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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i did study schizophrenia for several years,
i'd 7, in total -
                             but would i agree
with Kraepelin? probably not...
                       after studying five psychiatrists
with the power position of:
                 well... i'm not...
                                          what you think
i am in your attempts to treat me, i learned a great
deal of things... as you know the now infamous
national health service is doing a cracking job
at infuriating junior doctors...
              the media are pressing
for more investment in why no one has bothered
themselves to identify premature depression...
only because... schizophrenia... is... quiet frankly...
a non-medical noun... call it what you want
otherwise... it's a highly polarised name
for the leftist agenda: it's basically medicine:
politicised -
                       i.e. you can be a conservative,
a liberal, a socialist, a ****** fascist...
or a schizophrenic...
                                       i'm just thinking about
genuine sufferers huddling in their dozens saying,
in accordance with the previous name for
the condition (premature dementia):
   why the ****... am i so creative... all of a sudden?
and Nietzsche was right when he said:
individual madness is rare... madness en masse?
that's a norm...
                                 none of those bargain shoppers
waiting overnight in queues to get into
bargain sales at Harrods ever get mentioned...
but to my: i spy with my little eye...
        about a hundred crackpots standing to ovation
(deeply desired) -
                   **** me if you get trapped in this
windmill of the medical joke...
                     the part of medicine that left it open
to allow politics to engage with authentic conditions...
authenticity has a ring to it: John Nash's
Nobel prize medal and diploma will fetch
an apparent $4 million at Sotheby's (if not more)...
   i just can't see how schizophrenic are what
they aren't: wouldn't it be easier to say:
                  the other kind of dualism?
or Geminis without the ****** zodiac talk of:
peasant watching pheasants die at a shooting range?
     i don't want to be believed...
         i have my national security number,
i have my passport number,
   i have my date of birth... and **** me... a telephone number
  +44 01708 766 994...  
                i just hate the fact that people with
this condition aren't acknowledged...
    ****** me off, day in, day out...
                          the peasants just licked the salt
from the wound and added pepper for the extra sting...
it's the one medical condition, not
                 understood, precisely because it was reined in
by politicians... and, let me tell you,
understanding something while practising
rhetoric is how sophists go about their ways...
they're already two timing the ******* crowd,
and they can't seem to address what schizophrenics are:
hallucinatory self-esteem minders: basically:
they don't know how lucky they are...
             symptoms of the Buddha preaching a middle
path... or Nietzsche's beyond good and evil...
                  they are simply exercising
   an experimental duality without a need for
obstructive conscience or lack of it...
             yes, experimental because of the symptoms...
and therefore lacking all the symptoms of someone
without a conscience:
                     enclosed: the subconscious speaks -
and god forbid i like this psychological verbiage...
let's just say i want to make language pharmacological...
    i want to make the ideal pill in terms of language...
but never prescribe anyone anything...
                           but in popular press
the political elite always exploit a genuine
medical condition in order to quash their competitors,
while the genuine sufferers become obsolete
oddities...
                    because why would you first call it
premature dementia (two classes of old people:
the melancholic and the demented...
                the demented are suffering for past and hidden
ills done unto others... the melancholics?
      it is done, and all i have in reward is a television
set and a bribe from death to live 25 years in leisure
watching sea waves and wrinkles tattoo my forehead
with age)...
                         but imagine premature dementia...
(the praecox variation) -
                                    the older name evolved
into a description of en enhanced version of dualism:
or split-mind (******                        could evolve
further into duo-                   or two, rather than split,
            and hence the mind, or -phren) duophren...
the lost impulse to follow-up thinking of choice -
          in the "schizoid's" mind i see
                      the subconscious brimming to its full
potential and reaching a hallucinatory status -
and if ever you thought that auditory hallucination
