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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.do you really need a disclaimer, for this sort of work? no, not really... it's not exactly being allowed the equivalency of dropping an in excess of 2000mg of paracetamol.

the one aspect of legacy media, that still has some viability, akin to rekindling the famous extract from the movie: all the presidents men... is concerns for metal health issues of youngsters, who didn't have, the, "privilege" of being exposed to internet ergonomics, other than within the confines of gaming, they came far too late for, what replaced mp3 sharing.... ideas are not exactly sound-bites of copyright infringement...

**** me... do i really have to slap then punch
myself in the face, to remotely stay
awake while drinking ***** like pepsi
sharpshooters?
     i guess so...

   i too, "suffered" from roman bulimia,
the classical kind...
   don't ask me how i managed to make
the esophagus contender of the heart,
muscle...
                 at first it was cheap choc down
the throat, missing on brushing my
teeth for 48 hours...
   then... ******* down the throat,
like the ****-style gimmick of the Watergate
informant...
       came back up, bundled in quasi turds
packages...
               classical Roman bulimia -
eat, regurgitate, eat some more,
hell, now you have a Pompeii style
banquet of the coming of age...
laxatives?
that's no bulimia...
  bulimia is an extension of an ancient
Roman practice, akin to throwing yourself
****-naked into a nettle shrub area...
to get the "itches"...
     that method, involved in energizing
the neuron extension of the skin...
              it's a "placebo" itch...
   nettles, ancient Romans,
and bulimia like the rite of a loss of
virginity of kings...
      festering at its core... of the French court...
with a *****'s teaching apparatus,
leveraging the use of, a single "tool"...
           and even though the ancient Romans
never reached my people...
i get to abuse their phonetic encoding stratum...
bulimia... sure... i, "suffered" from it...
not really, no... i ******* enjoyed
the regurgitation process...
   anti-Grecian pederasty gimmick...
(a) taking a ****
   (b) oral regurgitation
   imitating an ancient Roman banquet
(c) / (d) ensuring the two entry points
are filled by an external source -
wishing for vanilla custard *******...
none to be...
    oops...
               so no one taught these girls
about ancient Roman bulimic
practices?
   you work on the esophagus...
                       by the time i finished
the transition period...
  i automated the esophagus reaction...
like training gymnastics for a six-pack...
no longer ******* down the throat...
you say charge? i think of
a rhino juggernaut...
           so no one bothered these girls
introducing ancient methodologies
to their predicament?
    no training of the esophagus,
no two (index + middle) fingers down
their throat to ease their larynx from
a gagging order?
    none of it?
   they'll grow out of it!
i did...
       drink a liter of ***** per day
and i'm feeling: shimmy!
          upon each nocturnal investment
that i translate into writing...
      anorexia?
    give them excess coffee...
              or strong cider...
      the most pristine aperitif...
    you can't cure anorexia with either
drips or syringes...
   you need aperitifs...
                     but please don't give them
white vinegar...
           you need a balance of alcohol
overcoming the sugars...
     strong beer is alcohol overcoming
starches... won't work...
     coffee and sugar helps...
  both simulate the pristine form of
the marijuana *****...
             it's not poison...
so why should i care?
   oh but i do care... reading this article...
troubled teenagers dodge Instagtram
   curbs on photos glorifying self-harm
...
ever tried burning out a cigarette tip
on your knuckle?
   ever wondered about
    warming up a hand of scissors and
giving yourself an indie tattoo?
   while at the same time...
relying on the mouse principle?
i.e. remaining pipsqueak clean from
making any noise?!
              cutting is so crass...
so unimaginative...
  you will not achieve the adrenaline *****
status of a stab-victim...
   there is no element of surprise...
but...
     if you really want to ingest pain?
hmm... hmm?
            heat up a scissor arm...
   and put it against your skin...
            and then... EAT... the pain...
with what you can surmount in and with,
silence...
                   cutting is too... dramatic...
at least burning yourself you have
not achieved the stature of a shedding blood...
cleaner, more effective,
think of orange recycling bags
collected at the start of the week...

              **** me though...
you seen the comradely behavior
of competing athletes, at the european
championships in Berlin,
   with the pole vaulters?
   Armand Duplantis -
congratulated for having crossed
the 6m benchmark of respectability...
now... that's sport!
football, soccer, basketball,
call it what you like...
   that's not sport, that's business,
that's advertisement...
     that's concussion cover-ups...

Epke Zonderland? also a doctor...
communist Poland believed in
sport, sport on the side,
   sport was never to reach status
of a mono-career investment...
            most of the local football
players from my hometown,
also worked less hours in
the metallurgy plant...
                  that's sport...
   a healthy balance...
which, mainstream sport is lacking...
oh look...
   the women doing the hammer throw,
or the discus...
   not exactly Vogue / Chanel catwalk
material...
    mandible beauties...

    to be honest? the doping affair
in the Olympic sports?
   but a minor setback of credibility...
     i rather watch that...
   than those pitiable 22 ballerinas in soccer.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.
Jennifer DeLong Nov 2018
I never thought I'd meet a animal
as unique as you
The moment , I saw you
my heart just knew
I was gonna love every minute
being with you
You were not mine as of yet
But you came to live with me
and so happy I was
You had the most funny
most goofy attitude
and you were the cutest
babygirl !!
Everywhere I took you
People got such a joy
from seeing you
Having a hedgehog
But not any hedgehog
I had you
I watched you explore
cooked up treats for you
I now miss those time
you poked me a time or two
I miss being awoken at night
You running on your wheel
scratching and burrowing
I miss holding you
That was the best
loving you watching you
sleep on my chest
I miss you my sweetest girl
Today , I had to say goodbye
It was the hardest thing to do
I now am lost
I wake up there's no you
miss hearing you play
you scratching about
It's lonely here
but your with me always
I know we will meet again
So keep chasing butterflies
And I'll enjoy our memories
We were quite a pair
Have Pippy will travel
Now what am I gonna do
Cause there's no replacing you
Forever my friend
Forever My Pipsqueak
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
© Jennifer Delong 11/11/18
My beloved babygirl my hedgehog passed away on veterans day ..She choose to pass on the same day my dad did 17 yrs ago.
I miss her terribly. She was a pygmy & lived 4 yrs , She didn't want to leave so she gave me another year..Always w you Always w me
Wade Redfearn Sep 2010
He loved it when she slid up
to him, as sweet as a sprinkle doughnut -
but now, something has befallen her,
she's been burned or frozen, tastes more like
cinnamon raisin; but by virtue of his
firelit face and tall tales,
he still gets invited out.
_________

He creaks upstairs an hour late, we
are already tangled up on the
back porch, smoking, and the
liquor has made everything
an economy of scale.

He is a ray of sunshine. Tells us
all the old groaners. The big fish.
Ultimately says, "Happy birthday.
Never let your guard down."
and hobbles off, with barb-wire chafing
his heel, and the rheumatic suspicion
that "rest" and "wellness" are
the fables taught to us by
bogeymen, trying to convince us
there are no bogeymen.

I am a tender Twenty tonight.
I want to twirl my fists in Muhammad Ali speedbag-spirals,
saying, "I am the champion. Never undefended."
But I am too drunk, and maybe
too humiliated.

God! He floats like painkillers. He stings like loss.

There he is, the tall order, the iron giant:
a two-story brainfreeze milkshake.

