not to notice:
heaven reigns supreme with
a "st." michael coming down
with the sword...
depiction, please!
where's satan?
  coming from below armed only
with a tongue...
fair fight, by anyone's standard:
i'm dripping sweat from both
ridicule and sarcasm...

st. michael comes down with a sword...
satan rises up with a flaming tongue,
does satan lick michael's sword
to draw the blood required for
running the heart factory?

               medieval people and their
"nuanced" explanation...
so many images contra words
contra literacy of the people outside
the realm of monks...

   satan rises from the depths of
     hell saying: i wish a socratic dialectic
with god...
god replies: michael i will send armed
with swords...
who ever said: the quill is mightier than
than the sword,
implied: when the tongue has
to be necessarily silenced? then!

      das schwart,
          das feder,
    das zunge...

       how many definite articles are
there in deutsche? das, der, die?
too many or too few?

         always with "st." michael armed
with a sword...
and satan... armed with only his tongue!
i guess, the tongue becomes a tank,
while the sword becomes a feather's
tickling effect...

    angehoben das teufel von der
    tiefe: und gab sie namen...

  (raised the devils from the depths:
  and gave them names)...

why is satan only armed with a flaming tongue,
while "st." michael is armed with a sword?
is god, the god-dialectic / theology
so afraid that it has to remain topped
with unchallenged imagery
                         of sword contra tongue?

ich werden anfangen:
   ich werden treffen du hälfteweg...
            im schreiben...

                  satan rose to a depiction
with "st." michael: disarmed...
  tongue in mouth: which should have been
his hand, "st." michael descended with
a sword... come to think of it,
with satan's tongue cut off...
it still spoke to "st." michael within his
hand...
  the sword overcame the medium...
and so writing was born...
once upon a time when satan's tongue
in his hand began licking the sword
of michael...
            and? if the contemporaries
should hope to know:
writing is the res extensa medium
of res cogitans:
            writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

writing cannot be speaking,
however much commentaries you leave
behind...
writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

it's no disguise...
    in terms of the depiction...
enough of Milton and Dante and...
satan came to the summit
  without his armour without his weapons...
the summit of the plateau...
tongue in gob and joke in cheek...
while "st." michael descended
wit a sword and a missing tongue...
it would appear that god cut out
"st." michael's tongue before his descent
while arming him with a sword to
cut the conversation even shorter
than it was supposed to be, to take place...

the aspired to monotheistic monogamy
of king Solomon,
to imitate swans...
    Muhammad's lost enterprise of
the: greatest harem the world has ever
seen... sorry... Muo-Mo-Hammie:
the macedonian alexander beat you to
the count of 365 concubines...
as did genghis khan...
           so many pakistanis with khan
as a surname...
             your failed harem ambition?
compared to the otherwise world "greats"?
with the ******* promise of 72 virgins
post-mortem? that ship is sinking in my head...
muhammad failed in the ambition
of averaging a 100+ concunbine **** fest...
so he promised 72 for those that believed in
him...
   and if he was ever competing with
king solomon? look at solomon...
         he chose monogamy in the end...
i guess it's a noble enterprise to come back
among the lizards...
to spawn from an egg: from an womb
made external by an egg in the form of a bird...
birds: half mammal half lizard...
            muhammad failed at having
an envious harem...
                which makes me a little bit envious
of him... compared to the others...
he's quiet honest...
        but if he was illiterate...
    who the **** wrote the Quran?
    what's that book, in praise of older women?
andrás vajda...
   who would have written the first
verses (if not the last) of the Quran if not
khadijah **** khuwaylid?

i'm sorry to say: the feeling of conversation
soon turns into a feeling of conversion,
me, beer in hand, park, bench,
an old pakistani walks up to me...
flips out a digital Quran,
tries to convert me...
     opens the book on surah al-baqarah...
i point at three words...
what are these, i ask?
he replies: oh... only allah knows...
really?! really?! i ask myself...

    the three words?
   alif. lam. meem.

           allah knows?!
guess i'm allah then...
given alif: أَلِف  (α, א) a-lif
                 lam: لاَم (λ, ל) l-am
   and meem: مِيم (μ, מ) m'eem...

so yeah, "god" knows...
   how was this old pakistani going to convert
me, supposing i was simply some european
"drunk" sitting on a bench, drinking beer,
assuming i was ease target for
isis propaganda?!

    "god knows"... when it comes
to old pakistanis trying to
             recruit young europeans...
god knows ****!

if this old pakistani was seeking an easy target
like some paedo, he was much mistaken,
what does a pumpernickle (has) to do with
a windmill?! zilch!
i'm not going to exactly crawl out
of my walther von der vogelweider:
        palästinalied
that much easier...
i won't....
   i just think:
the yids have tight defences
against proselytes... they abhor converts...
islam, welcomes them,
at their own peril...
          and there i was thinking that
urdu was "superior" to sanskrit...
an old pakistani tells me "god knows"
in relation to alif. lam. meem.

             i guess the quran has an inbuilt
proselyte defence mechanism:
in reverse... ask a muslim what alif. lam. meem.
means... if they tell you: only god knows...
ha ha...
              hello stupid...
                            is the islamic world playing
a jewish game of gematria?
are the three letters supposed to represent
some sort of "covert" message?
A.L.M.?
        what, based on the hebrew alphabet
where "a" is not an an A but a consonant(s)
akin to ayin and aleph?!
the gay genesis?
          
                really?
                 we: the europeans were perhaps
the barbarians in the medieval years,
harrowed by the cold...
lucky us: lucky me: we did learn to read...
so ignorant of the pakis to presume
such and such...

             that we are still unable to read
and will fall for the next sort of *******...
look at us! we even began to question
christianity with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library where
jesus played chinese whispers with
st. thomas!

   next time i'll be listening to a camel jockey
or a magic carpet ride aladdin
i'll ask them: you dehydrated, or something?!
oh forget h'america,
their evangelical ******* is worth
as much as a free microwave or a toaster...

_

hell man...
    i mean my neighbor smokes
16 8ths in a spare of the week...

wha?
    ****...
   i remember i used to smoke
an 8th over the week...

yeah... an 1/8... of an ounce...
he smokes two ounces
in a week,
  
gets the **** on discount...
but still has to cough up
over 100 quid for the stash...

but... but... these organic
cigarettes you're pushing?

ha ha... **** me... holy basil
(tulsi leaves) -
and the peppermint and green
tea leaves?
   in ******, whatever you want
to call it, rolling paper...

i've seen the inner sleeve -
big fan of hunter s. thompson,
i suspect...
   otherwise you wouldn't
have used the second, plastic
filter...
  
   tell you what... don't put
that plastic filter on every cigarette -
halve it...
     or provide two or three...
it's reusable -
        i smoked one of your
placebo marijuana joints...
  and then i'm going to smoke
a red Indian cough-up...

   ah... these blue Indians...
Vishnu centrists -
   beyond blue blooded,
more blue skinned herbalists...

dunno... the effects are subtle...
you can only tell the difference
if you actually smoke tobacco...

but sure as hot **** on a street
in Calcutta -
    it beats the Arabic portable
hookah pipe...
   i.e.?  
         vapping - or vapourißing -

i'd say less a cure for tobacco smokers,
and more a cure for
the dope-heads...
    he (my neighbor) smokes
2 ounces a week,
   and somehow manages to stay
down on a job...

    no ******* way...
    he says it helps him to sleep...
like me...
   a liter of ***** and two
paracetamols,
    or one naproxen (if i'm lucky),
or two paracetamols
  and one amitriptyline (25mg)...

sorry, what? sound of mind?
sound of mind to the point
where i'm mindful of grammar
and spelling?

            **** man...
  the content is transcendent
    of whatever the receiving end deems
it to be...

i might actually buy into
this... placebo marijuana -
given that i am a tobacco smoker...
  ha ha! holy basil:
  like Basil Fawlty...

   as you see...
there are people, and there are "people",
there are neighbors,
    and there are "neighbors",
i don't see how the natives
can dictate universal laws of
     private property ownership...
esp. over such... trivial...
meaningless...
          sitting down on a cactus
****-naked "problems"...

i hate being mean,
   i hate telling someone to *******...
i really do...
    i compromised -
i stopped smoking cigarettes
out of my window...
  but yesterday's confrontation?
over a ******* barbeque...
    oops... the compromise
has just been revoked...
  
   music blasting into my ears
through my earphones...
the next thing my cuntish neighbor
will "hear" is sign language...
  
oh yeah... that primary school
lesson:

(a) WHY     (b) DON'T  
        (c) YOU    (d) ****    (e) OFF

(a) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles up

(b) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles down

(c) scissor index + *******
   into the side of the left hand

(d) fist, vertical slam onto the left
  palm

(e) thumb's up moving away from
  the palm of the left hand...

because?
      i just can't be bothered trying
to reason with some people...
     they might as well be put in zoological
confinement, and put under observation...
but i'd feel sorry for the chimps
and other animals, have to share a close
proximity.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
listen!