wasn't the worst imaginable hallucination -
then your Darwinism is shy-locked into
    the fancies of Huxley on mescalin and the hipster
trend of the 1960's escapism...
                  auditory hallucination?
well... you're probably part of the bible crew...
       and that nutty fragrance of your words:
appeals to the few: frightens the villagers...
(**** break, headbutting the cat, yum yum yum)
           or the Sims...
                                  i stopped playing the first
edition after discovering a wormhole when
i steered the Sim to play computer games...
          you know how it goes: you're playing a
game of puppets, you make a puppet go to a computer
and play computer games, you're yourself playing
a computer game... ****! then you stop playing the
computer game.
                that's 7 years studying the disease
(lighter use of language? dis- [negation] of -ease,
          being denied a certain ease of mobility)
                  and not based on theory,
but based on experience...
                                   on the petition so far?
   Bukowski and Burroughs...
                                      obviously icons but not exactly
saints...
                                  but after a while, you sort of
forget scientific positivism...
             they're looking for life on Mars and a Jupiter moon
when they know that the earth as hostile to anything
but volcanic reactions... if there is life on these two
globes: it's way past gone...
                     as already stated,
            schizophrenics are actually the most formidable
political tools: the fear of men in white coats...
  because everyone accepts the apathy due to their
persistent lying (politicians): the men in grey suits...
                        schizophrenics, i'd say,
are the source of all phobias surrounding mankind...
         oddly enough: schizophrenics are the most
adaptable to fathom the divine comedy...
                        it's gone way past Balzac and the human
comedy... it really has...
                                         i just don't like the way
schizophrenics have their condition robbed of any
medical ambition to say something, but instead are
drowned in sophism, a mere rhetorical tool
to scare off opponents... 7 ****** years...
                      and as i began, i'd disagree with
Kraepelin, but agree with Eugen Bleuler -
a Swiss who i thought was an Estonian... never mind...
because psychiatry is at best, a populist version
of philosophy... like Christianity is populist Platonism...
psychiatry is a populist version of philosophy...
   and what we're talking about is not a sigma
interpretation of uniform evolution of species,
but the evolution of words, or, specifically:
compound words - the desire to replenish aged
standards of then original insight:
         premature dementia (dementia praecox),
that evolved into              schizophrenia
                                   (split mind)
                          that had to evolve into a tier of
acceptable dualism -                     casually phrased:
           to be of two-minds                   as in zodiac
in all alchemy shortened to:               the schematic of twins.
obviously the table will not evolve -
                          it's probably a borrowed word
and has its limits - probably Nordic or Germanic
and standardised to a babel transliteration -
             but concerning scientific words...
i see a need for a linguistic Darwinism (fancy words,
coming from someone without an
authoritarian position to prescribe pills to people),
                it has too evolve, primarily because the word
has been underused by the medical profession...
       and has been overused for political despotism in
shaming political competitors and exposé journalists...
       added to the fact that psychiatrists in
England are clueless people who were abused as
children... one even admitted to me,
a confession, musing aloud, not exactly prescribing me
with a delusion, although i gathered just as much:
             oh, he must have been abused as a child -
to which i might have added:
           and turned toward the study of psychiatry to
claim the ultimate fetish'o-sadistic status in society...
   a cowboy psychiatrist.
               they're out there... they're waiting with
the zombie pills...
                                    anything except sleeping pills,
vitamins and high-blood pressure pills...
             i'd flush down the toilet:
well sure, i used to weigh as much as i do now...
the weight doesn't make me uncomfortable...
               i went down from 101kg to 70kg
       over one summer riding my bicycle i
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
in my once apathetically empty chest, i now hold her broken heart, and as all concerns for the phobia of psychiatry, the one phobia psychiatrists have with regards to their patients is when a patient expresses empathy for others; ‘discharged!’ and they do so with a fidgety eye.