I shudder, a pipsqueak of a prizefighter.
The bucktoothed squirt at the icecream booth,
too short to notice that there are only three flavours.
And all of them involve pistachios! Gasp!
Jerry Howarth Feb 2022
This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
it was brutal past these two days,
pedantry and what not,
first came the lacklustre observation
that needed changing given the perfectionism of coining the phrase:
machina non ex ego,
then came the familiar “god” barricaded with
what proper pronoun usage there is
in the omnipresent and omnitempus rubric will allow,
what’s the first person present acquisitive collective of i in latin?
it’s clearly stated that it’s poached egg...
so me and my totem the fox tonight, the streets empty,
november rain warming the air...
guns ‘n’ roses could be playing in the background
and a wedding of trendowata / trędowata
(helen mniszków) / ***** / i.e. ń
where the bride dies on the honeymoon...
once in a honeymoon the blue moon makes a joke...
been here, done that, let’s mash up the tango with the foxtrot
while genuine genesis gets the ****-off-factor thumbs up...
peter gabriel never made it to the pop section of critics...
he remained hidden in the realm of late-composition
of mahler and whoever decided slapping lycra pants on
frying pans was definitely music.
hey, my sarcastic humour is back... which means i’m
sitting in an easy chair, drinking whiskey, listening to music...
no, actually my lower back is aching while i type
on a dinner table chair...
so the pedantic masochism that got me hot & bothered
for the past two days was changing: machina ex non-ego
to machina non ex ego
(it wasn't me... shaggy... who thought up
the need for traffic wardens... penalties for parking
on double yellow... or the one who
required michelin-star dining...
or the one who kicked a sphere into a rectangle...
i'm not the one who can claim
such social engineering... i'm not the one
behind the tomahawk...
or calling the mayan diety of wind and rain
hurakan like the polish aversion of something
behind storms an alt. spelling via huragan)...
god almighty... did you see the weather forecasts for december?
horrific!
nietzsche famously ignored america...
joseph roth didn’t...
now i’m at the stage of stealing shadows, given the theory
of actors stealing other people’s shadows, recipients
of life or not...
the only way to steal shadows from actors is in the cognitive approach...
make complete dumb-arses smart, turn the quote inside out
and forget existential ambiguity of single word meanings...
forget the spoken interpretation of the linear tetramarca (“ “)
ditto with theapprox. markings as solved, due to the explanation:
i think i said... not i think i doubted that meaning originally...
let me just change the spelling of what’s intended...
ah hell with it: “i” is worse than ~i.
this bombing of daesh is going to hurt the west...
i know why... the russians know why...
they’re doing the puppeteer tactic of war...
get a weak ruler on the throne... heat the throne up...
see the wax of the puppet melt...
see... russia sided with the assad regime...
the west didn’t side with anyone...
i can see a moral angle in favour of russia...
it bombs because it knows assad, bashar allah sad...
it wants the old honours back for the kingpin jim yong ping pong uno
(a.k.a. deep-blue-pong solo with a brick wall),
the west is playing english roulette...
it’s still the same wheel of fortune...
but the ***** are bigger... perhaps smaller...
throw a single grain of pepper / salt in for the gamble...
that’s the west for me... ****** **** ignoramus,
the ****** third cousin of the motivational coach of **** bred kim carmageddon:
oi guv! spare us a tickle!
but you know what i really really love... memories:
the time i read of kierkegaard’s faustian theory of dominion,
when a man can turn a bright spark of femininity
into a juvenille gamer too nervous to stop playing a game
and engage in conversation...
god that girl was something... but then she turned into a little
mouse who could pipsqueak the whole truth
under “supposed” interrogation...
you know that abraham came from the city called Ur
which is modern iraq?
no, you see, kierkegaard’s theory of faust, or faustian sexuality
in the book either / or is perfectly matched up
with don juan’s misogynistic polygamy - the village bicycle analogy -
he eventually becomes a conquered piece of meat
once thought to be the hand under the shawl of saint teresa...
the beatles v. the rolling stones?
bob dylan v. dylan thomas?
that quote from the devil’s advocat by al cappuccino:
‘i’m the ultimate humanist,
i’m the hand under mona lisa’s skirt!’
i vow my entry... you can have mona lisa...
my hand went right up under saint teresa’s shawl.
then i get an answer from ol’ pizza pound...
cantos xliii & xliv are undecipherable... until the usura sequence...
but then again...
he does mention a hill in canto xlii...
which could be a metaphor for the salmon swimming upstream
in the river known as writer’s block.
captured in the psych ward, the day they got the school bully from the 1980s



you see tom kennersin was the biggest bully of the 1980s and he wanted to get away

with it, so much, he told his victims if they tell anyone, he will punch them 3 times over

and the police, on the night they caught him, thought tom was a bully and not mentally ill

but after reading about his case in the paper, ron thought, he can save tom from prison

with the right medication, and if he bullies anyone at the HDU, ron said he will give his a

big dose of ******, and besides which ron was confident that he can reformed, and ron

went to his usual cafe to buy coffee and bacon and eggs and then rang the police to find out

whether tom can be put on ant-psychotic medication and police said we will see what we can do,

and ron left the cafe to go to the hospital and the other nurses didn’t share ron’s enthusuissm

about tom coming to the HDU because he needs to be medicated because his crimes date back

to the 1980s, and as soon as he started work tom was put in the HDU, and got in a conversation

with charlie chaplin about all the silent movies he did, and ron took tom aside to talk to him about

what triggers him off, and tom said, when he was a child, he heard voices from computer geeky adults

saying kidnap the bully tommy, kidnap the bully tommy and if tom tries to bully us, we will tie his hands

and legs together, and tom said when he was a child he was bullied by a man who impersonates different

people just like him, because by impersonating the different people, he had it in his mind to one day kidnap

them and tease them good, and the man will say come pn get the geek, kidnap him punch him in the gut

and tom said since that day tom thought everyone wanted to bully as well as fight and tom would bully someone

and go heh heh heh i got ya, you don’t know where your latest meal is coming from, and the voices were driving him mad

but telling his parents wasn’t an option, so he decided to take out all his frustration on all his victims, but he wanted

everyone to do as people say, but ron said, how about now, do you want to bully now, and what brings you in here

and tom said, i bashed my woman, and i haven’t heard whether she woke up or not and ron asked, why did you bash her

and tom said she planted voices in my head saying, if we can get tom off the couch, we won’t need to be little school kids

and it will be easy for us to move on, and ron said, are you sure they are bad voices, they are telling you that they are move on

and tom said, are you calling me a liar, and ron said, no, but you must get the voices out of your head, what do you do to fill in time

at home, and tom said, i am an artist and a writer and a youtube helper which means, i read stuff on youtube and people watch and comment

and, doc, i have 20,000 views on my opinion  on juvenile crime, and i have had bad replies saying i committed a crime when i was young

so why can’t they,tom said, my parents were so strict, my only source of fun is going out with bernie my nerdy friend and my fists got me what

i want at school, and ron asked, tom, did you ever bash bernie and tom said once or twice, but they were friendly fights, and every time

tom abd bernie went out, the people were driving in their cars saying, your getting kidnapped now, kidnapped, is what will happen to you

and ron said, you are a bully and a big bloke, so why are you worried about people kidnapping you and tom said, because of all the bad stuff

