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Terry Collett Dec 2014
The walk
from Peckham Rye
train station
to my aunt's
is quite a trek,
but Lydia and I
set off along
Rye lane.

Never been here before,
Lydia says.

I been here tons of times;
I was born up the road.

What this road?

No, at the hospital
nearby.

She has a thinness
about her,
her lank hair is caught
by the sunshine.

We pass by shops
and cross side streets;
pass people shopping.

Dad hates shopping,
Lydia says,
he says it's a ****
of a game,
worse than kissing
his boss's backside.

She laughs;
a link of light
brightens up
her eyes;
there's a hint
of beauty
about her.

Your mum
wasn't too keen
on you going with me,
I say.

Anything that hints
of spending money
and she's up in arms;
she wouldn't care
if I went
with the milkman
as long as he paid.

We walk on
and down a street
that leads
to my aunt's place;
the shops have gone now,
just houses and flats.

I heard your old man
singing in the Square
the other night,
I say,
drunk as a lord.

I know, I heard him, too,
Mum wasn't none
too pleased;
she dragged him in
and gave him her tongue;
I couldn't marry
a man like that;
does your father drink?

No, only the odd pint
or port at special times.

We pass a dog peeing
against a wall;
it wags its tail
as it runs off
down the road
leaving a pyramid shape
of wetness behind.

My brother Hem does that,
Lydia says,
***** ***.

There is an aspect
of light
when she's angry,
like a birth
of a new world.

Is your dad Irish?
he seemed to be singing
an Irish song
the other night?

No, he always sounds Irish
when he's drunk,
like he sounds Welsh
when he's sober.

She holds my hand
as we cross a busy road;
it's thin and bony;
I feel it
with my thumb
as we walk along,
her bony knuckles;
I squeeze it gently
and she softly
chuckles.
A NINE YEAR BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
you can undercook pork - a little bit of pink
is rather - favourable -
you can undercook beef - a little bit...
let's go full bleu: which has a name... pittsburg
blue...
but please don't slaughter the cow,
send it to the butchers for the cuts...
and then shame it by cooking it well done...
thrice the cow thus dies...
aside from... fish...
well...
i was never a fan of chicken *******...
because whenever someone cooked them:
i.e. my mother - they tended to be... dry...
chicken drum-sticks and the almost grey area
of muscle flesh close to the bone -
these days? the former schnitzel fan has
become a chicken roulade fan...
because the stress for 165°F - and 5 minutes
worth of rest... for the cooked meat...

Ciara - another daughter of U Kʼux Kaj -
she can still be felt in the early night
when walking the streets...
some storms never reach essex -
and that's probably why i decided to grow
my beard long - to feel it combed
by the wind... this elongating chin to match
the moon's scythe -

point being... cooking chicken is unlike cooking
beef or pork... because...
well beef is born from blood -
in the body of another -
the mother - the pork is born from blood -
in the body of another - the mother...
you can undercook it... most certainly:
esp. the beef...
trouble with chicken: is the trouble
with undercooking fish...

to perfect the cooking of chicken meat...
is very much like cooking the perfect
soft-boiled egg...
you want the yoke to be runny...
and the white to be a: ścięte białko...
a coagulated white...
it's quiet amazing how chicken meat
behaves like the egg - the protein
in the atom -
how you have to mind cooking chicken:
for that juicy chicken breast roulade -
in the same way as minding a soft-boiled
egg...

i've never noticed this...
apparently that's the glaring obvious...
it always was!
beef you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
pork you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
chicken? you can only cook it perfectly
or overcook it...
undercooked chicken is a bit like...
finding a raw scallop nugget kiev-esque
in your chicken -

perhaps because: we can eat a poultry abortion:
the egg -
that i forgot or never minded to think:
the meat will behave like the egg -
the protein is borderline with seafood...
after all.. the birds are fish with wings...
that we managed to domesticate
a wolf and breed it with a dingo
and give it a bark...
how did we pluck the hawk from the sky
and gave it marching orders among
the strutting gehenna-game of the wehrmacht
with the geese...

i have no "beef" with the british and their past...
how many zulus became slaves?
hot topic...
if only a people were as fortunate -
not to be landlocked -
the last known invasion dates back to
1066 - nothing is spoken about the ottoman
empire or the mongol empire at the gates...
perhaps other people too...
could have their idle -
and been left to their own devices...
their high tea and all sort of *******...
but i'll still bemoan that...
this language does not have any orthography...
but it does have: n'dubz...
and a york-shyre from peckham and the rest...

- you simply can't undercook chicken...
you can either cook it to perfection...
or overcook... anything undercook is not going
to be eaten!
an undercooked chicken breast roulade?
that's scallop nugget in a kiev-esque chicken..
but why didn't i see it sooner...
how chicken meat would behave like
the egg when it was being cooked?
after all... what becomes of the yoke
when translated into the full-grown chicken?
the internal organs? the bones?
i'm pretty sure the egg-white translates into
the skeleton...
and the bones? it's not like the egg-shell
implodes...

in my hand i hold a chicken's egg:
a poultry abortion...
in my hand, also... a babushka doll...
this: little matron... бaбушкa...
because who would have thought that...
cooking the perfect chicken roulade...
would be akin to... 15 minutes extra...
when working from a soft-boiled egg...
oven-baked of course...
prior to the skin needs to be butter-fried...
and you can't enjoy
a chicken's neck... if it's not poached...
too many bones: not enough meat...
the neck of the chicken needs to poached...

again: one feels inclined to stress the importance
of curating the meat: curing it is one "thing"...
but it's almost an art...
as long as you respect the meat...
i find that most vegeterians or vegans
become thus...
because they have not learned to respect
the meat they're about to eat...

beef you can undercook... the sooner you do so...
the less chance that you'll butcher a second time
with a well-done: eating sand...
wishing it was poppy-seeds itching at the gums
between your teeth...

to respect the meat is to also bite off the heads
of the bones... for the over-cooked marrow...
i once held 30 or so poultry hearts in a cusp of hands...
hands prior to romeo & juliet's amen and kiss...
before i imagined what 30 hearts would otherwise
look like: if i was given the remaining body parts...

or 30 poultry stomachs readied for the broth...
with groats...
i too would become a vegeterian...
if the only chicken ******* i ate in my life
were: usually over-cooked...
dry... simulating imitation cheese
and chalk... the sort of meat: overcooked...
whereby your teeth start to experience
protein glue... and it's hard to pull the jaw
from the skull apart...

i have mentioned pittsburg blue, haven't i?
you can undercook beef and pork...
but you can't undercook chicken...
now unless you want to encounter
a pocket of a raw scallop sensation...
a chicken has to be treated as well as an egg...

most of the time you need to undercook
beef and pork...
but chicken requires...
oh glory be to the poached egg on toast...
the scrambled eggs undisturbed fried on
some pork dewlap...
when you can tell the difference between
the yoke and the whites...

such a versitile creature - this domesticated
hawk... this chicken marshal...
this would be cannibal... i've seen how one
becomes butchered with an axe -
one chicken, one axe - on stump of wood...
the rolling eyes of the decapitated...
the other chickens didn't mind...
they'd run up to the altar with the running
blood of rivers making letter markings
on the woody crumble...
and drink the blood... peck at left-over
flesh from the decapitation...

"gender expressions"... and... what's that?
leftover grammar from french...
translated from inanimate objects:
as being either endowed with a phallus
or a floral pattern -
but in english almost all objects of worded
interaction are gender-neutral!

native tongue "endowement"...
słońce - sun - is feminine...
księżyc - moon - is masculine -
krzesło - chair - i'm siding with masculine...
stół - table - that's clearly "gender neutral" /
alias: hermaphrodite... alias for the *******...
son / daughter of Aphrodite...
kamień - stone - masculine...
góra - mountain - feminine...

and so the heavens opened and became:
short on breath and soul...
the groundwork of earth...
the earth itself... started to nibble
on the delicacy of feet - the wind whispered...
and the echo: and the footsteps...
and the dutch clank convened and called it:
marriage!

how grammar transcended casual english
usage... how it bypassed orthography...
how it never attained orthography...
oh yes... the russian have it...
but... who would have expected it...

n'est ce pas?

what was once the gestalt primer...
that became a rorschach test...
i say: it's either a ink-blotch of a pelvis or a moth...
but with regards to the selfie:
i always require two mirrors...
i still remember the days when someone
would take a photograph of you being:
oblivious...
as if god: the narrator...
convened and descended upon the scene
and imposed directions of keen: montage...

the basis of gender neutrality of nouns...
it can't be extended to encompass verbs...
an oak: dąb - is male...
but a pine - sosna - is female...
all fruit bearing trees are female connotations...