in the windy roads of rise park, an affluent scrape of
essex grime, a man alone, walked
impromptu bob dylan command to use the ballerina
footprint for a bit,
well, so he walked and thought about throwing pepper
at his shadow in anticipation of jungian shadow concept
detachment from orthodox cognition down the road
from descartes... oddly enough the ‘throw pepper at your
shadow and see shadow detachment in a convulsion of a sneeze’
didn’t happen... happy me... happy shadow...
so you see where this is going, it’s going by way of -
            *what is lucifer
            an emperor with no clothes
            no skin, no flesh, no heart
            an emperor!

                                   (jack spicer, my vocabulary did this to me).
well not really, it’s going into psychiatric theory,
esp. after the ending of this zombie princess in a psychiatric
hospital with arabic music snipping off further director’s cut
assertion for revision in the film: side effects.
got me peeling an apple that film did, better than gone girl
i thought, but enough of that:
isn’t this oddity welcome to be written?
if i use a blank page as a metaphor of an attentive “soul doctor”
in secular society, i.e. a psychiatrist / not a shaman e.g.
no woo woo ha bah ha bah ha bah take this naturally growing plant
and dance naked around a fire... i’m using it not as that
but as a patient, because upon return i’m looking at a blank page...
and i use that as me, who’s listening to the reverse of mirror realities
is impregnated with by an almost anonymous voice within
the framework of patient-doctor confidentiality...
but like i said, i had a theory on top of this... no i didn’t...
oh yes, i had: so in the talk of spectrums,
with dementia being as much deconstructive as constructive,
what about the spectrum of depression?
‘well, you’re right to point that out,
deconstructive dementia is a condition that affects older people,
they have a well known and established self,
so when dementia takes to the elders
the self is deconstructed and people stop
recognising a familiar face,
but the thing about dementia praecox
is that it’s not deconstructive but constructive,
it’s not really about dogma of the anti-psychiatry movement
envisioned about whether this self is true or false,
the optimism is that it’s constructive, and that’s positive,
because deconstruction is negatively attributed in
casual vocabulary.’
so what about depression, and how it’s akin to that, as i was saying?
‘ let’s say modern society is filled with professions that are
all about pencil pushing and photocopying the amazon
to assure the antarctic it will be filled with 2-d trees,
what sort of physical exertion is there in those professions
of skyscrapers and cubicles?
very little... depression in older people who have already
established themselves in these professions have very little
physical strain, not like the roofer or all builders in general,
there has to be compensation, an obstruction,
depression is like the strained muscles of carrying a gas bottle
that weighs 25kg... or rolling it across the roof slanted
weighing in at 75kg... or carrying a heavy roll of felt or
one of those tar doughnuts (permaquic / hydrotech),
so imagine if there was no depression, would these featherweight
commuters to the office spontaneously turn to aether,
loose limbs and turn into soul matter, moving through walls?
they have less physically straining professions,
and because of this there is the phenomenon of depression,
it affects a lot of people because a lot of people have never
used the scythe in a field of wheat, so they use antiperspirant
to loose the armpit blotches in air-conditioned rooms,
it had to come, this en masse depression...
but you know what i despair about? the spectrum of depression praecox,
it’s not a phenomenon in children, it’s a noumenon study
that requires a kantian investigation, it’s totally bewildering...
i can understand depression in older people
who do not have strenuous physical jobs...
but what if some of these kids only have a project of being plumbers
and not office workers?! what then,
they won’t be allowed the luxury of depressive obstruction
while fixing plughole wormholes of ****,
they won’t have the luxury of a desk job feeling “low”
but actually having felt too much ease before the low, which
inevitably came because of the ease.’
Obadiah Grey Jan 2012
A diagnosis of masturbatory insanity
is the inevitable conclusion
that I, as a fellow onanist,
debaucher of sheep,
and baby goat buggerer
have bestowed upon your befuddled mind.