modern art is ****?
                                                           ­                  really?!
   how about http://tinyurl.com/m6yr3tn
and the squire squares
      running around going:
this is paedo! this is paedo!
             ******* can't handle
           art-house.
              but sure as **** they
can digest i.s.i.s. fighters decapitating people...
   oh ****... sign me up!
               i was just thinking about
eating out a celtic **** doing the
fiddly fiddly with a violin...
                    going mc!
       oi! mac!
                 where's the guinness!
       uhm... dunno... where's your *******
sister?
         where's she's supposed to be.
******* shamrock jerky... where's your
violin you ******* leprechaun....
is that like a inter-breeding version
of a ***** and faun? so you breed the two
and oops! pops out a bonsai?!
      oh man, i'm tired,
   it's like i'm in an automaton format
typing because i need to type it...
       but it just bothers me...
   they cite this art-house spectacle...
and then use it on *info wars
to suggest:
REAL NEWS!
                  huh?
       you listen to it fully?
                             is it really about paedohpiles
or pederasts?
                           i really could fall asleep listening
to this art...
           it's like underground stand-up comedy...
   it could very well be
               a revision of cabaret voltaire
   with tristan tzara...
                          oh wait... so says the "real" news...
i just want to **** the **** out of
   the corrs drummer girl...
                        you listen on this ****?
you "think" they get their "real" news from
such edited sources?
   they're employing the same tactics as
mainstream outlets...
                    what i linked is: art-house...
     you really have to be ******* to collectivise
current news around watergate cliches...
gamergate... pizzagate...
                yep... and the black gate of mordor...
all it is, is a really shady, but nonetheless
permitted sketch-show, of people appreciating
a kind of humour that's:
       a. hard to appreciate (the audience)
                and b. even harder to utter (the speaker).
the point is about alternative media though...
    they take a clip from a video and state:
paedo!
                 paedo!                    cannibal paedo!
                     you listen to the rest of the video?
they're as mainstream as their critique of
mainstream media allows them to be "indie".
              i love the fact that the 20th century
of squares is that: in the 21st century:
           squares are afraid of artists...
                              ave adolph...
                                          at least we can
                 feed journalistic outlets because of you;
eh? true? or untrue?
             why should than even ******* matter?
eileen mcgreevy May 2010
I saw what you did,
You *******,
You barely got away,
Over a stupid glitch,
The mistake wont repeat itself,
I can assure you of that,
You can hide away nightly,
In your pervy little flat.
All those little ones you took,
And disposed of their souls,
Ripped at their dreams,
**** all over their goals,
But you didnt figure me,
You pathetic slime ball,
I will haunt your dreams,
I will watch you crawl,
Wherever you are going,
Ill be there first,
To dampen your ugly addiction,
And to dry up your ***** thirst,
I will make you suffer,
For every one you hurt,
Your redemption is too late now,
You paedo piece of dirt!!!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
what's with this hobby of keeping friends?
i've got two friends that
only say meow...
          and i'm kinda not rooting for
a Colombian hottie for a wife...
                 i abhor this idea of a "loner",
i haven't heard any monks being called that...
  but then again monks do live in a monastery...
why do people always seek each other's
company? what's wrong with liking your own?
it really bothers me... i mean, by current
standards of denoting this man a loner
would make Spinoza laugh...
                  is it because you need to be the quintessential
hermit living in a clay urn or in a hole
in a desert?
                              each night i drink something,
without fail: i feel better for it...
               i'm hoping it'll **** me...
but so many times people who don't known
how to drink get so ******* melodramatic
that i think about ensuring they are banned from
abusing the amber...
                        i hate melodramatic drinkers,
you either utilise the sedative of the amber to
an overcoming potential... short: Kant's
transcendental methodology... you you won't
drink and whine... or bash people about...
and that, i must say: is a rare art.
     1 litre of amber and i'm as silent as a mouse...
i'll say it again:
    there are too many melodramatic whinge-bags
out there... i don't get them...
    i mean i get them: but i abhor them...
                i could really do with a pupil,
nietzsche would do, about time he stopped dropping
those barbiturates and learned to dance!
         tanz! tanz herz im freuer!
yes, sometimes the trip was long
the N86 from romford to goodmayes and
into the brothel near the train station...
but every time i played a folk song,
usually dikanda's ketrin ketrin i'd sit on the bus
for about 40 minutes... aflame...
                i find that prostitutes are only fed the myth
of a tender touch and a complete lack
of experimental perversity... even a kiss is
the beginning of their myth-making...
   ordinary girls are fed the myth of movies,
and how it all works out...
    each time i went to the brothel i sat for the journey
time like a Sufi meditation with the
              dervish dance in my mind...
                 and that's the truth... mind you,
i have a grandfather that supports my work
and buys me cigarettes... then again he lived in a time
when he could age and get a state-pension,
as he does... he's not ailing in any sense, and he lives
in a post-communist country... and i just spent
3 weeks over there... which means my state-sponsorship
in england has amounted: that i could take out
110 quid and give it for a *******...
                and i could remember myself aflame...
  on a bus with a dervish dance in my mind...
           drunk, as usual: but that's the fun part of it...
i could wave my *** at all those
melodramatic drunks you get at parties and in other
public places who suddenly speak and only moan
how unfair it all is...
                      first time i went? well... i did go to
uni after all, the sacred land of getting a good score
for later life... what a sahara when it comes to ***!
   like with prostitutes it still turns out to be a case
of hard facts and harder choices...
                  money...
                        and­ the white historians and who else
in the etc. cul de sac are wondering why our ethnicity is
in decline... it's quiet a thing to be bemused by the freedom
of women and not addressing the point fairly...
                   the women are so free i had to find my own
freedom with a *******...
                         i got bored of too many darwinian examples
being incorporated into the act... once it's the peacock,
next it's the mantis and the black widow...
of sure... there's so much to gain if endorsing some sort
of chivarly, when next door lives a babe with a sugar daddy...
   ***-starved ******* can go elsewhere,
       wild-eyed logic and no manifesto...
literally: there's no hope for a manifesto here...
             there's no manifesto...
                    this is absolutely not a manifesto...
         i'm actually happy that as an ethnicity we're in decline...
  i found talking to other ethnicities a bit restrictive
and boring... i had to censor vocab fluidity with dams
and other ****** architectural constructs...
    so i looked at the shows on television,
a bunch of child-genuises were on...
   i never thought that spelling was like arithmetic...
   but it is... it is, oh hell it is...
  the judge says the word in that odd jumble that a word
is when you have alphabetical distinctions
   in vowel, consonant and syllable form...
    but the languasge is so different, after all
language is not really an optical language as such,
mathematical language is truly anti-phonetic...
and it comes down to the simple example:
      spell the word: onomatopoeia
  start saying the alphabet and it sounds nothing like
this word put together,
   the syllable ono-                
                       then -ma-
                               -to-        and now the tricky bit...
peya...          but what of the grapheme œ?
                you'd really be able to break your tongue
on that syllable suffix...
                       and when the children started spelling
the word: it look as if they were going cross-eyed
   trying to translate the sound into image...
    mathematical language doesn't have that problem,
do the following airthmetic (e.g.)  
   1 + 2 - 5 + 6 - 4 = ?
                                          0...
but that's different when you are told to spell the word
   renaissance -
                                  doubly more difficult if
you are told to create syllables without diacritical mark
distinctions...
               back to drink, like being asked for
a wine connoisseur's palette, when the wine you've been
given has been diluted...
   or in this case fudge packed so there are no
clear distinctions, too much french influence
      and siamese twin graphemes seperated...
excess vowel that i've heard means: kissing...
i'm sorry how the story goes,
i just can't be forced to **** a kenyan penny-picking
                tragedy with my humour...
        i'm bewildered by the arithematic
and the "arithmetic" of putting words together...
                  the internet has quietly become a war
for a freedom to talk... it's more a freedom to think
than talk...
                  and god forgive me feeling so obscure in
what i wanted to think, but given the social structure of
events happening, i had to do a minority report on
it being said, and me not typing this on
a medium of defeat, that i ended up on a warring stance...
i mean, i can understand obscurity per se,
i can't see how i can attach myself to it on a basis
of a phenomenon...
                          so unearthed we are from a structure
that a rebellion against
                  the szlachta was viable...
what the hell grows on concrete? coconuts?!
      i already said: this is hardly a manifesto...
and i truly demand it to be thoroughly agreed to...
                   then comes the shortcoming
barrage of: i knight you the nigh of not worthy...
                        and then the recycling process
bombards you with: many more squint-eyed *****
to come where you did, come from.
       urbanity has forsaken man attached to an organism,
but is feeling it right now,
                 he's attached to an inorganic farbic of testament...
i haven't walked the soil or toiled in it
to feel it's breath between winter or summer..
           i once had so much one-dimensional inclusion
in this world, then my sight was diverted,
and i came across the numbers, who took to being
***** whales and gulped me in one cascade of
the feeding...
              and i was told to walk it alone.
once actors were abhorred by society,
but then there was no office folk to compete for
utility biases when it came to giving gratitude to
pristine plumbing...
                          back when man was highly
economical... and thus actors had to be abhorred...
  to create a tsunami of sadism to keep them
staged... and true enough:
         if christ was crucified in the colliseum
there would have been fewer than none churches to
establish that event... given the colliseum is
made into a subject-trophy cabinet of holiness -
               and how the colliseum did morph...
it's sad talking about being human as excluding humanity,
as it's sad talking being human by including humanity...
               but thankfully (or not)
there's still that case of the arithmetic of the two tongues...
        say the word colliseum
                             co- -lli- -se'um.
      i mean, that means something...
  take to numbers and of the 26, care to call c = 3
               18 + 33 + 24 13 21
                            +                      2 1 2 = 5
                                                    4 3 1 = 8
                            + 58
                                    = 109
    
kabbalah is *******... mysticism was squandered with
gematria... but islam has no alternative either...
sure... if you have to establish a mirror image
of having a care for theological parasites...
   then you turn a into 1, and b into 2 and z in 26...
and then fiddle about until you get a *******'s worth
of bashing about because you couldn't write
a play entitle Macbeth...
               did any of these holy alternatives die
in Auschwitz? most of them living in America didn't
serve in the Israeli army...
                 who wonders whether they died in
Auschwitz?
                 no! they didn't!
       they were bemused by this correlation of
numbers and letters, thankfully we already can read
the opposite of the kabbalistic practices
prostate in the Deutronomy...
           say 10 a thousand times... adds a few more zeros
but leaves the 1 intact...
            please enlighten me as to who wrote the first
koranic recitation if not khadira? please! for the love
of god tell me it wasn't khadira!
         oh wait... given the hispanic um...
it's khadija - the h is silent and the j is actually a hatch...
          a bit like in the west, with y and j trying to
be a grapheme... a load of ******* *******:
and yes: i have to be crude on the matter...
   so we have the first verse written by a woman...
  or was it a bit like saying...
Aisha wrote surah no. 114... i can just picture it...
the young wife said to her ageing husband:
pray with these words, you lecherous *****!
say: say it you ageing carcass!
i seek refuge in the lord of manking,
the sovereign of mankind...
      the god of mankind...
     from the whisper of the retreating whisperer
(gabriel must have left him once the 13th wife arrived,
of god! the symmetry with jesus' disciples!)
     who whispers into the ******* of makind
(evil is in the brackets) -
from among the jinn and mankind.
conscience really can be a ****** to master.
but the geometry of the koran (glutton the q if you want,
makes no impressions on me) -
is that it starts thick... ends up anorexic...
           so much to say at the start,
but then shrinks... it's beautiful in that sense...
given the miracle of muhammad was that he was
illiterate...
  so someone had to write the words for him...
            i'm guessing khadija wrote the best part of it...
i like to think of her writing the first revelations...
    but i also like to muse that aisha wrote the latter
half of the: how do they stress the ******* q k c so much
that it sounds like it's not coming from the mouth
but coming from the nose?! qu-ran... i need
a hanky and snorkel that **** out... qu sneeze! i-ran...
          it's glutton and it's nasal, and it's almost like:
the back of the throat... and then comes the la la la all-hubris
in that song five times a day...
                but seriously... you tell me the man was illiterate
an this book exists... so who wrote it?
   women!
                                         the merchant of mecca in
Finland... left the scandinavian penninsula after one year
and never came back...
                   but how can you have so much
at the beginning and so little at the end?
   a different woman, who was literate (and the man
wasn't) wrote what needed to be said...
    i just look at the surah an-nas as a way to suggest
that the prophet: al suma mal ley *** blah blah
had been asked to repent... repent you paedo!
          that's crude, i know... and i'm drunk,
i'll wake up sober tomorrow and cook a pork curry
and think about leather shoes and shoelaces and belt...
and how camels are dirtier than pigs and how you
can eat almost all of pork offal and when i see a camel
i just think of chewing tobbacco and spitting into
a copper tin... or camel-jockeys...
        or how i think arabs are cursed with oil
and dyslexia and diabetes... how most of them will
end blind or amputee due to their diabetes...
      how a lot of them would like something more
than turkish coffee and baklava, and how
it stops looking cool after a while...
           arab oil, dyslexia and diabetes...
which probably means a palestinian balaclava
at the end of the sequence...
   i'll never know: i'm not planning to have
a stop-over shopping spree in Dubai, any time soon.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.alimony: basically? i don't like paying for something... that i can't keep; savvy?!