whatever sheryl crow's debut album was...
wasn't alanaise morissette's jagged little pill -
however the conundrum spins with no
favor for the electric currents passing via
Ariel... give me the wind god...
the daughters and barons of: the lesser involved!

because i'm a far cry the alpha...
kindred of the omega... and all that alphabet
of meaning behind letters...
"self-imposed"... less a ******* and more...
feeble guide of watching others get
pleasured by the mantis
and the black widows of tomorrow...

a cactus would grow in my palm should
i witness germany re-united:
at least that's how the proverb stood its ground...
before common or passed on "wisdom"
learned to gravitate toward...
soap bubbles pop... charcoals smoke...
ms amber becomes a river
when there was no river expected...

the tides are hardly shy: they're buying time...
this one last commodity of the rotten mind
of the gambler...
puny prophet - of fate -
alongside the weathermen of a forgotten
afternoon: come birthday prior to noon...
and the fungus umbrellas chat
among themselves in a premature autumn
cascade...

fungus or just... lungs... devoid of a body?

my god: the kids are going after the grammar
that has already absolved them...
knitting mosquitos and lambasting
gherkins' worth of would-be:
pickled cucumbers...

that herring tartar... with dill and juices...
that baltic sushi never to arrive
at the cusp of the Caspian sea...
Molotov shots;
the Russians will always bring glasses
and ***** with them...
because... they somehow can...

- and that's because...
sheryl crow's debut album wasn't
alanaise morissette's...
but never makes the cards of a...
poker-match-up to better not earn
money if all that money is a gambler's
Eden...

- there are better ways to get away with
cooking an egg...
there's this entire myth of...
no poultry sushi...
mein gott! how the meat agrees with
abortions...
you can undercook beef,
you can undercook pork...
but when there are poultry standards...
they're just as risk-aversive as when...
a soft-boiled egg is required...
same with meat...

this direct translation of the atomised meat
in an egg white...
how it needs to coagulate to pristine juice
and all that perfect *******...
and... ****** via the runny yoke...
because i believe there's a puritanical
aspect of all life in general...
when hard-ons are sold
within the quarantine confines
of a viagara episode of: ***** into a hard-on...

chuckles and whittle charlie chaser says:
no man was ever ***** into a hard-on...
no?!
when charlie met chuckles and chuckie
and charles...
it must be a russian "thing"...
they have them... and hide them better...
there's nothing to hide in english...
just bad grammar and trans-grammar....

i.e. чa-чa-чa
            believe me... they managed to fold...
hide the caron in that alice through the looking-glass
of greek mu: μ - or (h)atches open!
how about hiding...  (letovers: č              č
the caron, in russian?          č č             č č         č)
or the H and the Z in english and polish
respective - whole - attached to the S?

epsilon lying back... the toil
of Sysiphus is a bore: шit...
****... and... шarp...
and... mateuш...
    
maybe people... or so we at least,
have inkling to hope to be receptive of...

щ: twice the hiding caron...
it's not that the russians don't use diacritical
markers - they just hide them differently...
the self-exposed vowels...
last of the reminders...
because there's the carpenter's obligation
to chisel a Y into an I...
or at least a J...

to add this currency of momentum is...
to... leave without a memory spare...
whipped along the trail via
a maine ****'s finicky worship of
air that will never translate itself
as being: breathed...

and yes: i drink... i drink to relax
my lexicon from the everyday strict: rules
and obligation of formal mr and mrs
and what doesn't fit into
a metaphor tuxedo...

over-cook pasta: we'll never talk again...
over-cook beef or pork: ditto...

it's an art to treat cooking poultry meat
with a quasi seafood status of scallops...
to curate a soft-boiled egg -
not quiet the abortion portioned
within the confines of a lost shell when
thrown into the dead-bath of
a lobster's litany when the neither alive
nor dead is cooked...

some bloos is necessary when it comes
to either beef or pork...
but you can't just have undercooked
poultry...
the grounded clipped wing marshall:
the decency of cooking poultry has
to be equated with cooking
a soft-boiled egg...

otherwise the common saying:
one apple a day... keeps the doctor away...
well...
one poem a day... keeps the psychiatrist away...
no? who are the circus freaks
the pseudos and the quasis of what...
has to be compensated by mr. rather dr.
surgeons and... the better half of whatever
becomes the butchering degree:
a degree in: what's not to be eaten...
but what has to be left intact
and reused?

less the homosexual yet still la la land...
not quiet cuck...
but still... every time i visited...
and never managed to peer at
the sort of first-person doom shooter experience
that otherwise third party sources would
allow me when...
the best fallatio is done in third-person...
talk about having someone to sit
on your face like...
never the literal metaphor translation
of ****** acts...
face-grubber from alien and...
performing oral *** on a woman...
no... none of it is true!
******* and winding archaic clocks...

some would even call it electricity should
it come from a burning candle!
We drift into and out of the light
casting shadows that catch us
erasing the night
raising statues to dead men and
drift off again.

When the men with the ***** have the walls to write words on
they will write up a storm to take down the statues
use crayon and paint to explain in some detail
the fall and the fail.
I sail with the pirates who sail on the sea where the light dips into the ocean for all men to be equal
for all men to be...
...the wind blows hard and the thousand yard stare stares icily back,
bolt action,my
reaction is to attack, but I throw
daffodils instead.
The sun shines out loud in the kipper tie sky as clouds of orange peel puffs drift slowly on by,
If I got as high as that kite up on Parliament hill
I could chill with the zest of it, taste of the best of it, but I'm stuck here and down in it
watching as the day goes slowly away from me, hoping there'll be some of it left for my tea.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
saying ******* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
the i.q. (intelligence quotient) is hardly representative,
you can bishop-streak as a tourist to Giza and get
the same result... quotient etymologically speaking
is simply a quote, statistically represented -
meaning it only gathered answers from
the μ - median, mean, and meridian, also
a fond mention of mode: we all wish to sleep as peacefully
as the dead, necromancy with the pepper & salt shakers
for the fancy... stirrup hunch to giddy up,
and that makes two of us qualm bitter with
                                                    the grey matter
unexposed in chess tournaments.
i.q. (intelligence quotient) v. i.i. (intelligence inclusiveness):
that too.. statistics means a lot of autism
and many tiger mommies... preferably with surname Chang....
bright kid / always the dummies -
make that five years after the the show,
show them bullied... n'ah, you wont.
meaning the only thing included is
a pyramid and competitiveness, rather than shared
genius - which is hard to come by -
yes, the inclusiveness bit of the Rubik's cube solved
like Pavlov's tongue and the palette of a dog
given Sumerian cuisine to slobber over
when ingesting a tablespoon of cinnamon as the
other educated guess: the educated joke, universities
are famous for them being practised.
thus μ and the statistician's consonant... constant...
three tiers of synonymous bishops making up one
cardinal - intelligence is well enough quotient's worth
and the pyramid for a competitive streak of further events...
but such intelligence performed as example among
children doesn't qualify others to share the oncoming demise...
we need intelligence of an inclusive nature,
not a statistical correspondence with economists dodging
hard questions with quick investment answers...
we need people to tell the difference between
inclusiveness on the plural scaling of being a part of,
rather than an exclusiveness on the plural scaling of not being
a part of (alter: an exclusiveness on the solipsistic slave-scaling
of simply da sein - i.e. being there) -
i get the pronoun ambiguity, whenever there's no i involved
and it's purely a thing, everyone in the factory asks for the
Schindler's List - whether or not people are organic or
prosthetic(s) extending into a network of parasite or host
economy projects, and people ask those questions;
meaning? people are more likely to dismiss the idea of
a soul (an indestructible part of themselves, whether
contemporary or far fetched in terms of: ahead - Kant lives on
from the 18th century, plastic surgery will make others like you
take up the augmentation many decades later... there is always
something indestructible about you... it's called recycling
in the transference of physics, or metaphysics, the soul is like
an atom... it's indestructible... but your ego isn't... your ego
has no correlative support of the soul - your soul is an
indestructible unit, prone to gravity e.g., but your ego is prone
to the more pervasive moral force, which gravity isn't
a part of in term of monotheist glue... namely conscience...
the indestructible part of your isn't a self-conscious Jungian
jargon bit watered with control that you're aware of...
the soul, the unit of indestructibility is the unconscious bit...
which is why we continue to have actors, poets, plumbers,
bus drivers... you can't destroy the soul in the collective
unconscious sense of things... the indestructible element of
your being continues regardless of your wish to sell
out and profit or take an overly conscious case of
being aware of conning the selfish gene stipend on Wall Street...
it still bites back at your **** for showing off your yacht
rather than your Mongolian yurt.
the soul is real... not in an individualised sense of things...
the individual is completely destroyed... constantly revised
via recycling... a lot of Hinduism makes his plainer but
more mythical and less hoarse in its reality of death -
the soul is a continuum, the indestructible capacity of
preservation, preservation rather than evolution -
anti-Darwinism? the preservationists... apply poetic rhyming
to ideas and the truth is ******* boring - poetry can decipher
GRAND PLATINUM ORNATE GALAS OF STATE AFFAIRS
by looking at the suffixes... and rhyming them together
getting the toad's ******* of October Fest's burps...
it is time to learn how to write poetry outside of poetry...
it's time to write testaments, it's time to write biblical accounts
of our lives... there's not time for pretty verse...
it's at this precise moment when poetry has become too
technical in theory and mundane in practice...
use this zenith moment to read language across all genres...
and never applying it for a poetic expression...
look! the paupers are numerous! but these paupers are
octopus handy in picking your ten pockets!
to have reached the plateau of Darwinism as having to preserve...
to have reached the penultimate affair of the prone
destructibility of identity, personality, character (Thesaurus Rex's
RA! or the complete synonymous archive of ego) - meaning
that the soul was a plumber you never were given
the Saturday of the appointment, and your chronology being
that of a Ford Automobile salesman in some showroom in Peckham.
Paul Butters Jan 2015
Remember David Beckham
The footballing great from Peckham.
He would always bend it
So no-one could defend it.