Your insistence in frequenting
the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution
and self evacuation of one's seed
with mutual onanistic pursuits of sodamistic bed fellows
and other anti Christian pursuits,
have finally brought a visitation of madness
to the perverted soggy mess
masquerading as your brain;


If one may make an
advantageous suggestion
to your befuddled self,
it would be to seek out a restorative nervous elixir
or wrist strengthening electuary,
the former of which would aid in the
"compos mentis" of your good self;
and the latter is extremely efficacious in the
soothing of onanist wrist
and vinegar stroke eye.

but alas; neither is of use against the
" ejaculatio praecox " of foetid poetry..

your Servant, Obadiah Grey.

Secretary for spermatorrhea conservation
One in a million Feb 2014
Where am i ?
                 What i'm doing here ?
I'm looking through my shadow
                 But what do i see ?
Black soul , maniac thoughts
                 How am i still living ?
I'm "almost" destroyed mentally
                  Physically strong as rock
Why can't i control myself ?
                  I'm so insecure , immature
I'm having Schizophrenia
                  Dementia praecox
Fundamental derangement of my mind
                  Probably caused by an emotional disorder
Emotional illness affecting in my personality
                  I'm Neurosis , Neurasthenic
Nerve dysfunction  


                 I'm walking away
To forget all this pain
                 To walk and never get back
Part of my body already dead
                 I don't know if i'm going to survive
From this midlife crisis
                This is nothing that elapsed
I'm sure it's just the beginning of hell
                 Half spent
Not much left
                 That's how it used to be
That's how it going to be
                Struggling with desease
Smiling is hard but easy
                As much as slutty
Psychotic confession
                Irritability
I hope you like this poem ! it has alot of cold and ****** emotions ! if you look deeply inside you'll see the meaning of this poem ! it's depressing and most of it is true except for being psychopath , neurosis , .... It's just my imagination
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
and not from above, from such meteor or comet descending with precious life droplets, indeed i believe from below, from the depths, from the mariana trench, the kaleidoscopic amoebaes rose with raging spasms for each shape known to man and man himself in vain attempts contorting in the anti-narcissistic mirror of the monkey for care of close semblance gratification, but not in origin off the amoebae; so why then place us in the genesis from the realm of zodiac and pegasus constellations?*