that i did, people who are bigger than me, could throw a bag over me and **** me, and doc, i don’t want to die, no way no fear

and i want you to fucken get these voices out of my head because i might’ve been a bully but  in ever killed nobody, and ron said

i think you are suffering in your voices and, i will put you on a drug called seroquel to control these horrible voices out of your head

and tom stopped talking to ron and went over to patty roe who said he was george washington and tom said, shut up pipsqueak

in a real squeaky voice, at 3.30 pm tom joined a HDU hearing voices group where he learnt a lot and at 5.00pm ron bought the dinners out

and tom said, do you expect me to eat this trash and ron said, if you don’t eat this, you don’t eat, you go without and tom ate it, and like all people

hates psych ward food and then at 7.15 pm, rom bought out the medications, and then clocked off and bought pizza and lost himself in front of the box

and the next day tom was getting frustrated until ron turned up and today ron thought that tom could enjoy  the art group in the HDU art space

and befotre tom said no, ron thought, the more activities he does, the sooner he could get out and ron gave him some seroquel  and said

to ron, i was asked to take drugs once from a mate named brian, but i ******* away from there and i never took drugs again but i still bullied

anyone who got in my way, but then at the age 0f 33, tom lost both his parents in a car accident and ron bought tom into the art group which tom enjoyed

a lot, and in the afternoon tom got in a fist fight with ronald because of a difference of opinion on the news and ron gave them both some valiu,

which makes them wake up just before dinner and when ron bought the medications out,it took 34 minutes and he clocked off and retired to the couch

with microwave popcorn and microwave pizza and tom kept the HDU awake trying to bully to get what he wants.
Richard j Heby Mar 2016
yule tide outside, an
arsonist alights
a dead evergreen, and the
cunning fox trots
tirelessly to the fire-
man who gathers the
ipish pipsqueak.

You laugh far away, much
later.
#acrostic
zebra Jul 2019
she moves her mouth
wet lip chatter and eating
it makes me think
of her pinkish ****** lips
and her tender tawny ******
like a lollypop
a surprise tootsie roll center
with a urethral delicate opening
the **** eye
her pipsqueak fig staring myopically

a dark vulnerable miasma
it is the shape of gods 3rd eye

a material correspondence
to the heavens
not the sky that whistles through canyons
but the astral worlds of angelics'
a thanksgiving feast
of rebuked back door paradise
a glistening hemic muscle
vomiting stormy air
for my throbbing nightingale protuberance.

as it swells imperious *****
and raptures tight waving spasm's
from long smooth canoe strokes
squirting succotash and tadpoles
into her velvet
banana booth
chapel of ****

and greedy ache
smothers gloriously
this melodic snake
in her one eyed doll head

she smiles
i need it in the ***

and i asked
as it winked a drivel

dark floret  
do you love me?
******
...Yuletide pageants vis a vis merry go round revisited

healthy progeny regaled being alive
analogous to children ecstatic twenty-five
on December exhaling joie de vivre at dive
in into neat stack of wrapped gifts, when...
what! out of thin air more arrive.

Panoply of mystical elements of holly day house style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)

two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
the veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)
starry-eyed imagination

as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed the stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)

inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodgepodge, mish-mashed, helter skelter

eclectic December twenty-fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths

a brewed nebulous concoction
within a mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, wetting
disparate constituent beliefs

contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying a high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender PetSmart impact,
where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation,
flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated
viz Roman Sol Invictus

wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal Wiseman

punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into a fiendish frothing furnace

forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the mountain king,

whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths
sanctifying twisted brambles via sprinkling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter

unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy-washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed groupthink
disallowing cynics,

diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant recommended recourse
faced torture amidst a throng of the madding crowd

as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak

taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and wherefores, which controlled each green day
and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres

lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman
or child with flaming torches

licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
When I was a child, at Halloween
I’d go out to trick or treat,
With Pam, and Sam, and Wriggly Ann
Just us in the dark, cold street,
We’d knock on the doors of folk we knew
And they’d give us a sweet, or cake,
But those who wouldn’t come to the door,
We thought they were cruel, or fake.

We’d look for a gnome, or garden tool,
We’d sneak right into their shed,
Stand up a rake, and play the fool
Stick a pumpkin there for its head,
And then we’d giggle and run away,
Go to the house next door,
And sometimes,  eating the proffered cake
We’d laugh at the neighbour’s roar.

We’d finished the street one night, and turned
To a place called Shady Lane,
It wasn’t a place we’d often go
For the folk there were insane.
They hated children, they hated pets,
We thought that they’d ate our dog,
Had lured it off on a misty night
When the town was covered in smog.

‘Let’s trick or treat the Lavorsky’s,’ said
The pipsqueak, Wriggly Ann,
‘Only if you will knock on the door
While we stand back,’ said Sam.
The house was dark, there wasn’t a light
And the Moon was hid in a cloud,
It loomed up there in the darkness like
A monster, wrapped in a shroud.

She knocked three times and we all stood back
Were getting ready to run,
With only Ann on the welcome mat
We thought he might have a gun.
The door had creaked and a hand shot out,
Grabbed Wriggly Ann by the scruff,
Then hauled her in and the door slammed shut
And Pamela screamed, took off.

I looked at Sam and he looked at me
As we both stood still, in shock,
‘Maybe they’re going to have her for tea
Like they did with our poodle, ****!’
We skirted round on the garden path
Til we came to their rustic shed,
Opened the door, and there on the floor
Was Mrs. Lavorsky, dead!

Her eyes were wide, and shone in the dark
Her jaw sagged open and slack,
Her hands in a rigor mortis claw
Were raised, as if to attack.
And Sam had screamed like a little girl
(He never could live that down),
He fainted, fell right there on his back
On Mrs. Lavorsky’s gown.

Her husband didn’t know she was dead
Til the police came round that night,
But then he left her, there in the shed
For the hearse to collect, first light.
While Wriggly Ann was safe inside
Was stuffing her face with cake,
That Mr. Lavorsky’d laid on out,
The last that his wife would bake.

David Lewis Paget
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
żar nal girsz-ghee-oh-baksyl; dar gisz kubteel,
wła di koph teal?! ki goor kar yam... ba ga knee!