Paul Butters
Shame Beckham didn't play for Leeds.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
Rio can have its lava lamp spectacular,
i have my Van der Graaf Generator,
studying lightning and brainwaves
(the **** you can find on suburban streets -
as they say: the best things are for free);
trees and roots upside-and-out akin to branches
stretching for the paparazzi tropism -
wannabe junkies through and through the U.V.
glittering additions.

Damocles and global warming;
it's hanging, a birth of the guillotine -
America is armed, give it a sneeze
and the public will be ready for an insurrection,
we basically marched back to the 1960s
without a Martin Luther or a Malcolm X...
people are testifying a need for leadership,
the C.I.A. and F.B.I. are on the prowl
to subdue it... if this was the ice age
i'd eat you, ******... i got bored
of chicken, let's see what you taste like;
the revision of Damocles' sword hanging over
all of us... believe me, the Arabs are fine,
they can stand this kind of heat,
they'll fry us all on a Ferrari sports-car revs
from that carbon monoxide **** ****** at
for brain damage and a ***** **** under a niqab;
me? i'm as politically correct as politicians
are on a Wednesday in Parliament during the P.M.'s
questions: ridiculous, ridiculing, ergo double
agitated... take your defence of apathy elsewhere,
into your safe-circle and dance me the ******* tango
while shadow boxing. i'm as politically correct
as the prime minister and as much as the shadow;
pulpit plonker of Peckham that was needed as a
plumbing pecker of assured speech getting the job done.

this is the revised version of b.m.i.,
i vouch like a scout that my personal library
weighs more than my body,
******, i'd eat you, no questions asked;
i'd eat you, the corpus christi curse right back at you,
Moses was a former army general,
he exploded outside of society,
Christ the Redeemer was catching carrier pigeons
by clapping inside society, the effects
came later, Grecian,
only an enriched literary civilisation could have
made profane remarks about the Jews...
what with Plato et al., the four gospels
really did miscarry the treasures of the tetragrammmaton,
that's the only Jesus bit i don't like,
well, it's pretty much all of the Jesus bit -
attacking religious figures like Elijah and the Baal priests,
he attacked but the religious cults under the Romans
flourished... then came the northern invaders of Rome
not really bothered by what the Greek wrote...
**** is this?! the **** is this?! you forget they lost
the runes and said: well Latin is the *******
for encoding hush and sepia, let's keep it,
start afresh, keep the coliseum rotting.
so much for human rights: chop the head off
and long live Charles I... keep him rotting in a cell
and you're inventing zoology, hardly human...
most men would rather the chop-off than the chaining...
vegetables in 2 cubic metres, hardly human...
**** it, most are like: end it, quick! don't make me
a loiter with my crimes... but of course the sadists won
and things collected dust...
the story was: don't read books, write something
original... Gaza strip would make the perfect novel
archetype -but subsequently loose your human empathy
allowance - somehow finding it in Oxford, half-******
and half-the-time missing the plot, to no one's bother.

yes, b.m.i. (book mind index), all that god is dead got me
thinking while we're obsessing about diets and
eating vegetarians... **** me, ain't i the cannibal tonight?
Rio... it's all Rio's fault... the ******* lava lamp and my
prize for going to buy the spirit of St. Paul's cathedral **** -
my own, van der Graaf generator -
along with the band, all classic **** given prog rock
introspection done by the one famous magazine Mojo -
no, not mojito - jackal, joke, jumper, jazzy,
south american ha or the Mexican Xavier's achoo cha ha cha
(i admit, Michael Jackson's version of: pope checks whether a choir
boy is castrated to sing the high-notes).

well, the plan is to drink yourself to death -
**** this place and **** it twice over if i am the spaghetti
with a chance of meatball genius to save it -
i'm not a coward, i'm just practical... the dinosaurs never
had so many paradoxes running through them
when Michelangelo did the meteor sequence,
after the Welsh and the Chinese intuitively drew dragons.

this is is the perfect time to be loners and childless -
it's a time when death and god is clearly explained,
but an en masse suicide pact is harder, unless you express
human pride and human vanity as the sourcing secret -
i did a mini course on sustainability beneath my
prime: chemistry at Edinburgh... can i say it was like
g.c.s.e. history? any idiot could do it.

or as was the case with political correctness with the recent
attacks in London - the English uber way of saying it
politely, they're campaigning for a loss of stigmata in
this branch of medicine that, for some strange ******* reason,
everyone gets involved and is suddenly a ******* expert -
i don't know how many ordinary civilians
claim to have degrees in psychology... too many by my count.
all those campaigns to relieve the stigmas on mental health
in order to "keep the public united" after such attacks
simply back-fired - like everyone depressed or anxious
would simply slit some stranger's throat, because
of a "history" - no amount of eloquent cover-ups will discourage
people from seeing what they see, media freedom allows
for per se manipulation - shadow-people tricks -
the other form of spying.
if it wasn't a terrorist plot why mention the Somali heritage?
could just have said he was Norwegian...
so whatever campaigns there were to ease the stigma
surrounding mental health issues just backfired -
only to keep the ethnic divisions intact in the agglomerate
of social cohesion - to be honest, mental health isn't
even a medical concern... it's a political tool for
exploiting harsh scenarios - and this
medical schism is pretty much akin to
the Sunni v. Shia division in Islam - or the 1054
great schism; i have absolutely no idea why or how
it happened, or when... but this isn't a religious topic,
it's a medical schism, and i'm assuming the anglophone
world is primarily prone to it... as an outside i have
my unique perspective... this isn't religion... it's medicine
for crying out-loud!

are these psychologists and quasi and alter counterparts
prescribing medication like penny-sweets?!
because they ******* are! humanists that have no right
to prescribe medication, but merely talk...
oh wait... didn't i hear some cultural critic write that
words are nothing? so we communicating in ******* Braille then?
words are the primary data imprints we all need,
i'm not writing in a language to make it my own -
but there this massive schism in medicine at the moment,
somehow not reading philosophy in western society
never got to grips with Cartesian materialisation
of i think into i am - i can answer for that -
mental illnesses are subtler than a leg infested with
gangrene - but they're still physical ailments -
obviously not as rainbow as a gangrene, but there can't
be a schism, because too many amateurs and sadists will
exploit the schism... there's also the necessary claim
for thinking and being to reach the ergo equilibrium -
by unnecessarily treating a thinking pattern
that does not really deviate into stabbing someone
will only encourage all this proto Narcissistic crap...
and you'd think that polytheism died under the 21 grams
worth of certainty that the soul exists with monotheism...
that's the strength of Greek polytheism
(and Indian polytheism, i.e. it didn't adopt a monotheism),
meaning that it's philosophical background ensured
that the revision of Hebraic in its hands gained so much
popularity as Christianity - but Narcissus is a telescope
to introspect - i blame Narcissus for the medical schism
we're now experiencing - mental health and the imaginary
fifth limb.

this schism is the result of subduing religion -
at first it was a wise move, i admit that i wouldn't
want to be on the Inquisition rack -
but when violence was perpetrated on us
we held a stealth belief that it would end -
but after we internalised this violence
there seems to be no end; another schism
was bound to pop up somewhere, i'd never think
it would be in the medical category:
due to the failures of reading philosophy,
bypassing Kant, phenomenology and the existentialists
to simply write a profit-banking book:
philosophy for dummies (+ ****** et al.).
Joe Bradley Jun 2015
As the waves fall on stony shore
the sword just sits there,
blunting in the washing sea-foam.