they never bring it to the fore,
not the the river's banks, right on the edge,
they barely allow narcissus a peak
into the swelling mirror -
they obstruct the process of myths
revising with their own immediacy
and logic, never ever 'a long time ago,'
never ever 'a very long time ago,'
never never ever 'beyond the seven
seas and the seven mountains,'
no, they want everything in their garden,
in their attic, right under their fingernails,
as if they could scratch it into themselves:
their poems like amnesia tattoos
scaling scaling up the arms and onto
their foreheads, where the ocotopii
eye looks to sign petitions inc. third
party representatives in small print;
they obstruct vulgarity made eloquent
on the page, but then mouth-off everyone
and everything when the pen has used up
all its ink and the imagination no longer
cares for phonetic symbols: because
it's just a strain, just such a strain to use them,
look at them, read them, these symbols
akin to boron red in liquid, or chlorine green
in swimming pool blue: where blurry
images of cut-in-half bodies froth in movement;
oh but did i tell you about their group therapy
sessions in the medium of poetry?
the young ones stopped playing marbles,
stopped playing caps (bottle caps filled with
play dough, moving along a chalk-drawn
labyrinth on the pavement, dice rolled to
see how many moves were allowed),
stopped climbing trees, stopped playing
hide & seek, stopped playing bulldog,
the politicians are debating whether to
change 16 year olds into political old farts,
to pledge allegience before losing their
virginity, they want to turn them into strict
adherents of a type of animal that man
is allowed to be degraded into, a political
animal of sorts... fresh off the boat...
so they congregate in their group therapies,
miserable un-naturally... back when
age-old ripe melancholia was understood
as 'when everything is completed, and
there is nothing else to do, then the sadness
of all things completed,' this strange
new breed of negated ease, the 19th century
understood something of this sort,
but in the category of dementia, dementia
praecox (schizophrenia), but it seems
the mediator that was the 20th century,
the lax on experiments in poetry
fusion with jazz and hallucinogenic potions
now under government property rights
to synthesise food additives,
exponential sugar rush, once the gold mines
now the new crystal ****: the sycrose of
sycaruse, by the tyrants orders -
'keep 'em buzzing, buzzing buzzing buzzing,
we need an eager workforce.'
thus the anglo-saxon renaissance midway
through the 20th century culminating
in a devouring implosion as the generation
shift approached; but who indeed could
have predicted the emergence of premature
depression, when nothing and i mean nothing
has been accomplished in life?
o the great woes on the wheel of fortunes,
oh the great barrenness of still nothing,
where then the outlet for the young?
the digital version or the scarceness of public
places? everything in mobile form,
attached technological tentacles - perhaps
as the octopus begins painting a spiderweb
underwater with its stress ink - gently
fathoming fish gills and their skin slimy slither.
oh sure the immediacy of shouting from the roof,
from the mountain, the illusion of it all,
you'd think we'd be saving as many trees
as was made possible with the digital white
pixel paper, but alas the secrets of the amazon
have been harvested, all that was deemed
useful, and with all the microscopic versions
of all things natural, the chemical formulae,
forestry can begin... begin to patchwork
the forest for grain and indebtness to the glory
of man's prime clandestine nature: as in myth
the approach to genitalia and goosebumps -
later approached as the need to make ******,
not as ****** as a cow's ****** bulge,
but nonetheless news on page 3 in the olden days.
or as it now apparent in the zeitgeist (spirit of the times)
of the unknowable zeitreich (empire of the times),
from where then this utopian dream -
that students in england provide the witch hunts
as if papa stalin or papa mccarthy?
you see dr. and prof. losing their posts because
a few student activists and union leaders
can't enjoy the spirit of a dualistic argument,
where would star wars be without the sith?
in a jedi's paradise... repress one side, and that
side's far deeper shadow... in the mariana trench...
repress the moderate shallow opinions of
the opposite side, and the mariana trench
will release into the shallows a malignant cancer
that might as well spread as if the nazis
became resurrected.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
when the original / “creative” part of you dies,
you tend to repeat,
it’s not that repetition is a sin of the craft of art,
it’s necessary to reap from the established boundaries,
you can then enter the realm of the banal
of work, you can become an electrician, a plumber,
a bus driver... although writing poetry,
and this is the redemption bit, you can never claim
a highbrow status for yourself,
you’re in the cauldron with the lot of them,
able to say within a disguise and a keen smile:
oh yes, the 30th of october 2015 was a lot different from
the 30th of october 2009;
unless you have a steady job that pays the rent
and allows you to dabble in transcendental art,
the **** you do on the sly, on the odd protruding appendix,
then, my darling, you can proudly say: me gombrowicz, me t.s. eliot...
this latter example just shows you how art is made into
a sacrilegious state of affairs, beatified in the lazed hours in between chores,
‘hey puppy, here’s 10 squid, clean up your room, say sorry.’
‘yes dada, 10 squid for a clean room and the words oh so so sorry.’*