so "these" people,
have no problem in exploiting
your girls into becoming
their advert agents?!

the girl who advertises
free-lance style,
but doesn't get paid
for the advertisement,
per se?

no problem?
i have a problem...
  a real ******* problem!
so... you basically
reinvented the Marx / Engels
critique of child labor?!

so you have this advertisement
dynamic, with unware
children, pushing your products?
making the slightest mark
on the buck...
    
            you have children pushers...
you have children mmaking
the profit margins...
    yes?
             you, *******, ****-tards!
    so the children
you "employ", are doing the hard
stuff, to incubate your
bureaucratic employees?
and keep them in employment
positions of mediocre power?

you have to be,
******* kidding me!

   your type of people are beyond
fake news....
you're paedo-news...
some of us would care
to denote at: covert excuses...

   take ashley wicka...
a corporate pimped *****...
how old is she?
barely 15?
         looks like the advertising
community, really needed
first person advertisers...
   first person accounts....
esp. young people...
  because?
  the older generations,
"the gap": wasn't paying into
the gimmick...
    
i actually abhor what they
allowed themselves to do with
the young people...
   i'm sick, tired, and
almost feigning fatigue from
the list of excuses
that surmounts the excuse for
ethical practice...
   which is never was,
and never will be...

       i'm too lazy to give a ****...
give me a .gif contra
a **** movie extract....
          have your little siesta
of ******...
   have it, **** me...
saves me a gym deliberation...
not ending up a
gymnast...
          rather, a pivot for  bending
knee...
             i've learned **** the lazy, lax way...
when asked by a Bulgarian
*******,
if i wanted to girls for an hour,
i replied the Joker's reply...
comparing the differential
of, a world, divided
into men who ****** one girl,
and men who ****** two girls...

i'm like a dog chasing cars...
if i caught one?!
i wouldn't know what to do with one!
in this instance?
i wouldn't know what to do
with two!

           have your anti-****** boast-trip....
your ******* innuendo,
your ego / ******* sized over-trip...
****... let me stretch your *****
out for you...

           point being?
i don't have to own, what i ****,
or... don't ****...
but you do...
    your self-esteem is dependent
on a form of closure...
so?
     you **** it?! you own it!
hello! surrogate phantom pater!

where's your
elephantiasis
****-size glorification,
now?

        oh, right... sorry...
forgot...
now comes the alimony;

look at me, doing the Pontius Pilate
Houdini trick!
or showing you,
the disappearing, *******!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
****** the neo-feminist
anti-...
   the comerady
for the hetrosexual male...
the thai-surprise
having encountered
a bisexual in the park...
sure... my
white maggoty ****
was nothing
to be envious of...
bue: miles davis'
                trumpet was...
i no longer belong to
the world that attempts
to make sense,
in the "world"
that would ever consecrate
itself upon
a necessity of: furthering
the scope of dialogue...
i, punk oblivion,
Korean neon
insomnia...
                   Asia fetish?
whenever i have a desire
to ****...
i start imagining teeth
on oysters...
like:
i've ****** one with
tattoos on her body,
one will do...
thank you...
any more?
thank you, no.
              
see...
being read "pedantic"
backward in finding a seat
in an opera house?
like it was...
something difficult to do?
you know what...
       how about trying
that pedantic lineage
of
argument in a football stadium?
how's that?

yeah: it's ******* dark...
do i look like
a ******* batman
or something?
no...
so...
           i came here to watch
the ******* bolshoi theatre...
not for some *******
english smurks...

wankers...
******* scittle-half-crafts
of what deserves a
social-media frenzy...
and all of them women...

opera: yes...
and i was told by some
god-forbid russian
prized frenzy to stop leaning...
babe:
you're in the wrong seat...
and she was!
i was leaning into her
"attire"...
sure...
but she was sitting
in the wrong seat...
i thought everyone was
sorted in being primmed
when exposed
to such: "high" culture?

no...?
oh.. well...
no... see...
i like the opera,
i love the ballet...
but being told
that i haven't faced
my *** to coincide with
my face,
to sit in the allocate
allowance
of an put-into-place?

i become...
itchy...
  by some...
middle-man
that cannot stomach
killing someone,
simultanoeus
with
   butchering
a squat of pork
for a hungry cat...
at that point?
i become bothered...
i don't like being
the ******-splain
of sitting
allocation in an opera...

it's, *******, dark...
   next time:
stop bellowing at
the opera singer
like a *******
clapping-seal
needing the ordeal
for the encore of senseless
clapping:
or i'll ******* sling around
skinning you...
savvy?!

homosexuals,
trannies...
whatever...
they can have their go...
but being...
           made scrutiny of...
being...
ridiculed...
in an opera house...
by social-climbers?

it's like.... an itch...
  i'm itching...
to bite, slap, stab the living's
worth of said, "unsaid"
person...

               white-trash drama...

oh i don't fear...
the incarcerated and the obese
are never behind bars...

but that smirk remark
at the opera?
like i'm, somehow... "minor"?
i could **** for that...
mind you:
all the worth for the world's worth
of killing,
is a summary of
the most banal loss
of compnesation,
      being made a comparison of.

i could **** for that opera statement...
i was watching
the ******* bolshoi theatre...
what i was given...
was an antagonist...
something worth
a camel i'd pat on the head
for...  imitating:
poiting forward,
with its "oasis" of phlegm
to scoop, for a worth
of coordinate to scrap
the heaving breath
of, all life, from:
and subsequently regurgitate...

such a belittling scrutiny...
kick a ******* ball
toward an aria while you're at
a scissor-kick mid-air
via a baritone tone
beside the...

   ad capricio (capricious paedo:
****** the testicles,
grab and twist them...
but never cut them off,
or attempt ****)...

   or the piedmont: sanctity...
beatified: ad ****, und -ini...
always, counter culture cited,
the Iberian Muslim counter...
as...
a harem of missing testicles
was...
for no blacksmith...
a escape route worth
of...
                            72 virgins...
but there are,
men...
******...
  who... do what
war implores of them...
to no end...
  for a predicament's
worth of peace...
yes... the Muslims were here,
the Muslims were there...
modern Muslims
in modern Kenya...
             a ******* giraffe
on the stripes
up a zebra's ***...
and i'm all, like:
a ******* clapping
coconut army...
because... Elvis Costello...
was... just as much
fun as Simon & Garfield...

      pop up:
all is for basic scrutiny...
   a few people
might remember
the championing
of coal miners...
in the form variety
of edvard gierek:
but me...
citing him?
am stupid steward...

but someone telling me
i'm not sitting in
the right place...
while trying to rummage
in the dark
for a "place of origin"...
being told
"it's not that hard" /
"anyone could
make such a mistake"...

and to think...
that so little became the basis
for the most horrendous
acts of man...
no...
a man can be burdened
by a broken arm...
cancer...
a hybrid of
an over-inflated
negation of ease...
but men...
pet-peeves...
   itches...
tooth-aches...
when people become them...
like...
when people become
pedantic,
or purposively
mis-understanding...
and not semi-acknowledging
themselves
in an exaggeration?

me?
personally?
i too want to implenet
killing...

   since what remains,
leaves to remnant
of a redeemable
quality's worth
of either crux: or beyond
it...
to say say:
i am no sadist,
to ingest a hard-on
from the moaning-&-groaning
of a person
on a plate of:
that most, tiresome ingestion
of... what...
should have never been
the circumstance
for the comparison
                  of caro: qua verbum.
Emma Johnson Feb 2010
Like a ghostly memory rehaunting my mind,
Now I am older I see what you did and all your lies,
Nasty, twisted, bitter anger, smell of life,
Hate how you trigger and disfigure me after all this time.

Memories return, stuff I thought was gone forever,
Trying to deal with all this ****, then you anonymous texter.
Hit me when I’m down, only just started to feel better,
Now I can’t sleep again, or dream, back to a bed wetter.

Sleep with a knife by my side, claw hammer and bat,
Because if I saw you intruding again, you’ll get smacked,
See through confusion to see your wrong, protect your back.
What you did was wrong, against the law, that’s a fact.

Why did I enter your head, you contact a ***** past,
Now I’m an adult, you decide you want to play a part,
Twist me even more, you lonely, excuse of your heart,
You and others are hindering my path.