England’s winds carry the sand
from England’s rock to the grazes
on our ankles, our feet and hands.
They from the toes of Cornwall to
rocky Dunnet head
will our courage forward
through the first crawl on cam-corder,
to the last drop to earth.

‘We all began at the seaside’

Though days are gone, we linger
snaking through London with those southern scrubbers,
those diamond white men,
the Caribbean accents, the Guajarati, the Jews -
‘A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better one’
- we all patter round Oxford Circus and
climb aboard the number 9 bus.

‘Who so pulleth out this sword is trueborn King of all Britain’

And we watch the waves fall.

‘Hold very tight’

It’s there behind our ray-ban’s, our fake ray-ban’s,
their halcyon glint.
It’s the same secret, not one of us can keep -
Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.


-

It was London and my mother that
raised the muscles in my thighs to look firmly planted
and my face to look resolute when turned to the sun.
It was my mother and London.
They grew me up to look like I could pull out
Excaliber.

‘Lay me down trepanner man, but take the stories with you, if you can’.

So I, always King Arthur,
not a yank, not from Roehampton’s towers,
or Peckham. Not Tintagel, or Camelot,
escaped on an eddie to Manchester,
to bury stories with distance
and stare at cobwebs after rain.

'I’ll hear easy music, find out it’s easy, man.'    

But in Manchester’s plastic, in Manchester’s rain
It ran all the same.
Of a blunting blade, I dreamt,
until the Phrenologist came
and I asked him if I was torn up by London grit,
London loves and London’s spit.
But he said no,
no matter where you go
there’s just one secret that you’ll never keep
Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.


-

The sword just sits there,
honest as a dog.

And the sun has more secrets than any man on earth.

my shadow scuttles through the suburbs,
the seaside, the city, sideways like a crab.
The sandy cuts on my toes, ankles and knees
are bleakly investigated by a fly.

Has anyone sat at the round table?

It’s out of reach of my skinny wrists.

Lash me to a pole and wait for the Avalon tide
to slowly roll my English soul.


I better keep on living.
All stories, tears and sleep.
We are all just the living secret,
that not one of us can keep.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
any reading of a philosophy book, outside of university, is mapped without the sort of strategy to receive a grade, for a "correct" interpretation (rather a regurgitation) of said work (mentioned below); to say it in simpler terms: i do not ever think that understanding a concept - in concreto - is worth some sort of "passing on the genes" (memes) of one individual to another - given that a meme has become pop culture, and as the french would put it:
        ce crasse et petit irritante chiotte valeur de merde
                                                                ­                        (i.e. un cliché) -
truly written like and englishman -
   a meme is that crass and small irritant bog's worth of ****
                                                            ­                                           ( " ),
   at least that's peckham french, del boy french,
                         i was well informed about this french dialect.

- and to even "think" why there are so many blue
indians, and so few piggies; perhaps it boils down
to the fact that the blue indians believe in
   burial within fire, rather than earth,
  and they prefer to surround themselves with the living,
rather than with the dead; and piggies do,
  graveyard upon graveyard,
    and that constant "nostalgia", idol-worship
of the past, where nothing greater can come again;
for those who surround themselves with the living,
their existence rages akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial... but for those who surround
themselves with the dead,
   their existences decompases akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial, a heart-broken: nightmarish
earth. -

for some reason, i always get these
"revelations" (for lack of a better word) -
as one might receive a signature
of a thunderstorm in the form of
lightning upon the sky -
           and it usually predicated by
listening to a few pop songs -
   and then listening to the
    *cantos of templar knights
-
            but then again, you sometimes
really need extremes,
     as the canadian sayings goes -
we only have two seasons,
    one's winter, the other is construction.

but this is about technicalities,
one could even cite the following as
the part of any contract, the terms & conditions
written in the smallest possible print,
   lodged in hardbacks worth over 30 quid -
not your cheap bestseller paperbacks -
   those too could be appreciated,
   but akin to pressure to keep a worth's of
expression in sanctum of a hardback?
   take the year 1996 for the cantos 1st
on toilet-paper (paperback) - but in brick?
take the year 1970...
  and where do the technicalities come in?

   - heidegger's ponderings V, aphorism 41 -
technicalities akin to the rules of
a game of cricket, or at least the pointing system.

but count it nonetheless, half an hour to scroll...
12,700+... till i got to april the 8th
  and resurrect a memory?

.  ע   ‎
יהוה ‎‎‎
א‎
                  sighs from on high...
      and laughter into the depths.


let us just say, that digital is
the new hardback edition -
    to condense my works into toilet-paper
till take more years and more pushy-pushy
tactics, to transform
     a hardback into something affordable...
but in reverse...
               what comical inversion,
   30 years will become 300 years to come
  about for someone to wipe-their-***-to-mouth
fathom of what went on at the genesis
of the birth of the internet,
   in some obscure location,
                  like a catholic school in england.

now the germanic pilot-plotline (regarding
aphorism 41, ponderings V):

    promo enigma-alchimia in vivo lingua,
             anti ipse (dixit) in lingua vitro.


(we're not in posh-boy grammar school,
the language is dead, it's become play-dough,
a malagrammaton-monœgo:
for a man's tongue is to his befitting desire
to state the terms of play).

da / ein-da / die-da          vs.                hier   vs.
                                      die-hier / ein-da


( there / a there / the there        vs.
                                                ­                 here    vs.
  the here / a there    -
                                
                               ­ atheistic scissors of
definite/indefinite articles/articulation of
    what's near, and what's far away,
     the dualistic-dichotomy of here&there,
  then&now...
           as far as i am concerned i cannot narrate
this akin to a vampire romance page-turner
bestseller... too many organic chemistry diagrams
concerning electron migration, sorry) -

   but given the "blank" slate genesis, starting
with articles... they go beyond being categorised
as definite or indefinite...
    namely... am i, or can i be assured that
      there's no X variations?
    i.e.
                da     ein da
                      X
       die hier     hier            ???????????????

               isn't ein hier merely "being"?
imagine being forced into a there -
                  without being the there,
akin to a zeitgeist, akin less!
      zeitgeist = a there (communism),
  but the there? that's what hegel
said of napoleon entering jena:
       "das ist ein weltgeist!" (capitalism).

and who are the anglophones?
  i cannot respect these "peoples" -
they constantly stutter when it comes to
  their lack of diacritical application,
they stutter... i might as well call them
the strabismus race...
    and if darwinism is to be the vector-catalyst
(hollywood was thrashing american cities
for decades, what damage could this
observation could possibly do?) -
  if darwinism is to be the prime historian,
that darwinism replaces actual history
and becomes neither in vitro, nor in vivo,
but in situ? why do scientists wonder why
universities are undermined in their
humanities, when scientific populism of
biology (i.e. darwinism) has undermined
papa historia? am i... missing something?!
     if you undermine a credible study within
the humanities with enough darwnism?
what do you get? inertia...
     you can burn crosses, but you can also
burn an image of a monkey into a man's mind,
the same result occurs!
      personally, i'd rather burn crosses,
i might end up drinking beer and joking with
a few skin-heads around an unsual campfire.

the other side just... "debates" loud-mouth
******* who haven't learned the gymnastics
of looking up those grandiose black-holes
of blah blah.... blah blah blah... blah...
     i'd like to ask them... does your **** of talk
ooze a perfume of.... strawberries?
   and the punk-fist fields... forever! ooh...
****** *******' salsa! shwing yir hips
ya bunch of conclaves (p.j.w.) - privacy
                     justice warriors).

        taoist's foregetfulness

grounded in maxim primus -
  to allow the world a breath, allow the world
to let you breathe as you deem fit,
   never too soon to be bound to genealogy,
esp. that of the genesis bound to
the new testament -
  for if the old testament begins with poetry,
and if truly metaphorically chained,
then how pitiful is the genesis of
the new testament, which begins with
  something as sorrowful as the nadir
of greek culture, the expired logos,
   a genealogy, with the greeks ransacking
the jews under roman rule,
  just like the ransacking of constantinople
by the venetians in 1204 (4th crusade)...
who'd start a "holy" book without poetry,
but a ******* geneaology?!
          no wonder poetry these days isn't
a rare appreciation...
    but cheap and as tsunami natured
   in its "production" as tabloid press,
  toothbrushes, toilet paper,
                        toothpicks, among other
                                               paraphernalia;
the new testament is such a massive turn-off...
if you don't begin with poetry,
esp. that of metaphor translated into imagery,
and instead begin with a branch of logic
that the new testament begins with, i.e.
genealogy... and then expect latter poetics
in the text to be taken literally?!
          clue the keen me into the clamours
of the poly-schismatic version of events...
    sure, christianity is a "polytheism",
                           in that it's poly-schismatic.