i sometimes find, that a casual vocabulary usage
of a specialist term
for example, the most common
casual inference is done without prior knowledge
from the 1st & 3rd party associates
that make it their career path to understand
something as delicate as to not allow the butchers in
to solve the matter. the butchers? surgeons,
opticians, the ones that are not stuck
in the aristotelian abyss of trying to sort out
proper names from proper meanings -
even though the two run parallel:
proper names are usurped by synonymity
to make language more beautiful and perhaps more fluid
(as is true for the variations of hue in the visible spectrum),
with proper meanings allowing a word multiple meanings
giving way to chaos / loopholes in practicing law / ambiguity;
the most common apprehensive use of a technical term,
used as a metaphor is the word schizophrenia in the english language,
i’ve seen it many a times, casually reasoned this word
in the public realm looses all technicality... and as i mentioned
prior... because poeticised structured by mythology due to
the fact that it’s used as a metaphor... which is staggering...
given the fact that i have a bit of literature on the matter
i thought it would be worth pointing this out,
depression is not inferred casually in the public realm
the realm of bibliophobes - i’m not saying people do not read
or are evasive of these s y m b o l s, i’m talking a depth of reading,
i’m talking a breadth of reading, patience with technicality,
real-life examples that are not shunned for that patent maxim:
ignorance is bliss.
as you might have noted i understand the technical term
to have been claimed by the public for casual usage (i.e. schizophrenia),
and if this is the case, i have to regress to the origins
which takes me back to emil kraepelin, although changing the compound
name, like i might with hydroxychloroquine...
the original compound was known at the time as dementia praecox
(premature dementia)... given that i propose a change to dementia construo,
given the fact that the sufferer of this condition contracted this
disease at a young age, and has not accomplished much in life
in terms of materialism of safety and boasting competence,
it is indeed a condition that can be defined by its prematurity
(stressors for success, as established by the ruling party, ideology
based upon innovation, education and appearances)
and the constructive aspect of it - based upon the anti-psychiatric movement’s
notion of an inclusion of a self itemised with the tools true or false.
why this latter point? nietzsche would have probably agreed with me,
beyond good and evil? there’s only truth and falsehood,
this the most likely square pairing.
this Democratic Party affiliated member i.e.
   considered (with an eye blink)
   positing the following blurb
   for a very short while

asper the "FAKE" trumpeting
   oaf fish shill offal
   continuous, indecorous,
   and poisonous barbs doth re vile

me, an anonymous middle aged
   concerned citizen at thee...reptile
no...no...that, would
   unfairly debase creatures such as
   snakes, lizards, turtles, or alligators, 

   whose aggressive acceptable modes, 
   one expects tubby non servile
thus in my mind hiss non diss incriminating
   cruel, fiendish, gallingly jawboning
   mawkish philistine (YES, I
   MEAN YOU DONALD Quisling TRUMP)

   figuratively roasting
   respectable people analogous
   to rake them over hot coals
   then, burn them at the stake,
   which witch trial characters assassination

   with point blank expletives
   found an introspective chap (yours truly)
   responds to broadcast
   unflattering sentiments,
   albeit swiftly tailored harried, yup,
   yar...obnoxious fulminations rile,

said brief explanation motive enough
   (occurred within a split second)
   after gleaning most recent denigrating,
   hurtful, lambasting puerile

verbal and/ or twittering outbursts
   (MOST DEFINITELY) unstatesmanlike
at least to me: a circumspect enlightened
   genteel individual kind nattering
nabob of nativity, who feels alarmed

   at venal wickedness by thee ->
   President Trump spluttering, smoldering,
   slandering gallimaufry
predicated predictable awfully banal,

   cringeworthy diurnal,
   and fiercely hurt locker ful invective bile
perhaps indicative of dementia praecox
   or smother mental illness,
   ye would immediately refute,
   and be in din aisle.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
that's one of the reasons that i don't
"think"
                                          that **** sapiens
   exists...
            it seems that from dementia
praecox's
evolution into schiozophrenia
has allowed a poetic evolution
of spreschen...
                     you can write subjectivity
and subjectivity,
       completely devoid of polar attitudes
as to how the word is accomplished
  in a sentence...
  but in terms of objectivity?
   you always tend to side with the people
who cite "objectivity",
       i.e. third party narrators...
   these this precursor stress
                                       for a necessity
of ambiguity...
****'s sake, like inverting a caron
   into a circumflex...
               ^ > <              ? the ****?
      yeah... manga
    why wasn't it ever > <
                                         _             ?
ob.                             human



animal                      sub.