Sick, do you even realise what you did?
Some maybe, but you fit in the category of the sick,
Child abusing, nonse, paedo, take your pick,
Don’t make the excuse that you were just drunk or a bit thick

© Emma Johnson
© Emma Johnson 2009
if you could make her think
you'd be ****** her mind
a glance in her direction
marks you out as one of "those" kind
romantic suggestion
will be remembered as a hate crime
the only dating you'll be doing later
is with your name on the dotted line
in the *** offenders register
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
you only assimilate with what you care to retain, you retain nil, when you assimilate nil... meaning you turn toward white-boy masochism, but white-boy never taught your masochism... me? i know that i assimilate with, as i known what i retain to be worth being upkept... and leveraged toward a "loss". you only assimilate with that you care to lessen but at the same time keep as a "loss"; you retain nil, when you assimilate nil, but more abhorrent in retaining an origin, is very much asiatic, pakistani, the anglo-saxons were once, and never will be, anglo-indians... the most racist sons-of-goats akin to the arab closure on a curse to be worth minding... calls us vermin... no wonder my aversive vocab... ask a camel to spit at a donkey with these *******... some are anglo-eire-indian and think they're speaking einstein english when actually speaking your local rancid john of 'ackney... wankers can't even get a hard-on to **** one off solo. what? it's personal! you want a jerky-chicken-sauce-diablo to "mind the affairs" of a undeliberate "concern"? ****-hackney, sons of ******* are so ******* arrogant you almost wish to apply some sort of aversion to circumcision utilising their ****, twist one ****** of flesh out of the enclosure, and then trim the bits... only an anglo-**** would call a pole vermin... so? here comes, the party!


your attempt
  at an "education",
           is worth my response;
that's catholicism
minus the paedo paedo 'edo 'edo;
luckily enough;
thanks for not
teaching me any concern
for latin...
rather: the ethics
of being concerned with
abortion, aged 16...
  or sniffing glue aged 13...
i'd let you off had you
managed to teach me latin...
but no... you're about as catholic
as, ******* maradona;
     you know what's worse
in england than the finicky fake
englishness?
      alpha maling celtic...
       they actually think
the lowest of the lowest accepted rank
in their societal format is
actually king...
        most notable in the region
of the gael, who doesn't possess the
intelligence for bilingualism,
too busy playing video games,
too stupid in attempting to
write a book,
     twice the handyman
in attempts to learn his native
labhair* -
             his caint -
                                  ******, don't
teach me a "proper" within
the domains of a language:
that isn't either yours, as it isn't mine!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
.                             mono     automaton
                          q  u  a  s  i  o  m  n  i;
in­to root of the crux
                                                i will
                       invoke,
a black cardinal,
  that challenges
  all self-righteous popes,
and all self-imposing
popes;
   are my words not bread?
are my words not wine?
then who claims authority
over the justification
   of the authenticity of
            recruiting people
toward the position of "power"?
   who's if not the dead borthers
feed your near cannibalistic mouths?
        who feeds the living,
when who feeds the living,
are dead?!
          necrophilia; rampant!!!
cry...                 asylum! asylum!
who's over-reacting?
   some irish will tell ye'...
    i hate the irish...
   i have a fetish for hating them;
esp. those
settled in england;
  those ******* i hate the most;
why?
    i was wearing a german army
shirt in an irish pub, and
what did the bartender say?
i can't serve you.
   you engaged in the second
world war, paddy?!
******* potato harvester
     ginger-dangle-bell of
a hope... that never comes...
just the drowning ginger ***
who's abode was and will
           be the belfast dim-wit
known as
                              the titanic;
**** me, i'm not even born &
bred english and i already find
the irish worthy of considering
genocidal tendencies...
scots? **** me, shoot me
to a pub for a whisk,
and some 'aggis neeps 'n' tatties...
the welsh?
      what, the ultra-german spelling
machine that's not even
comparable to germans?
   i'll just talk to charlie prince, y'all...
rrrr... (i just had to make it obvious)...
the ear-ish?
       i ******* hate the *****...
and i'm not even english to begin with...
some people you immediately get
to love...
   aussies, the finns...
                 and some people you
immediately get to hate...
                       the irish, the germans;
it's a shame though,
   i learned this pathos
   from acquiring the english language...
i.e. "assimilating" into
  the culture, p.s. the i.r.a. attacks,
so yeah, peedee pi dee p'oh,
   and a paedo to ring
             the bell for friday's mass...
   f
                            uck
             me,
            coming off the rocking chair,
next you'll find me so much so
assimilated that i'll be calling
it the irish and the northern monkeys...
vs. the loondish
               and the southern fairies /
                                                   pansies;
i suppose if you're ever
going to assimilate, hold to the local
customs (when in rome,
         do as the romans do),
**** me, it's great,
at least i can finally realise that
   there's no greater "racism" than in
the intra- realm, as oppossed to
the inter- realm...
    once again... it's not racism,
   it's "racism"... or a way to get along;
s.j.w.b.g.l.t.q.t.+ sycophant?
    drunk like a skunk... you walked
into my bedroom, you'd get an aura
of a brewery...
                  i can't believe i had
to learn english, and have to succumb
to outer-london prooper english
stereotypes, that i was trying to avoid;
but at least the irish made it plainly
obvious for me to establish,
   giving my transcendental approach
to diacritical marks, which made me sound
posh english, and them,
  my synthetically inherited enemy;
which is nice, breaking away from
hating the russians and the germans;
if i go to a pub?
   i only drink guinness...
  why? it doesn't taste the same in a can
or in an export bottle...
    you need to drink guinness in a pint glass.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
don't know, never used them,
for me the experience was
akin to:
walking to a supermarket
for a 6-pack of beer,
passing a thai bi-******
on a bench, frantic in conversation
on the phone,
buying the beer
in a supermarket,
walking back, stopping
to ask for something,
or she was asking for a cigarette
lighter... sitting down with her...
talking... blah blah...
asking: you want to come
home with me?
consent.
     cool cool,
a few beers later,
a jazz record...
          ******* in the garden
when night came...
then walking her home,
giving her my coat,
as she explained:
i'm drowning in it...
         a necklace with
a ring attached,
to be paid my compliments...
   i keep gagging at this memory
for, all the reasons,
that suggest,
and the times i went to
a nightclub in essex?
   and didn't get so much
as a kiss, or get laid?
and this sort of **** pops up?
beer, supermarket round,
a random girl,
a public park bench,
******* in the garden?
          sometimes i drift into
central london...
brick lane...
  the clubs there,
and i'm like...
           what the **** happened here?
dating apps...
ah... so...
not the classical circumstance
of clarified transaction,
no man, no *******,
"something,  "in between?"
i guess i never married because:
(a) chernobyll birthmark
that kept people wanting to **** me,
from a state of infancy
(b) high blood pressure in
my early 30s
(c) acne...
           (d) 6ft1 and a full crop of hair...
(e) i forget what that is...
  (f) not circumcised...
(g) the "existential" concerns
for global warming
   and limiting the population
of the world...
  which, in new dehli sounds
a bit like: blah ah ha ha ha ha!
winners all round.

my god, i tried, i tried,
but what became more important,
was regards to how:
i could perfect the most spectacular
failure of myself...

           prostitutes helped...
i tried speed dating once,
let the whole scene with
a room-mate of mine
doing a big-*** L index-thumb
hand signal against his forehead...

     and then i never dated,
i don't actually know what a date
is...
   dating... compared to...
arranged marriage?
      what's that?
   someone revealing themselves
to another person online,
but when there's a need
for conversation,
all the facts are known?
  is, that it?
            
             i thought that profiling
was a repository for intelligence
agencies...
   so... i'd write an internet dating
profile,
    but then revel in any private
information, that would
reveal my personality,
before...
       the wining and dining?
so... what would be the point
of disclosing all the sort of information,
that might be required,
on a date, for the sake of conversation?!

i must be a + + autistic or something,
i skipped the dating apps,
went straight for the company
of prostitutes, passed the priest
and the psychiatrist...
            
  that really was a thai surprise back
in the park...
   how is that "scored"?
   he.... she was somehow a 5...
i figured...
    the lesser the "quality",
the higher the chances for a hard-on's
worth of a madonna-***** complex
antithesis of limp ****...
    implying an *******...

if social media was a "thing"
back in 2007...
and dating apps were a, "thing"
in 2017...
   i've just spent 10 years living
under a rock...
        as rare as it is...
i did the organic scout routine...
never "buy" a *******
for credit, keep everything debit...
and... on the odd occassion
that you chance a ****-buddy
while picking her up from
a public park bench...
                    well...
        
       chances are... you'll come across
a thai surprise.

games have become to represent
coping mechanisms
of... the "old age angst of not getting laid"...
i cared for a while,
then i realised:
surely this must apply to circumcised men,
no?
              why would you feel
****** frustration,
    social anxiety, angst...
    e nomine type of soundtrack?
i can sort of imagine
how paedohpilia arises:
   men, being intimidated by women
their own age...
   i can give you a theory of how
it starts...
       but the end: it always the tender
obvious...
   i once walked behind one...
knowing on outer-suburbian doors...
with one being opened...
a kick to the head...
   the shattered kiddy-****** walked on...
didn't even dial 999
and reported the assault...
       it's funny... how the concept
of law intra-man works,
when the scientific findings
of the medium, the inter-man works...
leave us, at best...
just that... inter-****,
  while the intra-****...
         eh... side note...
            
                       i'm surprised that...
muhammad...
     was a paedo...
      but not an alcoholic...
           i too found it weird that
i automated jerking off aged 8...
      my sister was an alsatian shepherd...
and my brother was a dobermann...

            my dream job,
when, working in a music shop was
disavowed...
   is still working into a slaughterhouse;
and what would possibly be so
"weird" about that?

             dating is such a bad idea
once you've invested an interest
in going to a brothel...
         dating... such an alien concept...
the complete lack
of a transaction clarification
of a date, compared to an hour's
worth spent with a *******?
             it is a "short-cut"...
but i'd also hate to play the "game"
of life...
   dating, i'd much prefer going
to a tailor,
     as i learned from doing
the brothel round...
   first comes the *******,
later the realisation of a turkish barber...

     i skipped that part...
this whole...
   date... etiquette play-thing theatre...
social norms...
   social norms:
i either ****, or i get ******.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
.                      great!
   the spelling
of an "offensive"
word is
more distressing
to you
than a sexualisation
of a naked body...
   page 3
of the sun comes
nowhere the censor
of the word f%%%;
good boy, good girl,
   make sure language
is *****, and that actual
***** is considered
casual-kojak -
    for
the paedo-ring-leaders;
you try
speaking the truth,
i'll deny it...
        first you apply
the decipher in writing
language...
   and attempt to treat
your invented disease
that's dyslexia....
housewife quacks
wishing for a hard-on;
start talking to nuns
and baking cakes...
or do a downer!
   go transgender!
  the nag hammadi "library"
will surely guide you
down the "righetous" path;
the pronouns belong
to me...
   if "she" can make
me believe "she's" a woman,
i will call "him" a she;
d'uh, coming from a mouth
that once said:
  i'd **** anything
                       that moves,
if a "she" can fool a man...
what's the problem?
   are people forgetting that,
to clarify pronouns,
you sometimes have to grate
some article usage?
    there's a indefinite "pronoun"
that fools hetero....
   but there's also the
definite "pronoun" the hetero
man identifies with, and owns
twice-over....
                if a hetero man doesn't
think about ******* you,
sorry... you're like a frankenstein's
monster experiment gone wrong...
or more like igor's monster...
            the rich can have it all...
     the best you can do is internalise
the dysphoria, and wish
   for a lucky lottery ticket,
  or rich grandparents to perfect
the transition,
   that i might sexually consider you
as a woman...
  otherwise?
              let's just say,
that when western society closed
its mental asylums, it created
  its societies in asylums,
   where everyone could
             be considered mentally
ill.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Because you said you're poetry inclined,
And because I have something on my mind,
(Along with the fact I have a long walk home),
I thought it fitting I would write this poem -

To express, permitting it doesn't sound too weird,
(Despite the fact I have a paedo beard),
My joy on bumping into you this night -
A darkish day upon which you made bright.