and of the garden, should adam have approached
first, as he would have done in asia -
         he would have talked with
the serpent sæwelō -
           perhaps that same serpent of
   caucasus - first, to have a thirst of
knowledge tamed - although never really -
  for the serpent sæwelō would have
tempted adam: eat of this tree, its fruit,
  and your thirst for knowledge will be
forever satiated!
   so said the serpent of order
   so said sæwelō (ᛋ), the sun-snake...
the serpent of illumination -
                            the golden serpent.
and so adam bit into the fruit,
   and such thirst as never before filled him,
a thirst for knowledge that hasn't
as of yet seized -
     for the fruit, which adam imagined
would be sweet - was actually filled with salt.

  and we are initiated into the myth
of how the other scenario took place with regards
to a woman approaching the serpent first,
       yes?
                and for the woman, the serpent
of chaos, known as ansuz (ᚨ) - the siamese -
who said both truth and lie simulatenously
  also known as the god who's name begins with
yod, in the roman tongue (Y),
                          and he said:
  you will know the difference between
good and evil -
    ah indeed he said so, but that said, it would
imply acts being simulatenously both,
rather than either / or -
he continued: you'll be like the æsir (gods)!
      knowing such distinctions,
                   and will know the meaning of fate,
and justice, and due recompense!

as etymological mutations occur,
   and translations into other tongues
go, let's begin with:

sieg heil - old english - sigel - hail sun!
       if ever a führer (the few, the rarer),
                        so too the sun's eclipse -
   louis xiv wouldn't have minded,
    but at least he ****** to his
         cockerel's content to praise sunrise -
but as it stands, an etymological
           "mutation" in translation: hail sun!

-------------------------- p.s. p.p.s. p.p.p.s. p.p.p.p.s.
    f(p.s.) ad infinitum: borrowing from
mathematics, i.e. f(x) - heidegger
invented the algebra of writing in a certain style
that's only worth a neurotic / autistic pedant's
worth of bother...

   let's just say, in terms of style,
                                        it's purely hellish,
   you can only go as far with a text
when the variations
  range from dasein, to da-sein
   to da-sein to da-sein (i.e. da-ßein) -
    to whatever else is enclosed in the book...
i haven't got the time to write
an expansion of these milimetres
            and a litre of *** waiting for me...

   inverse stress on being
              detached from a "there": da-ßein:

   with regard to the world and its being
   constituting beings (heidegger's style
of expression, i know, can be a muddle)...

all i wanted was an antonym:
   rather than the world and its there,
   i wanted the world and its nowhere,
or rather, a pure form of being: a here,
      being detached from beings,
   the infinite dance of "solipsism",
    mono-direct articulation /
   plural-direct articulation (a march) /
mono-indirect articulation (a thought) /
plural-indirect articulation (a commute home)...

in terms of dictionary ref. to oppose da (there):

ist da - is here
                hier - here
komm her! - come here!
           hier & da - here & there
                  auf der stelle - here & now

stelle:
       schnellen - quickly
   schwellen (ich bin) - i am swelling
schelle - bell
   bruchstelle - break

                            da-ßien = hiersien

i.e. stressor on being,
             which morphs into a reconstruction
of the original equation:

     i.e. "da"-ßien = hier-"sien" ≠ nichtsein...

    and the point being?
    the simple f(x) translation into philosophical
jargon... f(p.s.) ad infinitum...
                      this had to run into a cul de sac
at some point, given all the technicalities
and stylistic disparities between existentialists,
if any remained to live into the 21st century...
but the buggers ****** off
              let's just say the new wave
of concerning italics remains the still
unexplored territory of missing diacritical marks
in the english language...
    as much can be said about writing
            chair    as can be said about
   writing                  krzesło...
           (yes, a consonant grapheme, err-zed)...
funny, in grapheme terms...
   that the german grapheme ß
  never became a replacement of -sch-
     in english -sh- in slavic -sz-,
             seems to be more t'ss... wet snare...
          another example?
    (choo-choo) train / pociąg -
  and yes, that's not implying choo-choo,
   since it's obvious, the verb ćwiczyć:
to train.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
believe me, you grow out of it
(*******),
   you reach the natural conclusion
as women do,
    experiencing menopause,
your's the least actrattive cunterpart,
no choice...
          you just grow out of it...
you just get bored
                       you just grow out of it...
it literally become a case of
   huh?
     yep, it becomes a hmm equation...
and if you're not married,
  5p.m. feels like 9a.m.,
                         the **** is going on?
fyck, uleterior motive for spelling
   thick...
           so what the fyck's going on?
pop culture... fuckle me...
                   send some more sleeping
pills my way,
    so i can pretend to be in a
heavyweight boxing match
         fighting both klitschkos
   at the same time, in street fighter mode
of pretending to be blanka /
            zangief / vega?
    i'd **** over him
               any-day-of-the-week,
such **** ******* /
     dhalsim - mr. stretch-armstrong /
                           mr. fantastic...
tekken never conjures up
an equation
      that music does
   i.e. the beatles (street fighter)
vs. the rolling stones (mortal kombat)...
tekken never really made it
         for "equality" status:
                        equal status, i get it;
nonetheless, men tend to grow
out of the practice of *******,
  just like women
   are automated to experience
menopause...
                       you just get bored
of the hand as ****...
                       d'uh dummy dum dum
+ a mongolian harmonica
    (index moving up & down
with the lips perforking
          the motorboat effect,
encapsulated within the brrrrrrrrr;
sure, the missing trill of the r in english...
    and there are no diacritic indicators
that the letter ought to be the sole-source
of vibration...
           hence no roll with the umlaut ä -
   sounds like chinese wow wow wow yo
  boat...
             yoyo that ****?
      count that as two:
          hämmer, i.e. haamer...
          i.e. hāmmer...
              or ha'mmer... so what's with
the trigonometry of the m?
  how many more times do you have
to wave a goodbye?      
                  but the scandi- version?
middle-class english,
   i love their slang,
        they slang a longer word into
a shorter word,
   but never bother to adffix a hyphen
for invigorative measures...
    it always seems to be: oxford approved;
if americans are yanks...
                   the british? wanks;
jiggy-jiggy-mah-jig.
         totality bound by sources found
    in either peckham or hackney;
oh right, the roll...
  an aangstroom, i.e.  ångström...
                    linguistic ballistics...
        **** gets funnier when writing fiction,
the irish and the slav prefer the hyphen
of differentiation in a convo, i.e.
  - and so
- so what?
the post-germanic tribes of anglo saxons and
americans?
    they prefer the inverted commas
and the he said...
                          e.g. "i was saying," he said.
yes, i know that's a fictional character
"speaking",
     but you could at least count,
   toward expressing the correct arithmetic,
i.e. 'i was saying,' he said;
                            yes,
i know no one was saying anything,
             you were thinking someone
was saying something you "said"...
          so why was it never the irony of "citing"
with only two index fingers,
   as opposed to
         two index and two middle fingers?
i swear to god, that's not how
you quote...
                    if you're ever going to quote;
it can only mean
   a beginning of ambiguity,
   by invoking "     ", you're making war
on the thesaurus.
Stanley Wilkin Jun 2017
Is it possible for a land to dream
Of Harakiri.
Gouts of screams and tears abound
Self-destruction is such a sweet sound
Particularly when told from afar
By those so clearly in the know.
But is that the truth, what we are told?
Does this land dream of a death all of its own?
Or perhaps tales of its expiry are greatly exaggerated
For profit and shock.
Could this be true, that they are lying to you?
Or does Peckham wish to fall on its sword?