he who instils fear in others...
instils the same fear in himself,
as the shaky knees test
to see whether instilling fear works,
and loving in return becomes
a shadow of a pebble when
the shadow of the mountain illuminates
further than the footsteps dare print
onto it into the helium sphere of expression
sounding depressed: pipsqueak & chipmunks
don't make you laugh? but they'll
make you buy an output of civilisation
of the no. 1 single sung in that ultra-soprano:
i almost wished to have written ultra-castrato...
but then i realised,
the popes loved eating scrambled eggs
for breakfast... so there was nothing left to *squeeze
.
Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)

two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmass tree)
starry eyed imagination

as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)

inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodge podge, mished mashed, helter skelter

eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manicheaism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths

brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs

contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman

punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into fiendish frothing furnace
forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the moutain king,

whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths
sanctifying twisted brambles via springling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter

unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed group think
disallowing cynics,

diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant reccommended recourse
faced torture amidst throng of madding crowd

as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak

taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and whyfores, which controlled each green day
and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres

lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman or child with flaming torches
licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
Eric Babsy Sep 2018
You are fake when you are there.
You make me lead a life of damage so disappear.
We are not talking all that gobbledygook.
If you do not know what you did to my life just look.
No more of me trying to placate around.
I can not find anyone to listen right now.
You just scuttle along your business.
Because you ripped me away from my true path of this existence.
Always the one to make me a maladroit.
Sometimes I think you do this to annoy.
It made me feel like a pipsqueak in a vast universe.
You will never make the grade with the past you coerce.
You were always the one to instigate me to aggress.
A kind of quality I could not digest.
My heart is beating like a rataplan.
If you think I can’t stop you, I can.
This is my final written gesture.
Now my life will no longer fester.
I grow forever fonder.
Because I will no longer sit and ponder.
As the years grow faster.
The years you took forever will remain a disaster.
I have been made an ugly creature.
So sit back and enjoy what fight I have left in here.
Here are the new rules.
I have you in stitches, so do not move.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
the dream began long before the sleep overcame
me...
   lazy architect of the clouds:
what was it going to be this time:
per usual: castle, swan... a death mask -
ruminations of the future?

                     a violin quarter op. 17
no. 4... or as i imagined it before
sleep dragged me below the waves
into the deepest caves before it plucked
out my eyes and have me tears
or shed in watercolours...

   something so tender as this poem ought
to break into a thousand pieces...
or however many letters there are to match...

standing on Waterloo Bridge... playing that ******
violin... however crudely...
a pocket of fame so tiny that would
spread until... some other violinist heard
of the antics taking stage...
   a dream... that didn't catch me by surprise...
not lingering like a dream: proper...
which might take up at least the whole
morning of a tomorrow upon waking
and bewilder and amaze...
  
            such that i promised myself:
not a sip of that fine Mount Gay Eclipse
***... never: i hope never again will you drink
"thinking" you might write something:
at worst! tender sips only after something
blessedly sober was started during
the business of a day...

               an alternative to the Italian risotto
or a Spanish paella?
none other! the Biryani!
  oh the spices at my disposal...
a black cardamom pod
4 green cardamom pods
a piece of acacia bark (sorry...
  out of cinnamon!)
   3/4 tsp of fennel seeds...
caraway seeds, cumin seeds...
coriander seeds. black peppercorns...
a star anise...
6 cloves
      a bay leaf...

something from Norwegian poetry?
olaf bull?

og jeg, en levende mand, paa jorden hjemme
and i, a living man, with earth my dwelling...
som jeg, en død mand, paa jorden hjemme (begrenset)...

but i'm not going to learn Norwegian
on these isles...
it would make some sense
to learn Danish for a historical
whim or German...

then again... my bet it on either
Romanian or Turkish...
a today... at the Turkish barbers'
i only instructed him:

keep the length (of beard):
   but tidy the rest up...
tut(mak) uzunluk nın-nin sakal:
ancak temiz...

well i sat down in the waiting line while
the other turkish barber was finishing
off a customer... working with the electric
razor around the stubble...
strange sounds...
i've heard of iron stubble...
the sound of shaving never sounded
so... glass on a chalkboard...
a piano shattering...
something felt odd: like someone
was playing me a Turkish film
with Armenian dubbing...

so he shaved and shaved and i looked
on... does an electric razor mowing
stubble make that sort of, "sound"?!
it was only when my usual barber:
the one i modelled for once
when i came in like a homeless man
and 20kg overweight...
he took photos of before & after:
pointed me toward seat no. 2
did i finally come to grips with the sounds...

ha!
a cage with two budgies - budge-rigours...
budgerigars was placed in the corner...
two jittery little fellows...
i sat back closed my eyes and relaxed...
better than a *******:
ah... with ******* you need to staple your
eyes open to your eyebrows...
but getting your beard trimmed?
nothing to it... like kissing metal...
oddly enough either i was relaxed
or my barber was relaxed...
not a ******* pipsqueak from the two
birds...
a vibrating sense of contentment
a bit like...
when was the only time you saw
a bulldog content?
in the company of another bulldog...

now that's what i call a barber shop...
when he finished i was asked by
the other barber whether i wanted
to a cup of coffee...
my barber offered me a hot towel...
i refused both...
i'm pretty sure this was a way
to make new friends...
or rather: have some backup should
a funeral take place tomorrow...

maybe i have been living in England
for so long that... i might look English:
like the Turkish ******* remarked...
but i feel... neither here... nor there...
if i were to go back to my native birthplace:
i'd be alien too: not engrossed in
the politics in the culture in the everyday:
starting from: "born yesterday":
engrossed in the culture & politics of England...
but hardly "born & bred" as one
former fwend of mine: child of Egyptian /
Iranian immigrants remarked...
i can switch off from all the saturation
and read some Knausgaard in ******...

right now... i've just spent a mad hour cycling
and i'm going to sip some proper whiskey-esque
*** without the stealth assassin / an agitator
of a diluter of spirits... caffeine murderer of
a carbonated caramel ****...
i'll drink it straight over some ice...

an hour well spent...
  for all that's currently music: lyrical constipation:
i need to relearn how to breath:
to even think...
revisiting that dream i never had
that began with Haydn's op. 17 no. 4...
just the violins... no need for drum-tactic rhythm...
we're all "im-der-hier"... in the here...
"im-der-jetzt"... in the now...
but never really: must be lagging...
daydreaming or otherwise wishing it was
otherwise...

would taking the offer of a coffee and a hot
towel made so much of a difference...
or would i just have set there like
a ******* pile-on-steam-of-****?!
i love the smell of manure in the morning...
i love the smell of manure in the foggy morning...
i love the smell of manure when i'm
planting a new tree and it grows to be over
8ft tall after planting the original bonsai plum
some 7 years prior...

even in classical music:
there's the music that's there: played to death
& a second death that's boredom
that's only used to diffuse fame...
Haydn's op. 20 no. 4: that's how
a mousetrap ought to work...

niche listening: there will always be
someone reading something by Stephen King...
otherwise... spend a year on the oeuvre
of some composer...
at least the composers never fail:
produce "too much": then listen to it
being filtered down... sharpened to:
a bugging nugget of praise...

all that's pop is not necessary...
unless: utilised for pedagogic tactics...
breathe the air! there are no percussion instruments!
barricade the doors to your mind
with the wind of violins!

seems only fair that since i've had
my beard trimmed by a Turkish specialist...
speck? ***** & span... no...
speZ... if i am to write someone of my own
i'm drowning in the works of others
and there's 7am to mind...
there's defrosting two fridge-freezers too...
the sensibility of waking up
moderately sober...
all that's day and all that's a masquerade!

trivial things: poetry: porcelain...
but they shouldn't be so easily: quashed...
now that everyone can readily
read: write... somehow... long before
poetics was pushed aside...
of all people... if the Vikings are to be
somehow... envied... emulated...
ingenious thieves that they were...
at least they kept words somehow
sacred...
while they exhausted each limb from limb...
a body wed to the earth
a mind wed to the air...
and all congregating in sun, fire & water...
perhaps some mead some
frost... fog and shadow...

how i envy the almost first men
and their chemical eureka upon eureka of
the first intoxication with beer!
not this intellectual: morose flight of body
anchored down by the more heavier extraction
of run: run: ***-***-**-here-we-go!