For, although you joke that bi-annual contact best
To being friends, I do have to suggest
That since I've been back home it's helped a deal
To talk to friends over drinks or a meal

About the seemingly insignificant things.
Nobody appreciates the joy this brings!
To a fool like me, who quite frankly is saved
By hearing how friends have acted or behaved,

Like success in college or thoughts that you are fat
(A ridiculous suggestion - I'll vanquish thoughts of that!)
Because collectively I don't exaggerate,
They have pulled me from Hell's (once soothing) gate...

So, I suppose, I'm trying to say thanks for being a friend
And because I don't see you enough
I feel like I can get away
With acting all gooey and stuff
And, quite frankly, a bit gay.
A poem I wrote for a friend of mine as a bit of a joke/challenge with a long walk home after a great catch-up
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
would you believe it,
but up until very "recently"...
prince was the most
protected by copyright
incentives that couldn't
match anyone...
wanted to watch
   a partyman video:
good luck...
              raspberry beret?
you'd be lucky
with a elevator muzak
"replacement"...
         i guess...
death really does free you
from, all, those,
mundane, constraints....
prince was nowhere
to be found...
sure sure, i'll stream,
then save up,
and, esp. now,
given i own a gramaphone,
sure, i'll buy the vinyl...
but please let me
play the tease...
          what else is made
available on the current,
high-street?
shoes stores,
  gaming stores...
      mobile phone stores...
guess you can't
"napster" the gaming
industry....
   pacman no no...
super mario bros.
double no no...
and it still feels eerie
walking into a supermarket,
when there's
michael jackson playing
in the background...
i was never really a fan...
paedo-up...
  paedo-down...
thank god i bought
the greatest hits
        on 80s silver lining
of a...
does anyone doing
the make-over
to a walkman with
mini-disc players?
           shambles... utter shambles...
well...
why wouldn't it be a vulture
fest whether in journalism
of the critics' shambles
sub-parrot in the whole
medium (of journalism)?
eh music is music is music
isn't some sort of
    a kama sutra "eventuality"...
***: it either happens,
or it... doesn't...
          rough tier around
the prostitutes...
      but when you know you've hit
"home"...
  that scar on your right shoulder
blade?
becomes a tattoo of a dragon
on the right shoulder blade of
the girl you just did it too...
i quiet like when
people elevate the medium
of cipher language,
  to imply where you've been...
and where they
take to make a memory of you
in something transcending
a mere, current,
******* of a (worth of a)
               photograph...
that's nice...
           i like that...
          
revision: it really doesn't count
if you're the person taking
the photograph...
but sure as **** it matters,
when someone takes
a photograph of you...
but given the current climate:
that's going to be, a "slightly",
rare event...

i still keep focusing on "that"
one point of interest /
  historical revisionism...
i.e.: what if...
           men learned to ride
bulls instead of horses,
into a charge?
  what if bulls were elevated
from their domestication
privilege status,
beyond the status of horses?

             i mean...
an army having abled itself
in saddling
a bull rather than a horse?
   i would love to go to that
sort of post-mortem cinema
where other avenues of history
could be screened...

what? hannibal and the (
****... the word just escaped
my mind...
waiting game... "too much"
is going on...
it's related to snails...
trunks, ivory...
       ****... what's that word...)

....................
..................................
ah!                        elephants!

fame...
such an elusive term...
it implies finding
an appeal outside
of the niche audience...

                 and we all know how
that ends up "looking"...
don't we?
               a canopy of ghosts
and greyish mob
               auxiliaries...

           thus said:
to every man who is bound
to finding "something",
he rarely finds it,
tabloid wisdom over 'ere
had to find a coping mechanism
for being forever "undermined"
while sifting through
late 20th century nostalgia...
but, not really
  (the nostalgia bit)...

              came as easily as
remembering black girls
back in school,
      uncurling their sun scortched
twirly locks applying
   vaseline to smooth out
a cow-lick  'air-do.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
learn to keep your head down, and you'll still be able to "say", what the ******* want, me? i'm not talking to anyone, i'm writing doodles on a white flag, i am part of the white flag corp, i write on the colour of surrender (or "islam")... some might think i'm writing black teutonic crosses of northern crusaders, or swastikas, never mind, i'm in an echo chamber of my own doing; should i be found engaging with others, with some of the personnas i incubate, well, not one can trace back the notion, that whoever wrote this, was performing a scaenicus personna, i am but an elephant balancing on a pin, akin to the camel walking through the eye of the needle... such poetics of the new testament are not there to be laid safe in vaults of holiness, they are there: to be overcome.

once again, the ensō concept revived,
whether in poetry or whether in solving a
sūdokú, in one smooth stroke,
   compare the lumbering fate of
****** mary's fate,
   and the smoothness of the guillotine...
in one smooth action...
  the *ensō concept
of writing poetry:
no revisions... not even excusing
the revision of spelling mistakes...
              one smooth stroke...
it's one thing we have lost the art
of hand-writing... for we lost it...
   hand-writing is a lost art,
  how many g.c.s.e. grade Bs or Cs
  could actually be As, if the hand-written
texts were not so nietzschesque in them
being chicken-scratchings?
     the only person i know that had a decent
hand-writing,
   or a style to it, nay, had fathomed the art?
my grandfather...
      by the time my father started writing
he was writing: LIKE THIS.
             everything in capital letters,
welcoming the computer era.
               examination of students should abandon
hand-writing, it's pathetic, it's cruel,
it's not what's required, for an effective
representation...
                     hand-writing was an art,
passed down by monks,
   who re-wrote the same texts, over, and over
again...
   why do i think hand-writing is an art form?
isn't it?
            i look at ancient texts written
by monks... and i might as well be reading
chinese...
               i can't read this ****...
i have to treat it as some sort of chinese / arabic /
or generally speaking: art-work!
to say we've been robbed is one thing,
  but to say we encouraged being robbed
by stressing the modern tongue in :) e.g.,
  or acronyms akin to l.o.l.,
                  ****! i hate laziness asserting itself
as a "new" form of "language",
******* journalism,
           journalists who are parents,
  who deem to celebrate this pathetic,
  this lot of spying on their childrens' online
activities,
   fair game to the kids, for creating
   anti-paedo-membranes of code,
           maybe some will end up working for
the m.i.5, or the n.s.a.,
                                   but...
  how can you malnutrition language like so?
hence the english linguistic desert,
   of proper richtigspreschen:
oh i'm pedantic, you better believe it...
   it happens when the athletic world cup
happens...
     no diacritical marks in english =
                   letters made into surds,
of the latter? gnome... they say it 'nome...
  but then the "anti-thesis" in the word
diagnostic - where the g rebels against
the surd mechanism it's bound to in the word
gnome...
no diacritical marks on letters = letters made into surds;
that's english, in a babushka in a babushka
in a babushka ad infinitum...
    wankers.
there's a reason that serbian long-jumper
has a surname with an s+ a caron...
   it's not - sepuko... it's shepuko (š) -
is that so ****** hard?
                      you can seriously bypass
learning the linguistic alphabet,
  you know the type, the one just below
the word in a dictionary, the whacky one,
with upside-down omegas, and twriling Es,
and what not...
   just speak a language that uses
diacritical marks, and work on the canvas of
a language, like english...
       i swear to god, you'll be able to pick
up several accents along the way...
    people will continue to ask you where
you're from, even though you've spent 20+
years in a "foreign" country...
          that's what english is:
compliments from the chef -
   sure... if we don't apply diacritical marks,
we'll just hide the examples were
surds are...
                and have excess spelling... or?
learn some greek... no, not words, just the letters...
i'm really ******* that i went to a roman
catholic school, and the buggers didn't teach
us any latin... they ought to have...
   thank **** i found a book in the school
library, by some german historian,
   about the "heretical" musings of the gnostics...
yes, the: gnostics... 'nomes go in the garden.
why greek?
     well: #sūdokú - learn the greek alphabet,
   and, well... let's just say it compliments
the kaleidoscope of the numbers, e.g.:

    3 9 1 7 8 4 6 5 2
    5 4 7 6 9 2 8 3 1
    2 8 6 5 3 1 4 9 7
    9 5 4 2 7 8 3 1 6
    7 ε π 4 1 6 5 8 9
    6 1 8 9 5 3 2 7 4
    1 6 5 8 2 9 7 4 3
    8 π τ 9 4 7 1 6 5
    4 7 3 1 6 5 9 2 8....

        once you manage to strain your
eyes on the greek alphabet,
      the strain of numbers in a sūdokú
diminishes...
  you just need a third party source
of encoding...
      well, "need",
   i just figured that if you can see what
ρ is, i.e., an r,
     you might be more likely to spot #
dynamic in the puzzle...
           i.e.

3 ε ε
ε ε ε
ε ε ε
ε ε ε ε ε ε 3 ε ε
ε 3 ε ε ε ε ε ε ε
ε ε ε ε ε 3 ε ε ε
ε ε ε
ε ε ε
ε ε 3.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
by now i know i'm not really
adding much to the narrative -
nothing to: quench the zeitgeist
thrill or: pneumonia...

i cannot offer either an escape
plan or some comforting
trickle of wisdom -
       all the better:
    there's no blatant sentiment
on my part for an escapism -
as there's no fixation
on transcendence -

           same old two variations...
but when i smoke
a cigarette...
and listen to purple people eater -
cockfight...
and there's some bourbon
too...
    well... i bring gravity
to entertain the function
of feet: one minute perched
on a windowsill (clenched
buttocks sitting on a folded
foot... the other dangling) -

with an interlude:
i guess that's how i dance
with gravity -
a centipede on nicotine:
quasi-numbing arithmetic
of: pairs... infinite pairs
of legs...

then sitting in a chair:
crouched like a crow like a priest...
no... not really...
nothing more from me
to sustain this narrative:
elsewhere...
    dasein doesn't even work
on me:
    oh sure... big concern for
big h'america...
         the soviets never made
it: somehow the chinese
played the long-game and
that shitaki hallucinogenic
was brought in on the sly
with a very subtle broth...

       that's all i have... running
dry on prospects for concern...
out of sight: out of mind...

i very much like the idea (and
experience) of being the last
person in the house to deserve
a bed and find sleep...

i am also very thankful that
i am not old...
             and young enough
to not feed into a vanity:
     but when someone might
suggest: this is only a
"word salad"...
           such friendships...
       i guess we were both
competing... ahem... "competing"
"artists"...
   if he could only have said
something more...
last time i checked though...
there was no constructive
criticism...
   nor did he mention any
famous poets...
              we apparently wrote
poetry...
how i might have wanted
to talk to him about some verse...

