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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.*

why is poetry such a ***** of coding
daily activity...
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t **** god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a *****...
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
after sarcasam...
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like ****... cultish **** of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess *****...
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor ***** words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
the knobs!’
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... ****** me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
A shade of pink,
Surfacing your cheeks,
Pigmenting your lips,
Warming the palms I desire to hold.
Red Tulips;
Whispered words,
From those two lips.
Surrendering sweet traces in the air...
Mornings that were dismissed
With every yearn for being kissed.
Then there's
Your voice
Composing the chorus of my soul's song.
Light brown,
That epic dermis.
Closely forgiving mines.
With a moment. A touch.
I'm incapable of forgetting.
A cluster of emotions.
A beautiful storm.
She creates chaos
In my world that wants it and lusts.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2023
hmm... what's "mote" up to, i wonder?
her usual bathtub god analogies
like... **** me... Edith... no Sylvia Plath
put her apple pie into the oven
instead of: reminiscence of guillotine
imitation: into the ******* oven?
how's "mote"?

what a weird /ˌmeɪnɑːʒ ɑː ˈtrwɑː,

   esp with the flirting on the train...
menopause of 50 year old women
and the ferocity of *** in males
still proposing aged 37...

ugly mothers, soul searching...
i did my psychedelic limbo of lobotomy
when diagnosed as psychotic
yet still freely available to freelance
the ancients' practices of surrogacy
because i liked Reyla
and her version of hide and seek
with three stones thrown into a pull
dive & seek... dive & seek...
horcruxes or... that other parallel...
of giving up your love to people
without killing them...

yummy... ******* yummy...
this is me watching the miracle of
India hosting the world cup of cricket
playing so well while
Diesel Australia played so **** but had
coffee or amphetamines at the final
and won...
just like i supported the Springboks on
Kauai'i... not in Kauai'i...
doof-oos... it's ON rather than IN...
island fuckery...

ah... i'm an artist at hand so i'm all:
tender-*******-sensitive with an aversion
to journalism (critique)
and the whole SHABANG on Pulitzer prize
give-aways...

i'll be drunk by 5pm and asleep by 6pm...

no! India shouldn't habe... HA B'EH won...
don't know... ask Loki or chance or fate or
who-the-*******-else-cares
to treat reality with sugar, salt or spice...
it doesn't matter...
there's reason in unreasoning "things"...
less so with the concern for names:
associative faces... oh... i recognise X...
algebra of familiarity...

like explaining to some Fawad Ahmed douch
about the difference between
the Ukraine Russia conflict and
the Israeli Palestinian conflict...
watch my elbow... it's about to do
a nervous ****... oi oi oink... pretty ink white as
the new pink... oi!

but we can be neutral with the Israeli
brigadiers... of bomb bomb hospitals...
decapitating unborn foetus?!
why is the war in Ukraine unlike
the rekindling of the war in the middle of **** know's
where?
you can't be pro-Russia...
but you can be pro-Israel...
maybe the ****** in me and the...

hardly a question of i.q.
intelligence quotient can be replaced
with: a question of intelligence... a per se Rubik
cube dynamic, per se...
you ******* stupid enough...
"******"-myopic ******* to ask
a question, the question: oculus per oculus,
an eye for an eye definition of...
******* fair bureaucratic alliance to
the thrill of Heraclitus' river?

oh wow... a glimmer of soul...
a cactus warming juice just so squeezed...
a window of azure in the sky... soul...
with the murk of overcast skies that's
the signature symptom of England...
i should have never left these isles
for happy sloppy Elvis was puffy
matras of Hawaii...
i shouldn't have played the stepdad
because it's bringing me: the **** down...

my intelligence has become a burden...
i can spent this day without eating...
i'll drink and go to sleep...
my empathy is a crutch...
my mother tells me i have a good heart:
well... the only heart i know and own...
owning is knowing...

i'm just tired, as a northern European,
of hearing the dicta of miraculous wisdom
of a desert people who can't tell
the ******* difference between
the noun hoof and the verb meow...
just so, at a supermarket...
maybe read "too late"...

  i like rugby... so i wear a south african rugby
jersey...
two black girls at the trolleys...
walk past, kiss of the teeth...
the ****?
oh right... impossible bypass...
what now? now i have to reply with:
by picking my nose you shouldn't
be here, because south africans shouldn't
be in south africa?
picking ******* cotton is not coal mining...

although, rest assured... no chocolate allure
in pigmenting coal... ***** plump ***:
oh oh i get it... "black" women angry...
so is the wind...
now i too want to drink myself into
a savvy slurp of the right kind of optics,
political, sign-language stereotyping...
BLAH BLEE        BUSY-BEE...
******'s with Raj style: oh but we lost the world
cup in cricket: compensate compensate
because Pakistan is not privy
to what Bangladesh is honing in on(!)

oh... i wasn't accused of being a pedohpile...
it was just... ever, so, not so subtly... insinuated...
well **** me: JESUS LOVES IS SUPPOSED
TO LOVE EVERYONE AND EVERYONE
NEEDS THIS SORT OF LOVE OF SADOMASOCHISM!

**** this camel jockey ethic sharing
dynamo of the desert people...
like the Holocaust didn't teach them anything...

— The End —