let it not be another knock-out night for me
on this tired plank of wood i dare to call
ship: but i'm dried up on what's
language: trapped in conventionalities
of passer-by conversations that are hardly
that...

of course this couldn't be a lament:
i would regret a good conversation
since the *** is almost as good or if not better
than any whiskey...
a good conversation would get me off
my rockers all the more...
but then the fear of sobering up
in the middle of it...
for the proper K.O. i'll wait for the chemicals
to take charge... while i'll play both
mouse & fox & sneak downstairs for
a glass of milk...

architects of dreams: best to appease a
boredom of London by stripping it down to:
far away... Athens... here in quasi-Sparta
on the outskirts... the ******* emblems of
itching at the sky...
the ****** emblems of stadiums for
which football was made to be: ahem... "footed"?

bypass the standards of any language...
the nouns...
then work around the verbs...
and the adjectives that work as substitutes of verbs...
eh... prepositional, pronoun and conjunction
shrapnel...

presto scherzando: of Haydn's op. 20 no. 4:
a sort of violin does a pilgrims farewell
to the folk dance: hey hey hey trance
which reminds me of...
some modern song...
   very, very: modern...
                
it complete silence: or rather... memory
by now has become a drunken orchestra!
on the tip of my tongue...
ah! yes! corvus corax! herr wirt!
hey hey hey... there are accents of it...
littering Haydn's
presto scherzando: of op. 20 no. 4!

- and to think... i could have had a wife!
- and to think... i could have had a son!
- and to think... i could have had a daughter!

an uncle was a disappointment...
half of my grand-parentage i don't know...
beyond estranged...
cousins etc. long gone: still alive...
my maternal grandmother recently
estranged herself
from her grandson and her daughter
choosing a conspiracy of three
attitude with some cousin and her son...
while my grandfather...
there's pain: exhilarating...
quickly done away with you:
with a butcher's pardon on the guillotine...
then there's: pain: numbing...
relapsing... erosive...

well... i hardly imagine having enough time
to... somehow conjure up a connection
between corvus corax's herr wirt
& haydn's presto scherzando: of op. 20 no. 4...
beside the fire of the television:
how lacerating the warmth
how tongue numbing how...
if only this insomnia was
somehow translated into a transparency...
like my melancholy is a perpetual
hard-on...

all that's intelligent while only ending up
being mere posturing...
all that's plain daft while only ending up
being mere arrogance...
the insensible Kafkaesque tribalism
of the urban peoples...
the masculine aspect forgotten?
new: automated new: muscle loss?
the new wheat? juxtapositions around
cat's persistent inquiry whether the window
is somehow open...
or whether the bed is not yet slept in?

throw in a glass of milk come 1am
and... beside all that's to come with the chemical
circus... from now...
docile wolf still itching: bite a harvest...
sliding doors... the quintessential British
film from the 1990s...
it has to be...
that's me... dreaming of Swiss cheese...
cut with a guillotine... not a knife...
better still...
                     how familiar a curry has
become...
but you try and find the proper rice
to make a biryani not look like some phlegm
suckling stuck together grains of rice...
of a risotto or a paella...
EmperorOfMine Feb 2019
I passed my hat
There was a Jack
I knew I'd have a better Job
The Jack will bow
I rid a cow
Went down to join a raging mob
There stood a king
Next to a queen
Attempting to keep them all calm
I threw a card
I know it's mean
I mean it slid out of my palm
Lined in metal
Sliced off his head
I threw more cause it's just a game
They hopped and chopped
It's called hop-scotch
No one wanted to soon be lame
I found his crown
And fled the scene
My choice of paint is always red
Hear, hear, your king
You better sing
Or the new game will be you're dead
No care the place
I'm there, i'm pleased
That's how I came to gain some fame.
There's isn't peace
But let us feast
I wear my smile like your pain
I'm called Jester
Of all the Suits
Because I equal to their might
Call me a freak
You sad pipsqueak
But all will know that I can fright.
E Nov 2018
You want to know how to grow up?
Want to know how to beat the others to the chase?
Want to be on top and kick the others out?
Here, I'll tell you all I ought to know.

Mistrust your brothers and your dear old mother
Forget about your love interest and never onto another
For who has time to love someone in a world that's against you?
At least, you think that's how it has to be.

When you finally isolate everyone that tried to support you
You have to hold out to last all the way to the final frontier
And when you flick away the weak competition
Pull the trigger on 'ole Pipsqueak and Tiny Tim.

And if you falter in your dominant stance
You might be on the glass as you dance........

Cause if you want to be a man
Who has time for compassion and empathy?
And before you have time to argue if it's wrong or right
You'll be smothered by corporate chains with all its might.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
hell, i needed someone
  with sign language
skills on this one,
             the "joke" was over
a long time ago,
but a "serious" explanation
had to be devised...
o.k.:
   right hand does the O...
with the pinky arching
into a closure on the thumb...
then...
right hand does the >
                using the index
and *******...
then...
     the left hand's index
finger props behind the lying
    and...
           you get a K.

- but never mind that,
i'm listening to all these incels
online and...
      this ugly mug (i.e. me)
   is "worried" as they are,
worried?
         maybe i shouldn't
have looked up to Kant...
i live with people,
but there are interludes
where i can disappear
for around two weeks
from ever interacting with them...
that's almost funny...
               i guess sometimes
my shadow becomes
to clingy...

               now i can understand
the social norm expectations...
i feel them when i go back
"home" while visiting my
grandparents...
  all the old men are like:
where's your girlfriend?!
and i'm "like":
well i can't exactly
   do the Kazakh / Mongol
"thing" of ****** a woman
into submission, can i?
it's not like: oops, here's another
one...
it's not like i can force
them, can i?

          i guess my reasoning
is complete, since i leave a bunch
of old men convinced,
they agree:
    once a woman can buy
her own car, her own this that
and the other,
she's no longer a miss...
but a mrs. (pani - mrs.,
pan - mr. yadda yadda)...

          but that's Poland,
on the resurgence front -
gotta breed...
                      as if world war II
was only a history book
event for me,
   don't know: lucky,
or unlucky,
   i still remember talking
to my great-grandmother
about the war,
scuttling like rats
on the front:
   baby in tow (my grandmother),
giving her makowina
    (*****) to keep the toddler
pipsqueak silent...
so the soldiers wouldn't
get them...
   so basically i have a granny
who was a ****** addict
as a baby...
   in order to keep her mouth
shut...

   and here's me...
            lost impetus for
the reproductive "game"...
         no, not with the english women...
i tried,
went through a french girl,
a russian girl, an australian girl,
a south african girl...
an ukranian girl,
a puerto rican bubbly,
a bisexual thai girl,
an afro-saxon girl
  (yes, black "english"
  girl)...
   and a few bulgar girls...
and that one polish girl
who... licked my face
    in the dead of night
(no, nothing beyond
having my face licked,
that was enlightening,
to say the least)... but...
i don't do fickle,
poncy jane austen crap,
i don't play the: "hunter" mentality,
the "thrill of the hunt"
of cultural darwinism that's
rife in english culture...
i'm either in, or i'm walking
into the ******* sunset with
the **** of the gods (beer)...