a fwendship that ended
with: you should title your work...
that psychiatric put-down
the toothless Doug...
             thank god this friendship
didn't end because of money...
or a woman...
instead over a disputed
informality - tact -
          something this trivial:
making the friendship trivial
to begin with...

                 such that be the current
wrath that feeds a speeding up
the death of nostalgia...
          there can be no nostalgia
in rewriting of history:

grandiosity of blistering words...
otherwise it wouldn't be neu-history
would it: something done
by way of arbitrary:
            from the atheist collective
tsunami back to sq. 1 of
the resurgence of the individual:

like, somehow...
the mind is an exclusivity of
genius imposing the rule of thumb...
sometimes though:
it's not even a genius...
   at best it's a veneer masquerade...
teasing tautology...

a beast at the froth...
               base insignia: it's hardly
a black-*******...
it's hardly a glimmering
hammer & sickle...
   it's a greyish stone and scythe...
but it's otherwise: the RED...
primer... and guard...
there was once talk
of the white russians and
the red russians...

       i guess the french will
be forever bleu...
  the cardinals are red...
the bishops don ***** purple...
how for all the meticulous
additions to... "understood"?
we revert back to...
poet of amber poet of red
poet of green...

     ha! amber: reconsider!
waver!
red! full-stop!
    green: which is not blue:
green is also envy...
blue is high values...
   but you'd never... associate
blue with: keep going...
don't stop... even though...
the river is blue: blue as
water in a glass is "blue"...
well... or that the sea is blue...
enough area and depth
and enough of the sun...
the sky is blue...
   the earth is tinged with
green outlets...
otherwise...
cinnamon lives matter?
arabs don't matter...
test of "conscience"...
        
             the flag of estonia...
blue black and white...
the flag of lithuania: yellow,
green and red...
   that prominent arab
countries borrowed
the white red and black
borrowed from the empire prior
to weimar republicanism...

otherwise the ordeal of man-made
laws: one year the vogue -
the next a limping outcast:
a ***** colony starts from
a whipping of jurisprudence...
some said: a new normal...

edward the confessor,
the normans and the anglo-saxon
antithesis horde counter
to: how i find underage girls
unappealing...
how you can only tell:
a girl is not procrastinating
her media influenced ***
when... walking next to her...
is a boy... and he's gaff...
or he's riddling a concept
of a bicycle...
                  but you sort of have
to pair them up...

if i were my old 21 year old self...
and the hormonal fog had
my mind in an iron maiden...
and i was dating locally...
without a plethora of geographical
locations: one girlfriend from
russia... one from australia...
one from france...
some spanish one-night-stand...
a whole bunch of romanian / bulgarian
advert friendly *****...

       colt bite the buck and bucket...
to think of *** like a swan:
settling down... giving her a brand
new kitchen...
a pair of cats to pet...
a very unreasonable son to try to
shake off like a fizz in a drink:
to open a can of coca-cola...
if only later to drink some acid
trip of stale: same partie...

     couldn't the fate of yugoslavia
come face to face with america?
couldn't there be a sedation of states...
if the polish lithuanian commonwealth
could be nibbled out of existence...
by 1, 2, tic-tac-toe partitioning...
if mr gorbachev could fathom:
peacefully: (a) ukraine...
estonia... lithuania... the kazakh bazar...

couldn't... the great american
juggernaut leave room for interpretation
as to how there might have to
be sedition states?
solo texas...
the north east coast could
write a constitution of the states
of sedation...
it's not like america could ever
become: wholesome... rye glamours...
and remain intact: that it could!
it could! for the desires of
nostalgic posterity...
   unlike the grinding blunder...
some minor concept of:
"nation"-        or    -"state"...

    past the calorie mark...
ingesting the liquidrice like maple like
crude moon-shim-shimminy-sheen:
glued teeth together and:
breaks the bone...
having to crease the pain...
and differentiate...
otherwise:
a flamboyant: tibia...
walked a dog on a leash
that was also (once) a hangman's noose...
and he barked and jazzed a rhapsody
of barking like there's no analogy for
tomorrow!

no clue in on the game of:
statutes... law...
      or synonyms...
           discretion of proofs -
             cold core concept of...
that there was an idea of
sniffing *******:
when in fact... Kiev youths
boast of sniffing glue...
              
        because i couldn't possibly...
leverage an act...
if i were 34 and she was 21...
and... oh... right...
the fetish of the forbidden is missing...
esp. in the digital medium:
because when flesh is imposed
upon flesh: and there's no...
hormonal aurora...
           the kids keep their bias...
jokes work best...
              some fake some russian
trucker...
and some parents who sought
justice: **** and club of metal over
the head...
               thus?! pristine and
spaghetti retro-flex...
spinning and spasms extra...

          that man achieved poetry
and nuance of language:
that some words don't aid... vectors...
that the ego is no ******* compass...
copernican "west"?
in the geocentric dimension...
which is still somehow needed...
otherwise? dream-big!
heliocentrism and science-fiction!

- to sort of tinker with a layer of man's
laws... and there's gravity...
and then to ***** oneself with
a constellation:
because the united could
never be as united as the yugoslav
project: post-scriptum
of the ottoman barber shop...

   spooked bosnians: best beloved
little europe avenue
gashing with pauper blood
of aristocrats of burgundy...
the biggest shame came...
when the blood was gushing
from the guillotine:
no one held an adventure into
the jesus christ metaphor...
no one sparked a drunkard ****
of wine gurgling...

to read the law:
somehow to read the thesaurus...
balance bonkers of the synonym nuance...

or that other myopic extreme:
some john dillinger,
some greater extremity of new yorker
blues:
new york is like anything
beside this standard of new amsterdam...

shooting dogs that aimed
at skipping: three legged...
unless that debilitating quote from
mary shelley...
and how the monster:
proteus or caliban...
          in name alone...
was to cite...
                           tectonic urges...
that there was a mr. caliban
and a mrs. caliban...
          but that there's also
a neuter lobster: ****-frenzy...

           right now: to want to live in
america... to want the custard...
the fudge and marshmallow...
to rewrite new york
like: a bunch of people who
love to eat in: who can cook...
and the restaurant is...
    an overcooked platter of veggies...

the edible gurgling of
post ad hoc lawyers...
               postmodernism of:
that / this disused hammer without
layers and tiers of nails born
toward tables and stables...

no new bogus prospect:
twisting original narratives:
some cite dementia prone
quid pro quo(tas)...
                      this ordeal of...
heaping together limbo:
EISENHOWER:
            no ad lib. / verbatim:
        we will not churn out
tea-leaves made into chewing gum...
then we will!
find! the lost avenue!
of! digest-able chewy-chow-some!

- then we bring in the saxons-anglicised...
and treat them to some disney...
we'll subsequently huddle
imitating hebrews:
like the briton mongrels
we are... we probably are a people
of polyglots and polymaths...
but under the present guise of
history:
we are celts and we are britons...
there was the saxon invasion...
there were the viking raids...
there was the norman revision...

            we the people...
of the afghanistan of the north: minding
arthur and "king"...
we're not celts... unless having lived
in scotland:
one might tell the difference
when someone accents the Gaelic theta:
as a surd H... **** a t'ought...
    apostrophe (') = surd...

         edinburgh nicknamed
athens of the north...
st. petersburg / amsterdam are both...
venice of the north...
of the former: seat of learning...
i never like david hume's black swans...
and if nietzsche is
to make critique of kant:
i.e. kant being the "philosopher"
of bureocrats....

how does: the will to power end up?
despotic bus drivers...
POWER! with a missing will...
yes... the most ordained with
a silent mind are currently served up
teases of tension...
POWER!
  the bus driver is currently being
served up a placebo amphetamine
cocktail...
he or she... can gesticulate
at a heaven: deus est persona non grata...

the facemask "riddle":
power to the cogs...
leaving the sigma of the machinery
in tatters...
otherwise... a slowing-down mechanism...
POWER!
       nietzsche is more
a power-broker... a philosopher
of daydreams and the overt-exercise
of futility than Kant would ever become...

the bus driver... oh how i wished
to heave a career of... winding clocks...
daydreaming in automaton mode...
but now... POWER!
however futile...
however that's ambitious in
continental thought...
on these shores it has to receive
a new baptism of that...
*******... pragmatism!

           niqab star of david attache...
the surgical face mask:
the will to: what was forever available:
petty power...
limiting hierarchies:
unit... power...
power disguise... power of the drone
chant...
           chatter...
power towing limbo!

  otherwise... kept guilty secret...
50ml of bourbon with some variant "contra"
of butter scotch biscuits...

  but there are the POWER brokers...
what belittling POWER gains...
and oh! god and the devil's
******* and pair of *******...
                                how power can
be exercised by bus drivers
when... commuters are exacted
with face masks...
to stipend them with...
   a nuanced basis for discrimination...

trigger-happy devoid or...
what's the difference
between a bunch of autists...
and sociopaths / psychopaths?

what's the difference
between an autist and a sociopath?
a schizophrenic
sitting in between...

that i am? or merely: bilingual?
america is bilingual ready!
y'um hum hummatie y'ah!

napoleon and the grief of height:
when the dating market evaluation is
strictly: poisoning a borrowing
of feuds: borrowing a friend of a friend of
a friend... and that:
stitching of a cow -
having excavated the stomach
for the ergonomics of a hot-air balloon...

because i had to be the bilingual
the only child freak-oh...
         in the currency of the cited "times"...
this is not a time: this is a space...
a space is congested with such
a people...
but a time... a time would be congested
with: the Pre-Raphaelites...
a time could be congested with such...
but we're talking about a space congestion...
a ****** riddle of a rubber without
skin...
             because there's... science fiction
and... SPACE...
as there's the "will" to POWER...
and there will always be...
the busdriver who doesn't enjoy
driving a bus... because...
there's the forever new rubric of:
keeping up with a best
forgotten attention & span...

         ode to lionel nation -
unlike speaking to my grandfather
strapped to a dementia
riddle cinema of memory:
that there is a cinema of memory...
that there's a concept of:
lukewarm drunk...

that there's a basic of:
yes... i know the best of my life...
memories borrowed from
aeons ago should the collective present
hindering my selfish pursuit
demand as too bourgeoisie:

******* anti-****
primo leisuring...
some old variant some
pseudo Yorick...
         m'ah neu adventure to
somehow tow Fwýday...
that the Vandals never came:
bilingual...

              extensive research
into the communist doctrine
of the: ******-rite of passage:
the omni-
nerve-ending focus of attention
15 minutes to a span....
          
borrowed themes...
the same sort of agriculture...
in the back of my mind:
worship Warsaw...
pursue a sacrificial "lamb":
tease the paedo-dodo project...
of man and king john and...
whatever is a best nuance...