Perhaps once, in the span of three days
Did this land wish to see itself burn,
To see itself consumed in the fires of greed,
Of hatred,
Of ignorance.
Tell me, is that all that this land has to offer?
Will it willingly trudge to such a dishonourable demise?
Or will it rise
And show those in the know
That in truth Peckham dreams of a fate more honourable than Harakiri.
BY my son: Stephen Francis
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i'm sorry, embracing darwinism is an abandonment
of carpe diem: there is no way that
the anglophone world will ever fully embrace
existentialism, the anglophone world is
orientated around up-keeping their golden
quack's worth of the goose that laid
golden eggs in a grimm's tale -
    it will not pass me, even though i'm drunk
and half the spectator's worth of chant,
you're not getting "one" past me...
             why? it's simple!
            the english speak more shakespeare
than dante...
             and that's for starters...
     whenever i look at english t.v.
i'm less glutton & more anorexic,
    less political & therefore more docile...
the ******* nodding brigade.
  nod, sneeze, nod some more,
pretend it's head-banging, you *******
tickling peckham *****...
          *******, and **** your
ellie charlie and prince albert whatever you
******* call him of edinburgh
who could play that vampire, like he always
plays a vampire, that charles dance:
****** has a 11" ****'s worth of voice...
now come on, darwinism is nearing death...
    i'd prefer the idea of nibbling on bamboos
like some panda; you sure we didn't
evolve from bears, instead monkeys?
mono-apparent diet though...
come on, take it to ease up life...
             seems i has a lost sense of humour
running rampant...
     even the russians are laughing:
**** me: that's a joke in itself...
          moscow giggles?
    that really ought to come from a *******'
**** joke philander of breezes
smoking a cinnamon ridden pipe
with a jew on the side...
               kippah for a bowl?!
             what, jews are careless when saying
a joke, you being anti-semitic all of a sudden
while i say mine?
       chinese never slurped a noodle soup
while utilising chopsticks?! you sure
you didn't see grandpa ying-ju slurp
that chicken broth up?!
they didn't! bring in the french cuisine experts
regarding au jus!
*******, gonna boil them like,
wide-awake,
oh i've seen a chicken get decapitated on
a stump of wood, with the cannibalism
that ensued, while the decapitated head
rolled off the slub, lazy eyed while
the other chickens made a religion,
and pecked at the blood...
           silence of the lambs had its hannibal:
time for a caesar:
       concerto of lobsters....
           shrill... itching with a chalk pecker
on a blackboard...
so what's absurd with coupling darwinism
with continental darwinism?
well...
  man gets the monkey,
woman? she gets the black widow & the mantis...
that's what!
            i'm not not up for that sort of
gamble...
          someone should have said:
english darwinism does not couple well
with continental existentialism,
to be honest darwinism is the enemy of
existentialism...
   the two can't co-exist!
          we already have the thematics in
place with women:
the upper hand, given the numbers,
man resorts to monkey, woman?
   a black widow spider & the mantis...
   who has the upper-hand?
   english "existentialism" i.e. darwinism
is crude, obsolete, hardly revelatory -
tell you what's crude about "reality"
one man who just sat on a toilet,
another who sat on an armchair,
and another who sat in an electric chair,
walk into a bar...
                  what? there's no joke,
the joke is already stated in the disparity!
you don't reach the heights of existentialism
with a shortcut akin to darwinism...
you don't get that benefit!
        come on, get with it:
you already have enough fickle people
playing peanuts and gherkins with:
             god is dead: enter the dietitian;
you're busy, make a move at imitating
the icelandic peoples,
and incorporating an app. that tells your
mating partner, if you're at least 5 times removed
cousins: you know, so we don't get anymore
orangutan reminders in human form
(downs, eyes really close together,
can't miss them: the mad call them: 'ere
by god's grace... or that strange form of love
coming from a psychotic *****);
no, darwinism is really ******* in terms
of "trying" to catch up to continental existentialism...
darwinism in comparison to existentialism
is a neanderthal...
   oops...
       man gets the drumming monkey,
a girl gets the black widow & the mantis -
       and then we inherit the nag hammadi
trans- of everything without exception sexuality:
boy gets pink, girl gets blue...
and we're all happy gleeful
  passing st. peter with a ***** strapped to his head:
**** me... these "pearly" gates, look
    just like those gates of auschwitz!
can i just have the fate of those
concerto lobsters, please?
    i'd like to sing a song while boiling
within the zenith of a castrato exclaiming:
          i lost m'ah *****! yet i kept on singing!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
co hytre pod skurą jest iglą
         (what's avaricious under the skin is a needle)
na wieków, amen - co gdyby lwem
(forever more, amen - what's apparently a lion)
czy niedźwiedźem, czy też wilkiem
(or bear, or even a wolf)
da tchu! Vlach! ti i ten pierdolony lis!
(will give breath! Vlad! you and that ******* fox!)
eine fuchs! ich! ja stokroć i nocy nadam
(a fox! i! i the fern who will give unto the night)
imion bez konstelacji Achilles'a,
(names without constellations' of Achilles)
pozorom wbrew: na haczyku brwi
(under no pretensions: on the fishing hook of the eyebrows)
na tle pod imion: dobre sumienie
(on the canvas of under-names: a sound conscience)
wramah chszestu.
(in the boundaries of a christening.)
  a co ładne niech paraduje ze
(and what is beautiful, let it parade)
rzołneczykami!           bo to tfu!
(with it's little soldiers! because it's disgusting!)
bo to harfa i hu i true i Polska podbudjed
(because it's a harp and a ha... lost in translation)
is Rosyja i Я: anglo tomme, niet Яck m'eh?
  no kurva: Mongoła trombone!
mi non sprechen Deutsche,
nor operatic, nien moon-sweep tsar -
lovely, lovely juggles the Peckham
in all of us jubbly: day for the awaiting Trotter -
         or the spin frame Jenny my dearest:
spin! spin my spinning dūbblé / double-blah-blah-eh!
plocker / plonker two sons within graft of a blue
Peter sketch for the youngsters whining: or how's that
****** housed and i'm the one that should be
saying: the 'un that neva'h woz?
bites the Barnickle, that 'un does.
               says as much about cubicle cockers
in née said: Varlance: such that it almost sounded like
Versailles, and it too almost sounded likened to
umbrella when saying Paris or parasol.
       or on par: cubicle cockney poetry:
appellation and ***** hairs: stairs -
       needy and scythed: the frightened bunch...
          why then Versailles and squire?
and not: that ol' chip frier -
     fry err, Brighton on marble: succinct slating -
that walk of shame toward the ****.
     they always made the best foster parents,
that **** bumping, **** dumping crowd pleasing
hush for a Lincoln into linguo as Oslo in
libido -
          trucker tongue tie - gears in reverse -
randomised language replenishing that chaos of
became focus of larynx not cubed
but eyes three-dimensional: or cubism.
             and you sort of wish you knew how to
knot rather than not not not -
                your way into a Wahabi Lebanese
sentiment for truancy -
   which you never, really had a chance to get a
hard-on over.
                       this is how art sorta doesn't feel
that much difficult, more of a diarrhoea rather than
a constipation: less a skiing holiday in the Swiss
alps and more weekends spent on the Southend pier.
    well, we all wish to fish in the spaghetti lake
of verbiage: some of us get to,
and what we end up doing is hoping for
a second as cobblers in China, or beef farmers in
Argentina,    or cigar-rollers from Havana -
b'aah.... blah.... b'aah: i say jolted,
i say unsure, i say nervous b'aah - sheep's surrender!
why? it would sort out and destroy our
claustrophilia: as ever a cranium and an elevator...
         and the congregation,
                    and the dry throat.
John Bartholomew Oct 2015
Was he a disciple or just a friend of Jesus
So many to choose from it carries on through the ages
Whether you hail from the sunny realms of Brazil as Juan
Or lead your life on the bus tops of Paris, showboating to the tourists as Jean
you are always just John

Did you see that goal on Sunday in Barnsley from Pedro
crossed in on a sixpence by that guy on loan from Bristol
Parading as the next man to steal the footballing thrown from Beckham
Just a council house kid from the block down in Peckham
again, just John

Kissing the Blarney stone an excuse for his gob
the banter the laughter hiding the rile in his job
that day in Ireland that Sean always dreams of
going back would be heaven, to find the girl he should have once loved
again, just John

The shores of Naples looking out over the sea
Ischia, Procida, Capri, the place he’d rather be
behind lays dormant, Vesuvius once angry
Pompeii, Herculaneum destroyed in its fury
now time to spread his net and look for new shores
only Gino knows it’s time to open new doors
again, just John

No matter where you are from
there is somebody like you just struggling along
troubles brew in every corner of this planet
don’t think it’s just you who really cannot stand it
again, just John