   if there's a subconsciousness,
   surely, given the prefix-rule,
  there must also be an obconsciousness...
    that's ******* with my mind
right now...
  but, after all, there's the categorical
foundation...
                  we already have puritan
objectivity... it's called physics...
dynamic (ɔ) - an "invisible" hand:
       ball (p) smacks against ball (b)
and you have the dynamic (c),
   i.e. ball (p) stops moving,
              and ball (b) moves from
    the interaction.
               journalism isn't a science,
  you can't be objective as such,
                you don't have the safety of
                          a lab. slothing away at
some mundane experiment...
      in journalism you only have 1 chance...
you don't get to compare
                      within the concept
   of heidegger's dasein...
         you're there, be a ******* journalist!
objectivity to me is a myth of
  pompous brats who really want to
reach the apathetic potential of
                            a psychopath;
that's all they're doing,
                      imitating psychopathy;
and might i add? very poorly...
           the ultimate psychopaths,
i.e. giving the most objective: oops?
                      the manhattan project...
  so yeah...
   "objectively" speaking i'm a late cousin
of harambe (the gorilla)...
   but subjectively i'm equipped
   with the ability to write,
  something like this, rather than reduce
myself to a rainbow onomatopoeia of
    syllables, imitating a human
  coughing or sneezing or laughing,
  rather than a gorilla intimidating
        a contender for his abode and harem.
Google Embedded Microchip™¡åßç

Nowadays...ah so passe routine top notch roboticized
brain surgery ushers, inoculates, begets... promising
immunity against pesky flagging and/or absent minded
precursor to dementia praecox, alzheimer's regarding
partial/total recall asper memory, said loss linkedin with
age related degeneration, or perchance suffering axed

dentally (aka Sid Vicious syndrome) deadly lethally, wily
adroit, adept pugilistic hook courtesy Hawaiian aloha sly
and ****** Mister, (nonetheless Judy Is hush) punch
to the noggin, and/or misfortune befalls a chap courtesy
severe deliberate accidental blow to the head, (perhaps
employment related mishap versus domestic altercation

non risky tampering with gray matter, no longer relegated
to decreasing faulty excellently trained human hand/eye
coordination (operations performed by prestigious so old
school doddering doctors, when humanoids or androids
dream of shaving electric sheep in mock simulation tend
ding to shorn hirsute patient) can supplant out moded

neurosurgeons (a fraction of expense, plus highly always
alert maximally functional at one hundred percent), the
former predictably bankable low cost allowing, enabling
and providing (rocking round the clock) supremely deft,
flawless, sedulous trappings of science, (a small number
of generations ago, oh... just an aside Leonard Peltier,

a Native American activist and an enrolled member of the
Turtle Mountain Chippewa, who also genetically breaded
with sprinkling of Lakota and Dakota descent. He counts
as a vital member of the American Indian Movement aka
(AIM), and put forward a cogent notion to buzzfeed long
since forcibly dispersed, lambasted, scattered... native

peoples to embed during in utero development bot size,
nee microcosmic electronic circuit housing comprehensive
indigenous languages new inherently speak, yes I vouch
safe marginally compensatory for their Holocaust. A plus
side applying technology in general, and when indefatigable
robots in particular supremely jump start (batteries not

required) indigenous cultural identities rent asunder like...
greased lightning, this forward progressive application to
boost natural diminishing memory recall, whereby figurative
seat of thinking now popularly trending (giving expected
rapidly burgeoning, growing, proliferating... gerontological
bracket to captcha (rather to seize or) salad days boosting
opportunities for elderly folk revisit smarts of their youth.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
take a look, naive prince,
in the night,
at the cemetery of Catholics,
with each all saints' day,
with each easter,
i  fall asleep with the same
number of candles lit,
fireflies,
i, sole among the living
willing to embark,
watch in the shadows,
the resurrected glue
that binds the baltic to the black sea...
fireflies in memorandum,
death bows before the candle's itch,
what came last in form of ash,
first come without crown
to turn all ash to wax...
hybrid souvenir!
tow heart, and pray for sea's dear
depth, to anchor posit,
sinking, sinking,
  depth morose....
that sudden near,
a fabled lost refrain in burqa:
cleaved clean from a chicken's neck:
tender, tender, most tender of
all organs, the muscles of
a chicken croak rise...
    Judas my woe,  kin,
plagiarism of an Englishman's "sorry"...
the graves glistened like falling stars,
to hell with Luther, Calvin, Knox et al...
          so st. Augustine cleaves to a shudder,
and a jest via Mozart
  of turning in ones grave:
theatre mortalum....
       theatre of the mortals....
morality and mortality...