      WE HAVE SUCH FORMAL
TONGUE RIDDLES
TO CHOKE ON...
BSM YOUR WORTH
A LEATHERY-SNIPPET...
i hold sway on "leather"
that's... cow intestines...
trollop...
            a beheaded gorgon
of slippery "details"..
    
   i want to catch the posture
of when english becomes
mongol...
Ukrainian riddled...
           this tongue requires
of itself to be... loaned!
completely!
                 my humble Kiev...
my Ukrainians
born drunk
at the Warsaw West... junction...

looks like the intelligence
of the western world:
can't sell words of Orestes...
implying one might have just read
a nibble...
bo boast!
the dot dot... and farming new!
nuanced: punctuation markers!

the thrill...
of having to ascend...
the morning...
knowing too well...
how the air is scented...
when prior the air was
ravaged by rain...
the details are left in the abstract:
whatever reality is yours!
it's yours...
it your new dead-red
project of... excating Beijing...

bewildering...
how i never settled on
sedating the English
with a blues: Somalian;
   n'est ce pas?

it never rains nor does it shine...
it's never culprit:
it's never simply canadian:
post-nationalistic in europe:
albeit a post-nationalism
of the state-collected...
"europe":
how... the greeks are...
some variations of turkish...

i'm not here: the hagia sophia
is also a...
what is it?
byzantine constipation /
                  leveraging pride
gimmick...
                         esque special
some variant of conundrum...
           mein auch!

                 i'd like to stroke a horse's mane...
like i might...
yet still find "unfathomable"
to leave comparisons with...
a violin detail.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
idle hands fit for the devil to do his bidding...
perhaps i'll write some more
so more and the devil will come to the fore...
he might just come with
smoke and mirrors: hardly any fire...
smoke and mirrors: hardly any fire...
he might just come with
smoke & mirrors to the fore...
who wouldn't have forgotten
to shave or... for that matter: bring some
sulphuric stink and some: farting-ire...

so i've just changed my bicycle tyre...
yep... i've just change my bicycle
tyre and the inner tube too...
so i've just changed my bicycle tyre
and the inner tube too...
and... well: how mighty these idle
hands now seem...
well: how mighty these idle hands now
seem...

i've saved up about 20 quid's worth
of someone's labour...
but i've also spent us much...
on the necessary parts...

but... but... it's so much more...
when you can cook your own curry
instead of falling back on an Indian take-away...
when you can cook your own curry
instead of falling back on an Indian take-away...
pizzas too: dough with yeast:
grows it grows: it makes it sing!
hey, just listen: jovial fat man sings...
the yeast will make the flour
the sugar, water & a pinch of salt
rise! rise! rise!

- if it's not the pied piper taking the rats
out of town...
it's this best only imagined:
jovial fat man making the yeast
           rise...
he might even:
   play along with king  Solomon's con-tem-
                                                    +            -plation
of the ant... busy yeast busy ants:
the jovial fat man sang
and up up: the dough rose!

throw me a black cardamom grenade!
throw me a black cardamom grenade!
i'll forever make this work:

i have: an arsenal of Indian spices
that could compete with
the Russian or the US stockpile of
nukes...
i have: an arsenal of Indian spices
that could compete with the Russian &
the US stockpile of nukes...

knock knock: who isn't there:
knock knock... the echo... the echo isn't there...
keep up: lyrics... repeat repeat to
keep the rhythm: pink-oi(nk)-poignant...
any blessed fate of deep-fried onion
rings...
one two one two: the same sound
of a rubber ball against a brick wall...
jesus take one: on a cross...
take two on a horse...
jesus dying an old man...
hey! Zeus! you were him too?!

any idiot is supposed to ride a donkey
byway of: back a warding off...

oh look... lyricism was going to swell...
i was almost: "grifting"?
well... good luck writing lyrics
for anything beside
the one time Beethoven managed to write
the music for the lyrics...

not originally Friedrich Schiller's...
whatever the dispute was...
one was deaf... the other blind?

ode to "freedom": what which i might
enjoy last: what's leftover...
what i can have while the forerunners
have exhausted...
and will never find my own...

i was never good at keeping it:
"geometrically": compact...
i was always found to digress even when
i were to finish something with
a promise for lyrics:
i would devolve the lyrics into...
a "word salad" narrative...
all the better... i'm not rhetorician...
i'm not journalists...
if i haven't made any more from my
work...
then... obviously i'm no Salvatore Garau
who just auctioned a $18,300 sculpture...

what's the point of money: if... you don't
want to spend it?

sentiments for all those hijab-clad girls...
when a common reaction comes in the form:
there's... a hair... in my soup...
there's a hair in my soup!
almost akin to: there are some nail-clippings
in my soup... there's a fly in my champagne flute!
in defence of hair?
really... that's all there was: to begin with?
men would never be allowed to grow their hair
long? they would all be bald?
why is it a defence of hair...
a man can shave his head
and present himself with a bald head:
but a goat's beard...

em... there's a hair in my soup?
ugh! the immediate response...
someone was toying with their *****...
there's a nail-clipping...
it's one thing: and i've seen it:
muslim girls donning white-hijabs
in the street... fair enough...
Japan is an island... they're experiencing
record high-levels of... heat... humidity...
England is an island...
we share the same longitude... platitude...

it's a ******* island...
why is having "hair" somehow deemed as
"****"? what's this outdated model
to do with, herr moi?!
hair... what if i'm into shortcut pixie-dream
girl memorabilia?
what if i want to be a man:
and have long hair while i want
her to be short-cut?
Woad princess of the raven hairs: clipped
to a crew-cut... with feathers of tease
ruining my balance as i regroup?!

come to think of it...
what are these two jugs of the female ****...
but only two nibbles: of *******?
why can't i start imagining...
the cow's sack of the mono-***
with multiple *******?
if everything is to made to blatantly:
******* apparent!

i seriously turn into a quasi-paedo
when watching the gymnastics...
then again i correct myself:
i like to stand corrected...
give me anything voluptuous...
fully grown: a mandible beauty of the body...
stash the used-parts...
i'll be happy to watch rust overgrow them...

i've ****** a ****** once...
never... ever... again...
i've seen the mirror imposed...
three incisions into my body with a "***** worthy"
clarification of a knife...
on the right side: just above my collar-bone...
under my right-arm-pit...
where the tętno protrudes... pulse...
and one smooth stroke into the neck...

then to finish it all off...
somewhere in the confiscates of the abdominal
region...
by now... i'm best teasing...
in my 35 years lived...
claiming a marathon riddled with
dementia and bad to worse teeth
aged 70: life expectancy doesn't really
bother me:
i've seen what old age does...
it does very little to proof-read past
deeds with a substance of immunity
from the harrowing...

for those that might mind:
death of glorious relief!
however the life was spent...
either is the exercise of the body...
or the exercise of the mind:
whether in the limelight or
whether in the footnotes ...

it might just rain... while i take to the field...
i'm hardly going to yield a harvest
from it: perhaps an odd thought...
but what's a "thought" these days?
it's not a moral-ought-i nor
a moral-ought-i-not...
i think for a something of a burden:
when once i thought for a cogito-per-se...
i thought for the sake of thinking...
there was no "ingenious" inversion"
ascribed to Nietzsche that i might:
be... therefore to think: a machine of thinking?

i don't think Descartes would allow
himself to be justified: i exist in order
to (merely) think...
he just posited: oh... i suppose i think...
suppose i am too... towing along...
but Nietzsche had to focus on the: denken: arbeit!

how much can one "think" before:
Descartes would call me from the grave and
tell me to invoke the counter to: res cogitans:
imploring me: mention: res vanus! mention
res vanus! the empty thing...
the sensual creature! the creature
who absorbs cursors! motives... motifs...

****'s sake... sum ergo cogito...
well then... if you are... Nietzsche...
where was your... *******... lightbulb?
same as me... although i find minor concerns
best targeted...
what example? i'm pretending to be deaf...
oh... you know... the vampire of brooklyn...
Albert Fish... Fitsch... sticking needles
into his pelvis before being electrocuted...

philosophers: alias to...
fan-boys spinning narratives of artists...
the subjective-object...
the objective-subject... blah blah...
the gymnast who is fudge-packaged body
without the height of a swimmer Olympian...
i must say... beside the women...
the male swimmers still hold the highest
aesthetic for a male body: exemplar...
above every, other sport...

i drink to excess: therefore:
i have a slightness to excess in a "stomach ache"...
what... in between not having
a war to wage... too much competition...
me suckling up to the sleep of
PHENERGAN... no alcohol...
and me drinking some alcohol
and succumbing to some... APAP...
and some anti-inflammatory NAPROXEN...

it's not a fair competition for sucky-sucky...
is... it? it's not a fair competition
when within the confines of: said:
competition... there are so many...
ailing... exemplars of supposed
zenith ambitions...

while i wallow in the crustaceans nibbling...
itch itch some more...
nibble itch... itch some more...
i've learned a lesson of patience that
overcomes all that's...
necessarily... of such strong stock of body...
but with a feeble mind...
thank god i've been patient...
brain as chemical soup...

at what point am i to be excused
not remembering my 20s?!
now?
is this the right time to cash in on the hovering
gimmicks worth of chips & slabs?
a litany of: when i was...
but no one was bothered to
watch?!

what love i had...
what love i could have worshiped...
each letter... each letter guided toward
constructing a word... each word
with each and every punctuation marker...
added marker: with diacritical scrutiny...
will be... aided... with nothing short
of: oh no... no evil... nothing associated
with: d(evil) to do evil...
rather..            malice... irksome... bothersome...
little... fidgety awe...

i want to be something: belittling... nothing:
awe inspiring... i could have been...
once... the world made it obviously:
fair... fair to me...
goodness is ridiculed and waiting for
the slaughter of those having made it to old age...

a daughter will.. estrange herself from her
mother... my mother... my grandmother...
over how my grandmother kept the death
of her father: my grandfather... a secret for almost two
months... while my uncle: her brother: her son...
somehow knew all about the deterioration...
two days prior only i found about him being
subjected to a hospice...

AND ME... REPRODUCE?!
START A FAMILY!
I'VE BEEN TASKED WITH COUNTING
WHAT MARBLES I HAVE LEFT...
I'M TO BIND MYSELF WITH CONCERNS
FOR "HEALTH": THE "MIND":
WHILE ALL THESE SEEMINGLY...
PONTIUS PILATE CRITTERS...
WALK... SCALD-FREE!
DICTATING WHO REQUIRES
THE PSYCHIATRIC BRAIN CHEM-SOUP...
SO THEY CAN KEEP A ******* HARD-ON?!

it would truly require me to...
take the most... freely accessible... nonsense:
*****-nilly solipsist of the bunch
to the slaughter... and they wouldn't even know...

this "poetry": this civilization can die...
die a dog's death...
but it won't die a "dog's" death...
it'll die a death of man...
under the umbrella branch of mulattos...

there's no longer a crucified centre to hold it...
the tide has come...
the fire is gluttonous.... yes...
there's no longer a crucified centre to hold it...
the tide has come...
the fire is gluttonous.
Big Virge Jul 2021
Now I’m A LYRICAL GUERRILLA... !!!
Who’s A VERY DEEP THINKER... !!!
  