Difficulty is rife no matter where you seem to look
your boss is a grievance and you wish them long gone
but it’s not just you, it’s you and every other John
so I’ll say it again without a look in the mirror
I know your stress my friend because I am that man
yes that is me
I am just John
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
the **** came out from Egypt,
like a pyramid...
i'm, literally, not here...
i'm, not here...
            and that's a the end
with many more post-scriptums
coming from the kid of god...
kid, yes, baby goat antonym,
and no point using fingers
in the most weird arithmetic
counting to: that! it..
           or, i! the: obscure ref.
   to what's airy and prone to disperse:
                     a, and subsequently
without, i.e. a-,
           i don't under the point
europeans with european women pampering
to rich arabs, and why egyptians are
involved... there's enough hate
to sell another Holocaust,
    wasn't the last Holocaust so denied
as to not sell it?
  it's selling, right? what with Rachel Weisz...
the holocaust is selling hot, so what's
the argument? the Poles didn't even get to sell
the holocaust, they were partly to blame for it...
   so what's the problem with holocaust denial
if holocaust clap-clap is about endorsing it?!
   oh look here! the title got you,
what's missing? the articles, benefits of a, god...
lamb of god sounds like the right tame,
the worthy cliche...
                         there's always a devil, and the devil...
ha ha... but there's never a god, and the god
is monotheism... lamb of god, kid of devil...
baby goat... d'uh!
                                   teeth!
gnats and the crocodile bite-snap!
                                  well, trans-gender euphoria...
woo! hoo! youth day with the pope gesticulating
******* into it for a ****** cream advert!
woo! hoo! chug! chug! chug!
      wonders... and god does indeed work
in mystifyng ways... last time i checked, he
didn't include the encyclopedia in his genesis...
beginning with day 1...
                  but i'd expect Peckham to be on the list
in terms of gaff...
       shame it's never article bound with god,
but always article bound to say: devil...
it's not you even say a ****** of being godlike
by saying ***...
                    as you apply to devil,
and say: the devil... i really do believe in holy
matrimony... whether sealions have harems
or whether swans prescribe monogamy and the lonely,
wandering, widower...
            sounds about cello or male ******* slapped against
a tennis-racket crap to me...
don't know, were you expecting a narrative
of ping-pong?
                   well, the i is in the huh; that should be clue
enough for you.
        lamb of god is never as restrictive as kid of devil...
somehow g fakes being a consonant unlike the d...
               why does kid of devil ask for the or a preposition?
i'm almost crying... why does it need atheism in between?
                      can't you think of anything more demeaning
than being crucified?! how about being impaled on a pike?!
how about the blood eagel for those who transgressed
      the nordic social code... how about the iron maiden?!
you have to be ******* kidding me to epitomise being
crucified... they didn't crucify the son of god,
no more than they crucified an innocent man...
                    the ******* must have done something
to compenstate being a Jewish woman back then...
i'd establish being impaled on a pike to be more painful
than being crucified...
  and so we behold the least original form of execution
as our heart-rendering feeling toward keeping
a stranglehold of the throng...
        we had much more ingenuity come our way
in terms of how a human body would be mutilated
if allowed capital...
it's such a shame that i am left with this dust...
         but it's still a case of: lamb of god...
       and not kid of devil... atheism always pokes its
ugly head through... no one says: kid of devil...
there's nothing definite or indefinite about it...
           yes, kid, baby goat...
            no one bothers that with kneeling and
repentance...  you clean the language up,
   as it looks, the unearthing of the nag hammadi gospels
mostly read by western psychiatrists is no help to me...
    the transgender movement is a lazy way to say:
i really didn't read a lot of poetry...
because these people didn't!
the land of the pronoun is a wild west of what's
typically english, asexual noun appropriation,
   and general liking toward custard ****:
my my, it really does splash a bit about the place.
                              they decided it was easier to
do the genital chop... than read a poem...
                     i'm stating from year 0...
because there's really no point in asking this
Jew raised in Egypt to take us anywhere else, other than
here... if you can make as much money from
other people's ultimate miseries, as the money
made from the holocaust... good luck to you,
i somehow never see money as translatable goods...
too much a priori static... it's like you're not
expected to, but do so nonetheless...
  a right old need in asking for a bollocking...
          and here is nowhere... and i mean:
    i have no geneticists' bias to preserve the human race,
or that argument that really, really belongs in a museum...
  atheism is so lacking motivational convo,
  i'm almost starting to believe it... ****! i have started to
believe it! look at me! dodo haven bound!
           i'm about to get flustered and ask for
a balding swan to fuss about its feathers when
i ask: which way to the toilet, devoid
of toiletries? it's ok... really.. i have a sun tan;
what? isn't that enough?
       will schindler's list teach me anything,
will it teach me to hold your hand more gently than
my own?
    i have no respect for people making money
in making others respect it...
at least the old tesatment people put on a ******* kippah...
you just keep up with your religious
hollywood ******* of many ****** movies
and i'll make enough of them foundation
for the next pyramid! Belial unto Balaam sooth!
i have enough gravity to drag me beneath the seas,
  and make sure that the earth eats me whole,
enough crematoriums to remind fire it's chore...
   and enough air, worthy a ****,
  and a comic gag to choke on turning words
into fishbone, of that pinewood needle refined kind:
neunzig-acht rot bollons... needle... pop...
     ja, minus ein; papa apache made me do it!
gott... mein goot ęglish achtung!
                 we really did stand & deliver as
                       adam & the ants told us to do...
we obviously didn't spawn any babies...
to keep our body motivated toward a beyond a grave...
no matter... T2 came out... and
no sight of Arnie Schwarzenegger.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
there's **** Jagger and i have a lobster - ooh
hey yeah fan mail - i'll die tonight listening to
alpha bravo... charlie out;
summertime Kabul Tupac Shake Jovi - Bon Bon
Mangetout Rodney, the flyer across the street
of Peckham East on a tricycle -
any other onomatopoeia too -
or a knock knock joke?
how many times will the joke last
before the joke ends and i
send you two to the scaffold
with Antoinette's head rolling,
down down south?
what? you the only billionaire
with a puppet instrument gagging
teen girls worth a colliding shout?!
i too sold out,
i signed a ******* and then thank fucky fucky
bowed out on holiday in Thailand.
oh here comes Layla with Clapton,
genie and the Harrison and wasted Beatlemania -
tomorrow sounds just fine
and welcome to repeat with high tea at 5 take or hoot bonkers
clarification a repeat; or thus said vogue:
it was necessary to keep the garden primed,
even if it was Liverpool F.C. -
and everyone said that Michael Owen was an estate agent.
There are a lot of wide boys
on the South Side,

I put it down to their diets
Terry Collett Dec 2014
Lydia follows her big sister
out of the flat;
she is tall
and has a blonde
explosion of hair,
eye-shadow so thick
she appears clown like.

She walks off
with her tight-dressed
backside swinging away.

I watch her go,
fascinated how
she manages to balance
on such high heeled shoes.

Be glad
when she leaves home,
maybe then
I get to have
my bed back,
Lydia says.

How does she balance
in those shoes?

Practise,
she's worn them
since she could walk,
Dad says.

Her big sister, Gloria,
goes down the *****
and out of sight.

Where we going?
I ask.

You decide.

What about
taking a train
to Peckham Rye?

Have to get some money;
I'll scrounge off Mum.

So she goes indoors
and I stand outside
the door
looking out
at the Square,
hearing voices
from within.

An old guy walks past
with his Boxer dog,
he nods to me
as he passes.

Lydia's mother
comes to the door
with Lydia behind her.

Think I have loads of money?
Think I can afford
to let her go here
and there
just on a whim?

No, I have money,
my old man gave it me
for polishing his shoes,
not that they needed polishing,
but he likes them
real bright brown.

I don't give a ****
where you get
your money from,
but I haven't money
to waste
on a train journey
for her.

I can pay.

You?

Sure, I have enough.

She is silent
(miracles happen).

She stares at me
with her beady eyes.

If you are paying,
then she can go,
but no monkey business,
no getting in people’s way.

She walks indoors
and leaves Lydia
standing there wide-eyed
and open mouthed.

I can go?

Sure you can,
but no monkey business,
whatever that means.

No climbing trees,
I guess.

We set off together
through the Square
and down the *****,
she looking back,
I taking in
her thinness
and lank hair,
and that look
of uncertain
despair.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S.
power and beauty
stone and steel.
rise above
mud and wood.
swarmed by
worker ants.
world without end.

wyn is a poet.

a visionary.
monkeys and tigers
stalk welsh hills
the
satanic mills
of his imagination.

he is the blake
of the a470.

did he once see
angels on peckham rye
too?

i expect he did, i expect.

we will not know
unless i ask him.

he will tell.

yet not when
his colleagues
are listening.

he may be shy.

balfour beatty.

sbm
Michael John Oct 2017
we are to marry
before we make 60
i figure as good as
a time as any..

dress up in finery
write some poetry
two gold bands
for all eternity..

we shall honeymoon
in the fenlands
see peckham house
stay at my mums house..
Donall Dempsey May 2017
'BESPANGLING EVERY BOUGH WITH STARS."

Was as if
time had become

visible.

He could see seconds
hanging in the air there

the architecture of a moment
the shape of an hour

laid bare.

Was as if
he could see atoms dancing

into being

becoming one thing
or an other.

Guess he would have been
three or a little more

and the mystery of the world
stood naked before him.

A sort of angels over
Peckham Rye moment

the world lived
in slow motion.