why would i bemoan
a bachelor status?
          isn't it enough that i already
have a ******* shadow clinging
onto me?
            two cats are unbearable...
attention ******* their *****
into giving them food...
ugh...
                     now a dog i could
understand...
      incels and girlfriends...
man: i just want a dog...
    a rottweiler,
              or a dobermann,
oh, wait, they outlawed
what dobermann dogs went through
for the aesthetic reasons?
the snipping of the ears...
**** that...
            a dog doesn't look
so pristine with that procedure...
what? m.g.m.
happens to boys all the time...
o.k., o.k. (leo getz style)
just give me that bull-head's
worth of a rottweiler...

                and that's pretty much
all i have to "bemoan"...
i really, ha, ha, really want a dog
to walk with me into
the forest at night...
i'm pretty ******* sure
than no woman would...

           i did, i tried, i failed,
                i just don't know how
to escape the mystery of my own
******* sometimes,
the mysteries of the universe
aren't exactly consolatory compensation...

so yeah... world war II doesn't
exactly belong in the history books
for me...
   the poor woman died in 2011 / 2012...
i still remember her shack
of an apartment,
   and that one story
                  where a beehive
nested in the wardrobe on
her balcony...
            and how she wasn't stung...

yes, in Poland i would experience
social pressures,
calls of abnormality,
   but in England,
being the foreigner...
      led zeppeling: immigrant song...
i'm just your average joe...
           i was warned:
England is the country
of single people...
               i guess i just managed
to fit the criteria...
                      (cry-tier-ya)...

problem, what problem?
    i already have my head up
my own ****
    enjoying myself with
self-deprecating humour...
                         well... that's that, i guess.
Earned to date,
nee absolute zero
academic bankable bragging rites
explained arduous, horrendous, onerous
agonizing, heartbreaking,
nerve wracking travails

hamstringing, hijacking, hobbling...
maximization of potential
e'er since yours truly
begat when ma dada
fired off his johnny rotten *** pistol
handy dandy blues clues unsheathed

******* gun - lobbed more'n blanks
scoring bullseye pregnant truth
discovered ex post facto
yoked target with egg sealant aim
conceived coe idle upstanding ovation
fusion formed diploid
cell signifying zygote

activating, kickstarting, quickening
embryonic biological reproductive processes
intimating swell happening,
where linkedin rocketed payload
snookered triggered ultimately
yielded inchoate homunculus jackanapes

zapped out birth canal
ready for prime crying time
parturition players chemical romance loosed
yawping, writhing, tethering pipsqueak
full term newborn blasted,
the shocked monkey,

accompanied by archangel Peter Gabriel
trusty unnecessary dangling umbilical cord
obstetrician quickly severed
in utero air supply superfluous
initial gulps of oxygen
commenced fretful incessant laborious

ongoing ripsnorting unrelenting
said vicious trauma,
albeit begat courtesy
glommed deoxyribonucleic acid
mercilessly assailing psyche
metaphorically holding hostage

nee actually essentially cannibalizing
analogous to birthing simultaneous
diabolical identical twin doppelgänger
undermining since getco
proper holistic pursuits
evidenced when matriculating

learning fraught
shot thru with abysmal results
post high school
academic endeavors
evidenced by matriculation
without graduation incorporating

half dozen colleges/universities
earning measly grade point average
simultaneously accumulating
shoddy employment record
now saddled with unbridled

penuriousness - scratching out poetry
every now again
this brother grimm
writing endeavors feeble
becoming financially solvent.
So I’ll let your garland of notes
glide over, heal me as if
the pinnacle of medicinal
discovery, vibrato in my arteries;

even the bass, its storm-cloud
laconic dialogue
can be a remedy, prescription-free
pipsqueak blue drops,

each cymbal hiss
a swig of thick ginger fluid
will calm the throat but
keep my heart revving over;

the glass is raised, melody
you give in waves, a tincture
applied to cool, a salve
to channel salvation.
Written: April 2022.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time as part of Savannah Brown's escapril challenge. A link to my Facebook writing page and Instagram page can be found on my HP home page.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
it feels, given the current commentary
that i not stomping through time
writing history, grunting
the minotaur's hot ooze of breath -
what i think? one word answer -
incompetence -
        like a ******* inheritor of a
fortune, expressing a cul de sac of
said, genetic events...
                there's an aversion to
the original freudian concept of,
castration...
                    there's another,
it lies in the basin of the easily agitate
sphere of divorcing ethnicity
with history...
                              the hot-flush
of unease is ever present...
            there's nothing to think about,
really, in all certainty of the certainty
of thought...
            i am not stomping through
history, at the same time making it...
architect supreme...
         what i feel is that i am walking
on egg-shells,
             ballerina of the shadows -
    i'm not making history,
i am either into being nostalgic about
it, or am tired of studying it...
                    the question of women
is past... provided the allowances
of chess...
               medieval women were more
cut-throat than the men...
              scurrying rats is just an image,
and never an analogy...
             imagery metaphor analogue -
contradictory trinity it would seem...
        but i am still inclined to
retain the image of walking on egg shells
rather than stomping, subsequently crushing
human bones...
               the audacity of the forefathers
does not credit me, nor am i their inheritor...
i am balancing on making history:
without actually making one...
                    the eeriness of impotence
that plagues me is of english birth,
and having perfected this tongue,
marking it with the decisive origins shows
me that i cannot fathom it completely...
only in snapshot...
                           it breeds a trans-ethnic
superstition that is advertised,
                               not exactly undue...
but there this: "castration" discomfort
in speaking english without an accent that
might be distinguishable...
notably: conversations where you are
questioned, and never accepted of
the gravity of an answer being undisputed -
namely the lack of etiquette -
whereby in atomic terms:
party a. resembles ?
  while party b. resembles ! -
                           you can only ask so
many questions before there's no question
left, and the narrative leads into:
                                                      nihil / nothing.
i feel, and that is always more valuable
than i think, that i live in un-historical times,
primarily for the lack of nostalgia...
but at the same time the:
  anaemic actors who have no vitality
and merely spread the weißplage -
the white plague...
                who is to wonder why
there shouldn't be an interest in premature
depression of the young that overshadows
the scarcity of premature dementia,
when premature dementia exposes
the seemingly unreachable strata of vocab?
   to me schizophrenia implies:
inhibition, a repression...
                    the budding flower arising
from decay... a fungus growth on a ****...
but premature depression...
       these kids haven't accomplished anything!
i can understand an old man being
hypochondria-prone and melancholic in
having achieved something!
            i call forth the: weißplage...
the white plague...
                           i ought to be a man
stomping with a minotaur's hoof into
history...
                   instead i am a ballerina "dancing"
through a floor of egg shells,
attempting to not make a pipsqueak akin
to a mouse...
               i'd settle for a rat's gnashing jaw chew...
but no...
                     having acquired this language
i've also acquired its historical ailments...
i've overcome the strata of class-theory,
but i've been unable to overcome
the pathology of using this language -
even if i feel castrated for but a split second,
i am, otherwise, dragged down -
ziehennachunten...
                     it's a white plague -
      a mental virus -
  and i too was one of the people who
believe that a solipsistic membrane actually
existed, and that mental illness didn't
have a contagious element to it,
that mental illness had nothing to do with
virology... how wrong i was...
                    with the abandonment of
respecting asylums, western society
has actually invested in a lunatic contagion...
the spread of islam onto the continent
is merely a compliment of the scythe moon
emblem on a flag...
                 and it happens oh so innocently,
an ex-girlfriend calls you up while
you're on the roof, roofing,
  and she cites: hearing voices...
                    i really wish to find someone
who's interested in the virological nature
of the transmission of mental disorders...
               to finally, ******* bury,
this misconception of a rock-solid-****'s-worth
of argument to idealise on a dualism,
but actually engage with the real problem
within a dichotomy...
                 the mind-body to a mind
is no disparity -
                            the body to a mind is
an automaton rather than a mind-body...
              there is a virology and a toxicology
involved in mental illness...
    you know why charles manson exherted
more influence than all the other serial killers?!
   he played the pawns...
    he was the pontius pilate,
he washed his hands clean,
even though they were bloodied...
       in the end there is a messianic connection,
although on the roman side...
                  whereas others bloodied their
hands, he played a mind game...
             be played with plasticine -
                 which just shows history at its most
animate: with hindsight.
he was but a syringe incision,
   and a tsunami of time...
                  while the others were
   a tsunami barrage of **** -
   and in terms of time: a drop in the ocean...
which will always be barely recognisable or
heard by the waiting echo.
                         that sort of model is
the antithesis of Sisyphus...
  a gentle **** of the stone...
   and just watch the avalanche form...
hardly a mein kampf to speak of...
         he figured out the downhill -
because there was never any uphill
                 to begin with...
          my: a tsunami of time...
                      located in a space
              made by a mere needle incision.
Ala Goofus and Gallant
highlights my diametrically
divergent alter egos
always the reserved
obedient docile boy
afeared to stray outside narrow