So Am NOT Some *******...
Like That Paedo’ Gary Glitter... !!!
  
Or The Type Who Beds SISTERS... !?!
Because What Kind of Heart...
Would Tear Sisters APART...
To Fulfil Their ****** Needs... ?!?
  
Like Some Kind of HUNGRY MONKEY...
That LACKS... MORALITY... ?!?
  
Now By Sisters I Mean...
Those Who Are Part of The SAME FAMILY... !!!
  
Because Those Kind of Antics...
Are Those QUICKLY Redacted...
  
By Guerrillas Like ME... !!!
Because I’m NOT Like These FIENDS... !!!
Cos’ I’m A DIFFERENT Kind of Breed... !!!
To Those Who Choose To Feed...
  
Like Count Drac’ And His Team... !!!
of Bloodsuckers Who Seem...
To Be The Type Who Lead...
... And Run Societies... !!!
  
So My GUERRILLA Tactics...
Feed LYRICAL LASHINGS...
That I Give Through Poetry... !!!
  
Because I’m LYRICALLY...
… MORE DANGEROUS... !!!
Than These Young Emcees...
Who Just Chat BREEZE...
To Earn Themselves Money... !!!
  
Who Show WAYWARDNESS...
And Degrees UNLIKE The THREE...
  
You See My Verse INDEED...
Is VERSATILE And DEADLY... !!!
  
So I’m More Like A KONG...
Whose Lyrically STRONG... !!!
  
So DO NOT Belong...
In A World of Shapeshifters... !!!
  
Where Those Enlisted...
Are Regularly... ******... !!!
It Seems By Shirt Lifters...
And Monetary Grifters...
Who Run From TRUE Guerrillas... !!!
  
Whose Form of Lyricism...
Is Simply Too HARD HITTING... !!!
  
Because Their Breed Is WEAK... !!!
So Employ DEVIOUS Ways  ...
To Keep Their Puppets CAGED...
As Well As Lyrically TAME...
As Long As They SEE FAME... !!!
  
But REAL Guerrillas...
... DON’T Walk That Way... !!!
  
They Walk In Ways Too STRAIGHT...
For The World... TODAY...
Where Groups Now DICTATE...
What Entertainers Say... !!!
  
Well REAL GUERRILLAS AREN’T Willing...
To Be TAMED And Placed...
In Places Where They Lay...
Like PROSTITUTING Dames... !!!
  
Because Our Lyrics DISPLAY...
Wordplay That SHAKES...
And DECIMATES These Fakes... !!!
  
And PUSSYHOLES...
Who Are CONTROLLED... !!!
  
Like Robots Being Made...
To Patrol And Act Like They...
Can Pretend To Be HUMANE... !?!
  
It’s CRAZY Now To SEE...
How WEAK Most People Be... !!!
  
While Protests Make Some Feel...
As If They’re Being REAL... !!!
  
When... Most of Them...
Are Part of THE PROBLEM... !!!
  
Because They’ve SHUNNED GUERRILLAS...
Until Their NON EXISTENT... !!!
  
Because This New Breed...
DOESN'T Seem To See...
That New Technology...
Can **** INDISCRIMINATELY...
And Face NO PENALTIES... !!!
  
Just Like TODAYS Police... !!!
  
Who Now DON’T Seem To Be...
So Willing To Police The Streets... !?!
  
Because of... The Disease...
That Corona CANNOT Beat... !!!
  
The DISEASE of FALLACIES...
And IGNORANCE That’s Reached...
  
LEVELS... Now BEYOND BELIEF... !!!
  
Which Is Why BIG VIRGE...
Is A Wordplay KILLER...
  
Who Can ONLY Be DEFINED...
  
As A.....
  
.... “ LYRICAL GUERRILLA “....
This, I have become.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
simple...
  the 3Ps...

                   priests,
psychiatrists,
              prostitutes...

i went to one
by mandatory
standards
of going
through
a catholic education
system...

proud moment:
played
a xylophone
   in a nativity
play...
so no,
i clearly wasn't
the dumb
kid who played
Joseph
and ranted
some *******...

back of the bus...

psychiatrist?
oh yeah...
  the usual cocktail
of mind-numbing drugs...
i was "discharged"
from seeing one,
was never admitted
to a mental institution,
told one i read Kant
and, like her,
i too was a fan-girl
of r. d. laing...

ha ha... fan-girl...
you get the idea...

but then the, lucid
moment... a *******...
**** me...
      that's a *******
snowball in and of itself:
effect...

      which made me question...
Jack the Ripper's intentions...
why prostitutes?
what so bad
about prostitutes...
when... clearly...
they can replace
both the priest
    and the psychiatrist?

2 birds, 1 stone...
psychiatry: pandering
to what?
   chemical juice of the brain?
my so called
i.q. soup?
   yeah... thanks...

  priest...
       pandering to what?
the priest's *******
voyeurism?
    confession is about
giving him a hard-on
while i'm strapped
to an oyster digesting
my *****?
thanks...
   but i think i'll keep
the testicles,
as i've rarely noticed:
the pope can keep
his castrato choir
and paedo-fiddly-bits...
as the sheikh
the harem of bored
    lazing akin to female
seals...
   in need of: less *****...
but as insurance...
   a castrated male...

bit off too much
to actually chew, yes?

well...
  that's why i was left
with the third P
  of the PPP of society...
a *******...
  such responsible creatures,
one even told me
that she goes
to the doctor for regular
s.t.d. checks...
no problem with using
a rubber...
hell...
   i'm not circumcised...
   so when i imitate
a circumcised *****...
i also don a c-ring on the tip...

plus side...
   i don't have to feel
guilty about jerking off...
favorite videos?
eh... you know...
the usual...
   a girl doing the same...
on the opposite
side of the screen...
but for me...
no bed, toy, scented
candles...
   when i'm,
and i'm always doing
it on the throne of thrones
it eases up my
**** when i'm slightly
constipated.

the holy trinity,
doing no. 1,
       no. 2 and no. 3...

and not once,
not even once...
  well... once...
when i forgot to trim
my ***** hair
and asked her to just
smooch...
   not a single time
had i ******* issues...
you should have
asked me about
Tamara...

living with three homosexuals,
who wanted to do it
blind drunk under
the bedsheets,
who later had a bath with
me... who later dumped me...
picked up on a random
night out to Shoreditch...

well... yeah...
didn't have an *******...
but seriously...
cocoon ***?
  under the bedsheets?
and all the lights off?
it became too much
of the unbearable lightness
of being
scenario
as to whether:
  no... **** with your eyes
open, yes,
  kiss with
         your eyes closed...

so she ****** off to Ibiza,
as she said,
  "looking for love"...
while i ****** off
to a park, and a bench,
   and a decent amount
of beer,
   being approached
by a man who showed
me a mathematical
magic trick,
   and lamented how
he was living with a woman
who was allowing
their son to smoke
dope freely
   and that it was turning
the boy psychotic...
and it was...
the most unusual part
of London, south of ol' Thames...
close to the Oval ground...

and...
tragically...
you're reading this,
   and have realised
                   there's a 4th P.
Oh yeah I am not crazy
Oh yeah I am not crazy
Even if I used to do the bbq
At the footy as a volunteer
I didn’t care if I had money
Just wanted to bbq at the footy
You see I wanted to change myself
From being a problem person
To a mature adult
And I wanted everyone at the footy
To talk to me the way they spoke
To my mate Patrick
I wanted to be like Patrick
I Koke I should be myself
But I wanted to be like Patrick
He used to like to help people
But he was different because
He wanted money
I just wanted everyone to like me
Because I was such a fucken ****
As a kid
I fought my dad when he tried to help me
I argued with my brother
Even if he helped me too
So I volunteered everywhere
At the footy Aussie rules and soccer
And I worked at vinnies where every Christmas I was Santa Claus
Because I wanted to say sorry to the kids for being nasty
I gave them lollies and I gave them teddy bears
But I ain’t a paedo I just want to be normal
I volunteered at the masters games
And I met dawn fraser
I was in a beard not knowing
How to use a razor
I believe I was Santa in my previous life I had a home in Antarctica before
Athena sent the blizzard
I wanted to be liked by the adults
I wanted to be like Patrick and my dad
I wanted to joke around with workers
I wanted to have fun at Christmas parties and dress up as Santa for the kids like a normal helpful man
I wanted my dad to treat me like a normal person
I worked at the rainbow
Which is a place for the mentally ill
In Canberra
I cooked for them
I washed up
Took out the trash
Writing poetry
All for no pay
It was a volunteer job
I enjoyed it it was fun
I went on holidays where I was
Known as their little helper
I also was known as the little helper at the footy
I wanted to work but I found paid work hard because they are strict and
Harsh I can’t cope with the people saying work harder
I have never got paid for my acting gigs and poetry slam as well
But I want a proper job hopefully o will do the same and get money
Rather than selling my art at trash and trash and treasure that will make art un fun
And I want life to be fun
I wanted to be nice
I was getting fitter for no money
But I actually had a life
I want a normal job
Rather than take fucken orders for people for art
That takes the fun out of art
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
the popes are old... the poets are old...
the psychiatrists are at best
nuances...
and the ******...
well... they always dare to sing:
sweden is by lost begotten
            primer for nostalgia spring!
i tend to... forget...
what people had... a use for...
priests for...
           unless of course... the people...
always required:
paedo-bait...
in the casual sense of:
always wanting to go... fishing!
a priestly class...
   in... an aztec society...
that... didn't fit the bill...
that couldn't perform...
  the testcile-workout of...
the "immobile" man...
   this... socially accepted...
secular / catholic...
                 i'm not actually "here":
i'm in a somewhere that's a somewhat...
in a variation of heidegger's
dasein via: there's being...
sure! i don't want to meddle
myself with direct consequence of:
a there... and... a being.
the direct connotations are
too...
        who would ever require
a priestly caste that's only
managed via a dough of scrutiny?
the cats are scrutinised
as forever lazy... forever asleep...
that they probably are...
but it's not like
a priest is a substitute for
a ******* shaman...
so! let! us! loiter!
let us! craft! a new! beer!
from crow-blood!

— The End —