Was as if
he could see

the whole process
an intense focus

one moment the red ball
hurtling towards the sun

and then and then
as if years years later

dropping into his hand again
not the red plastic ball

but the sun.

That is how memory
remembers it.

But at the time
it seemed the universe

had come apart
at the seams

and he could be
part of the great wonder.

Here was Mr. Blake's tree
moving me "...to tears of joy

...rather than only a green thing
that stands in the way."

A universe within me
expanding continuously

the big bang
of being

3.
In 1765 at the age of 8, William Blake saw his first vision while walking on Peckham Rye. 'A tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars.'


"The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity... and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself."
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the dead are only riddles,
terse, and peacocking
no more than empty space,
teen goon, less,
without Venetian silk import;
the dead are only riddles,
the living headaches,
prior to a resurrection,
I'd like to play dead,
but be bound to invogorating
the narrative of the living,
came ghost prior to soul,
for the former like leech
clung to the body,
the latter to a gamble for
god...
       socialism of ants...
             no utopia marks today
with a dream of tomorrow...
yesterday? any excuse as need be
making...
        came a thought with
Helsinki... and the finnish blonde who
downed ***** without second asking,
'came the glorious glut of old age,
missing a nun...
              tiara, new riches London,
an Essex garden, a communist promenade,
namely a balcony, und röt...
fickle-t-fickle-t-**** mcqueen memorandum
anorexic ***-metrics...
queasy... past the hubris of
the countryside,
forever enslaved into the debauchery
of the urban environment... closure...
*****, the last, leat expected,
promenade of; puff puff, "eden";
came jazz from the:
*** prior Mongol...
    St. MARY'S DAWN...
                Freud as revolutionary in the salon
as the king of England being exposed
to the throne of thrones  
post the Barking crown,
or the Peckham scittle...
              ******* Rosemary pykies...
           no schlang no boot,
to crib no loot....
       ******* whiney grrr'e'l'ahs...
sensi soot ****...
and in the fraction of 1 to .000,000,000,000...
the circus ridiculous etc....
be gone in a minute,  
pop via missing personna
on a ******* milk carton
the next, calling it
blur when ought to be calling
it beck... short-snort...
delinquency of theatre...
          the remnant of the one lining
less hope, and more,
and aversion to a resurrection.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
ever the death, lazily demanding,
  consecrating one's thought
on the altar predating life itself,
     clothed in shrouds, thick cloths
and shadows,
            came bugging life
       with an impeding delivery
            upon the shattered altar of
such boorish nuances of:
     a killing of time,
       and the american "fascination"
with the anti-thesis of claustrophobia...
up, up their *****,
            they cascade into heaving
a "person" as well as a "safe" space...
             not even a Peckham plonker
would mind a grip of the collar
             whenever enticed to a private
conversation in a public sphere...
        but here we are...
                 how shielded we've become
by irrational fears,
           that the only rational fear there is
to ponder, namely the mortal
   grief lost to a waiting line,
                   is, and has to be, hidden
beneath a layer of irrational fears,
           for the one rationale:
    with life, comes death,
                  to contemplate the immediacy
of the awaiting of,
              is somehow trans-phobic,
         because a fear of spiders or fear
of tight spaces can be better excused
       than the sole mortal wound...
                     american's and their inverted
claustrophobia...
                   touch too soon, touch no less,
far beyond making ****** contact,
let alone speaking with hands to boot...
             an old man can corner you
and you will feel not inhibition of sharing
a space that contains within itself
a boa manifestation of ****** interaction...
h'americans are apparently not rude,
unless, of course, they have occupied
a large urban environment and *******
rude remarks:
               ever the most prying nation
becoming the most defensive with lies
about its openness -
        back in st. petersburg you can
hitch-hike in an urban environment
paying a stranger a few rubels to move you
in the same direction he's heading via,
your finish line...
               because the most profound
understanding of melancholy, in musical terms,
is reserved to the northern men,
attired in the sun,
               because only they can cherish
this depth of sadness,
that sparks a sudden chance at: a joy
of being melancholic...
                   no profound truths ever came
from happily invested abodes of
a people...
                  happiness can return to
a lunatic's guise in spontaneous laughter,
such said impromptu,
       can never balance an inquisitive
sadness,
           a sadness that has a phoenix spark,
waiting right until the very end,        
  to reveal itself in a haunting presence,
a disembodiment of form,
   when the shadow suddenly escapes
the prejudices ascribed to the body
in the eyes of the other...
                     i imagine the myth
that is already the illogical study of
preserving temporal events...
               myths are only rhythms of
space...
              inherited,
          rather than imitated to preserve
the yester-year as also true,
  to the year to pass...
                of the anti-narcissus
   who fell in love with his shadow...
              well... if, félix guattari
                              and gilles deleuze  
could write their thesis on the anti-oedipus,
i too can contend with
the french pretentions...
             no grander movement
in self-introspection than a fascination
with a shadow,
                    that being:
the unbearable stare into
           the reflection in a water, as also in glass...
what a haunting reflection,
      so diluted in the still water,
    in the later invested in glass...
              i can only see the love-affair
with ghosts, half-formed studies of
       a reflection, unclear as to why
narcissus was poseidon's son,
                  rather than a son of hades:
from what became clearer
                in unearthed metals...
                 and to just think,
that glass is derived from handling sand...
            the paradise of the lake,
the life of the river,
                 the chaos of the sea,
where the paradise of a lake
is a discussion of man and the gods,
   where the life of the river
is a discussion of man and man,
where the chaos of the sea
         is the discussion between
   gods and their fathers, the titans.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
you've never experienced hell,
if you haven't sat through it,
unless standing,
        muddied foot,
            soaking rifle,
              all because some serb
shot, the franz, the ferdinand,
the kneeling austro-hungarian
alliance...
                tod hat ein atem...
           name me the three
witches of Hamlet...
                  i can name you one
i can name one for you...
                   horpyna...
                a dog barks,
a son falls to his death in
a bike accident...
                  one now prays
for a worthwhile attendence
to encompass mourners...
                  circling,
            *****-pyna..
           or -pýna(h)
                          otherwise...
are we all actually
                              literate?
         are you sure?
i'm not so sure...
                   but i find the ones
who are not so literate
to be soft cuddly avatars of
   panda...
                    dried out U
in the centaur vision of bow,
and arrow: V...
                    death doesn't hunt,
death, stalks...
          tod tut nicht jagd,
                    tod stengel...
            otherwise known as:
                             schnüffelngriff...
mein schnout...
                      brigadier hooond over 'ere
made a perfect
                      Peckham accent...
      hiding the H
    really allowed the yew...
to sprout...
               tender living beast,
what will you do without
this ukrainian witch
           believed to be a 6ft man?
               point being...
how do you actually hollow out
the Y in hush on a leash,
                          beginning with eng-?
surf the big or little dipper
sort of phrase...
                             how?!
not once did, hail zeus!
         mention this tetragrammaton
construct!
                   je sui(s),
                            hail zeus!
and the son of?
                    thitch quang duke?
you know, that burning monk...
           no point mentioning
anyone post-script
               malcolm browne...
now...
     smoking pieces of salmon flesh
is fine by me,
        but doing
the same to, whiskey?!
                shim-shimeney
shim-shim: **** surreal...
                        mary *******
poppins dropped in on this antic
and, herself asked,
       stop this ****** perfume
crafting;
              well, that really wasn't
a question,
      but neither was 1950s
experiment with cinematic
    application
of technicolour,
      notably: ooh...
           glocke, buch und kerze
      (bell, book and candle)
       nineteen... fifty... eight...
    or as otherwise stated:
           god, hates, the lords, of salem...
   never spent an hour
with a bulgarian ******* then,
i gather?
                then you probably don't
know,
               what the madonna-*****
complex is...
             point being:
     i know what a flacid,
           compared to an ***** phallus is.
Yenson May 2022
But he is already dead
the living carcass of Cain
he died in weakened bones
when without strength or vigour
his and his trawled the hot equators
looting and plundering without hearts or shame

and then once more again
he died as the stolen and chained
grew in his harbours under his nose
to thrive and grow and buy his inheritance
and right in his face they made millions and more
to earn places in hallowed halls exempt to the likes of him

but cowards die a thousand times
for those from plantations are now Doctors
some Lawyers and Accountants or governing Offices
while our prodigals go caps in hand begging Welfare checks
stealing from neighbours as Taxi-drivers **** their little sisters
and boiling in red rages as the new black are the rich colours now

our living carcass died long ago
not in honour or grace but in riled envy
wearing yesterdays cloak of disgrace and shame
borrowing tomorrow mirages to find himself and relevance
dancing in woke shattered idioms with regressive forked tongues
the pathetic relics now indented thugs of the Peckham Revolution Party

— The End —