circumscribed comfort zone
figuratively tethered
extremely short leash
choked me like yoked oxen,
albeit non red dually bullish
under bated breath

otherwise submissive
internalizing fury and rage
relentlessly lambasted
daily school bus ride
analogous highway to hell,
thus envisioned monstrous physique
linkedin to superpowers...

whereby giant beastie boy
within scrawny nerd
visiting jocular comeuppance
bopping "jocks" on their beanies
with rotten tangerines
(Tom Lehrer would be proud)

knocking senseless nasty brutes
gleefully pummeling rapscallions
casually, heroically avenging
purging immediate threat
while smugly jauntily
relishing carefree blessed awesome

fistpumping air joyous ride
duplicating bad *** daring
do dexterously doubling
(wishful) dream come true
one prior pipsqueak - yours truly
punishing pestiferous classmates,

who sadistically doled
out daily dose,
non USDA approved
cavalier fierce injustice
taken aback when mine knuckles
compress hoodlums opprobrious

wicked yakking (actually silenced)
fountainhead spewing toxins
exuberantly effusively ebulliently
cleaning principle ringleader's clocks
at long last
traumatizing measure for measure

antagonistic arch nemesis
inflicting insufferable torment
once passively quaffed ruffians threats,
now all's well that ends well,

no matter yours truly expelled
forever pleasantly humming
merrily merrily, merrily,
merrily, imagined life
tis but a dream.
Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2021 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
Since adopting the guise
of Norwegian bachelor farmer,
I may as well fabricate genetic stock
lock, and barrel linkedin to Celtic legend.

Sentimentalism invariably swelled me *****
regarding how grown former bonny lad,
essentially mutely surfed, finagled, and coursed
one existential nihilistic wave after another
nearly getting drowned in the process

Any non American English
exotic pronunciations in general
and dialects predicated
with United Kingdom in particular
held me spellbound.

Debate ensues that the term brogue comes
from Irish word barróg, meaning
"a hold (on the tongue),"
thus "accent" or "speech impediment."

An alternative etymology suggested
that brogue means 'impediment,'
and that it came from barróg
which is homophonous
with bróg in Munster Irish.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2023 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth.
Above title attests
how mine mundane mein kampf
insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:
flush with adventure overflowing excrement
er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
believe me not, but urination
and defecation née emergency evacuation,
where majority of human league
smell bound with fascination
triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration
culmination of requisite time
sitting atop porcelain goddess
devoid of hesitation and trepidation
herewith follows mine poetic ululation
hoop fully invites veneration.

Poetic embellishment doth belie
ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry
barely invisible to naked eye
bullied (most my entire boyhood)
as scapegoat, I did decry
pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when tawny punk
named Phil (actually a groundhog)
threw suckerpunch witnessing,
yours truly feigned falling
upon wounded knobby knee
to avoid me countenance being pummeled
courtesy knuckle sandwich
they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me more cruel fate
then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne
to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway
adopting role of bachelor farmer,
or even time traveling
back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,
also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing raging machinations
against male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa
guzzled bottles of vermouth
(not really, I admittedly prevaricate)
courtesy late father and mother
resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,
wickedly, violently uncouth
subjected imbalanced earthling
(yours truly - me)
think venomous metaphorical
****** blackened barbs,
viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful
figurative daggers antithesis of truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child - sole son)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh out the womb of young mother
(both parents now long since deceased)
now said heir long in the tooth
wordsmith here wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.
Above title attests how mine mundane mein kampf
insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:
flush with adventure overflowing excrement
er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
believe me not, but urination
and defecation née emergency evacuation
triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration
culmination of requisite time
sitting atop porcelain goddess
devoid of hesitation and trepidation
herewith follows mine poetic ululation
hoop fully invites veneration .

Ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry
barely invisible to naked eye
bullied (most my entire boyhood)
as scapegoat, I did decry
pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when punks
threw suckerpunch witnessing,
yours truly feigned falling
upon wounded knobby knee
to avoid me countenance being pummeled
courtesy knuckle sandwich
they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me more cruel fate
then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne
to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway
or even time traveling
back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,
also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing rage against
male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa
guzzled bottles of vermouth
(not really, I admittedly prevaricate)
courtesy late father and mother
resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,
wickedly, violently uncouth
subjected imbalanced earthling
(yours truly - me)
think venomous metaphorical
****** blackened barbs,
viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful
figurative daggers antithesis of truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child - sole son)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh out the womb of young mother
(both parents now long since deceased)
now said heir long in the tooth
wordsmith here wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.
Q D Malcolm Sep 2020
Pip
"You don't remember me do you?"
She shook her head, hid her face and clutched her mother's jean skirt.
"I used to pick you up and spin you around, the Rollercoaster. You remember the Rollercoaster don't you?"
It was evident that she didn't.
"It's been a long time, she's still so young." Her mother tried to comfort me, as if it were the daughter's fault she didn't recognize her father.
Her deformed, monster of a father.
I didn't mean for my voice to crack, my vocal chords were some of the few things that weren't damaged in the fire. Now they fail me?
"Little Piper," she still hid her face the deep blue denim folds. "Pipsqueak, my  little Pip."
But she turned and ran, she had two little pigtails that waved me goodbye.
Above title attests how mine
mundane mein kampf
flush with adventure overflowing excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
culmination of decades worth
hesitation and trepidation.

Ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones
as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents
unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast
their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding
large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified
verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me cruel as kkk

to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
Gambone builders bought property
razed demesne
nevertheless indelible memories
emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon
many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles
served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing rage against
male offspring would stop.

Inconvenient stated truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh of young blood

yelling hurtful words severely uncouth
(both parents deceased),
now said heir long in the tooth
who wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
fatty deposit usurped
my washboard physique
I can no longer lay claim
as pencil necked geek
mute tinny utterances futile

to write and/or speak
as recourse to cope with
displeasing body morphology
tis good n plenti humor I seek
to offset feeling morose, and

regular exercise regime to tweak
objectionable physiognomy,
would offend classic Greek
aesthetically lean body mass index
even lions, tigers, or bears,

would consider yours truly a freak
actually never in mein kampf,
as lovely bones creak
acceptance of physical,
(nor mental) self e'en as pipsqueak

wrought intimations just short
re: abominable mortal kombat total hate
me snow kidding man plus
loathing mine anatomical trait
invariably pitched mental

health in dire strait
I haint shy stating greater part
of life (mine) where fate
found me beset with feeling morose
inner dialogue tête-à-tête

attributed to more'n
one countless reason
sunk teeth into anorexia
as pit iff full adolescent date
even now chief among

reasons with rhyme, aye lowly rate
being adipose fatty deposit usurped
washboard physique long ancient history
no surprise competency not great

passive withdrawn demeanor set precedent
concomitantly plagued with
submucous cleft palate being risk averse,
in tandem being diminutive height meant
easy scapegoat target leant

convenience and regularly meant
chased, mocked, taunted...
by bullies helped rent
psyche asunder during impressionable years
nonetheless acutely cogent

whatever that might be worth, this gent
laments good n plenti
centsless opportunities got misspent
finding empowerment thru writing only recent
endeavor to cope with
empty nest syndrome event.
Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)
two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)

starry eyed imagination
as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)
inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts

fueled hodge podge, mish mashed, helter skelter
eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths
brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind

loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs
contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman
punishing opposing incorporating

novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into fiendish frothing furnace
forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the mountain king,
whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths

sanctifying twisted brambles via sprinkling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter
unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed group think
disallowing cynics,
diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant recommended recourse

faced torture amidst throng of madding crowd
as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak
taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and whyfores, which accepted traditions
controlled each green day

and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres
lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman
or child with flaming torches
licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
Written ~ December
two thousand seventeen
in case ye dear reader possess
an eye extremely keen
nonetheless just by happenstance
courtesy this human bean  
counter, who also happens
tubby garden variety alien.

Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)
two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)

starry eyed imagination
as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)
inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts

fueled hodge podge, mish mashed, helter skelter
eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths
brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind

loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs
contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman
punishing opposing incorporating

novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into fiendish frothing furnace
forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the mountain king,
whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths

sanctifying twisted brambles via sprinkling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter
unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed group think
disallowing cynics,
diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant reccommended recourse

faced torture amidst throng of madding crowd
as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak
taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and whyfores, which accepted traditions
controlled each green day

and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres
lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman or child with flaming torches
licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
out of sight out of mind:
    otherwise feeding on opinions -
to somehow find
a reactionary me:
   better still: to leech onto
a driftwood of dialectics -
    but this silence of the mind...
i can't call it anything but:
a silence of the mind...
having to arrive late...
   late to a "party"...
                      or...
                    slang... or some:
in-group preference...
details:
it's not enough
   to have a dialectical - yes...
even an ambition...
for the most part...
     it is to have some unshakeable
ideological foundations...
to be persuaded...
to be subverted...
            
well i do have a few of my own:
but i hide them -
not out of shame...
disgruntlement of otherwise:
perhaps i am a coward
or perhaps...
      solo projects akin
to ping pong are just daft...
otherwise cognitively
debilitating...

we: yes... there's a "we" are
pandering to some
moon-settlers project
of beijing...
         culture death my
withering ears...
i could come by tomorrow
as blind...
and... lie in bed all day...
listening to bbc radio 3
wouldn't even cross
my mind as anything
remotely related to either:
bad, or idea...

it's a hardening of arteries...
calling blood the nuanced
fudge...
a simple task for the prison
of life:
like a very important
arithmetic of counting
toothpicks:
    best those not used...

a degrading sadness of an absence...
otherwise nuances:
           a borrowed mishap...
something begging from
an e. e. cummings...
      cut-offs and...
         what years we lived
when there was a nostalgia
for 1950s through to...
   of h'american literature...

the gist of the beatnik mantra...
scraping from the soviet satellites...
a flirtation from beyond
the satellite states that...

      it would be very formidable
in the governing body of silence:
to somehow pester away
the needs of chit-chat...
   small-talk...
                       if only...
         there was a sparrow brain
ingrained in the frivolity of
the stated affair...

points of nuance and some
left-over blues:
this overtly-psyche-complications
of robotic familiarity -
the desire to ask
for water from a stone...
a cuddle from a serpent...
a god from a monkey...

the last known edit and that first
tangling of weapons known
as... etymological-disparity-of-nouns...
or the etymological-noun-congregation...
certainly not among
pronouns or conjunctions...

my grammar skeleton heaving
prose-esque ambitions...
how i don't rhyme or: meter...
such written... mute towing...
for eyes alone...

           a 7am redemption -
a pedestrian employment of:
                 tickling legs...
two minutes apart: or two minutes
together...
   a dry key in a wet keyhole...

the disambiguation of greek...
            from a φ into a θ...
                               under the earth
of a multitude of voices...
some pipsqueak
                loiter of a man...
lumberjack tally...
                 words of shoveling
diamonds as: composed grains of sand...
a loot of a curriculum vitae -
an "inconvenience" of punctuation...
hell... what about teasing
orthography:
it's not like english (language)
will ever pursue orthography...
            
              breaking the bank of metaphysics...
of course english will be
broken parted drawn apart
on the topic of: the language
written and the language spoken...
a language hardly seen...
when:

              loch and chisel make gratitude
of the same meat:
a silesian delight of silesian
potato nuggets... a cow tow of tongue...
in a creamy horseradish sauce...
sparrows attend to the pretences of
small-talk...

my burden of thought:
  moral, ought...
            or the very physicality
of: copernicus ate
a fried egg rather than
scrambled eggs one day...

surd letters: notably the H...
and diacritical application...
e.g. CHeap
               vs.  Čas (time)
or... SHeep vs. Šyk (vogue)
  compiled: SHCH: Щ:
             ŠČ(ek): bark...
to bark: ŠČ-eka-ć
to hide the halved-crown on a letter...
then again: to somehow hide
letter(s)...
             details unconsummated...
rigid details...
satanic ploy of hidden ambitions...
in english: a **** canvas...
perhaps, reminded: as a "waiting"
attempt...
    
it all works perfectly fine...
in the mind of firm rooting posit...
the bilingual is the new schizophrenic...
unshakeable foundations:
dreams up being awake...
slouches toward an inconvenience
of being asleep...

hell-** some quest of a Mr. Shaw...
Jan Huß...
    breaking the crab of Y
and constellation of gamma and upsilon...
detailed art this clinic
of orthography...
but it's no surprise...
the english have no orthological
"questions":
loophole darwinism of the pop
monkey project of metaphysics...

and better quest for nuance
with satellite and aeons and a side
project of: the  silence of saturn...

the celebrated protagonist plot line...
of a tiger...
a lion...
           here: insert herd...
that predators are celebrated...
towing tiger...
           but never in a homogenous
debility of: NO OUTSIDE INFLUENCE...
man borrows: scrutiny...
man plays with leverage and:

a scrutiny of a blinding project.

— The End —