fictive liturgy...
but of course the laughing muslim and the latext
****...

             even with my grandfather's praecox
alzheimer's... I find a patience with,
more rewarding, that  listening to this western
pedagogy turned idology narrative
as compelling concentrative posits
worth est. an inquiry...

just another guide of a 1000th blah
times later.

the banquet still resides to testimony,
a hundred or so lit candles in a graveyard,
is my hour of  night's recompensation's worth
of peace... some might call it
a metaphor of the rupture...
       ***** icons,
with only a mongol to cling to steppe
iconoclasm...
        the dust settles...
from clay came wax,
   and a halo of fire to extinguish
the tiresome waters of tearsome
            lost forgotten,
       never as such, bred forgotten...
strange... to deem a dog
by its anti-existential worth,
i.e. traded...
    prince and that pauper...
pedigree and the mongrel...
                     by 5am i  have nothing
left in me but a bidding to safeguard
a universal, goodnight.
Your dementia praecox psychosis made my *** rotate with emotion
while my prong horn alarmingly stiffened with bed-ridden devotion
****** morgue fridges that kept corpses cold brought attention to
the troubling concerns 'tween Mongol cadavers unbought & unsold
to be flayed for exposition in: In China You Do What You Are Told
A red-haired foster boy asks, “******, phony-fake Daddy, is 'Blood
Spewing from my Throat' a love song or what?” 9 months later dad
answers, “Yes, it is a song to determine whether you make the cut.”
I like being ***-******* in Houston with the cellar door bolted shut
'cause it makes me feel something inside like a pure-breed in a mutt
or like 1 of Robert Joseph White's headless monkeys clapping a nut
against the dull cavities entombed in the petrified body of King Tut
Don't get thorn-pricked by roses when they're prickly because queer
Peter O'Toole was surrounded by sickly ghouls & cremated quickly
& handed a pass so you wouldn't chew out his gay *** in Sewickley
Your dementia praecox psychosis made my *** rotate with emotion
while my prong horn alarmingly stiffened with bed-ridden devotion
the queen's counsel addressed Prince Andrew's gaseous commotion
My loose, slimmer turds are shaped like listed federally-endangered
bald eagle birds, not Iraqi Kurds because they are alien Americanos
floatin' on plasm in the deep-seated blue sea where green meets ***
In 1995 I was given a pass, for it you don't have to chew out my ***
that'd bounded beyond the musical range of ham-***** Mama Cass
whose lousy death made another ****-tall **** gynecologically pass
by deck-swabbbers & cranberry-boggers whose prance invokes sass
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
i have no contemporaries... i live among no contemporaries... i live among the contempt zombies: some dead here thrown... to suckle at the grinding of flesh: some... peter sinfield wrote... i have no contemporaries... i have this vacant breath: thank god i didn't invest in "family"... less a funeral... more a disappearing act! repeat the tides of spring... repeat the glimmer of ancient winter... remind me... Europe: funnel of the deaf earth... beside our Turkic past... before the Ottoman altar at the grinding: whip... lash... of the pride that once was Constantinople... tide: the currency of time: us nuanced: new... new Brazilian... all mixed up and holy Babel: come the crashing urn: my "utopia" of... my... fading suntan...  kupfernacken... i scribble itching: pretending them to be letters: born from Greenwich... ghostly freelance... such a tidy little place i can ghost... align myself to past: to pass trivial concerns... women marry... men dissolve into a figment of their imagination... the best doggy... the walking abortions that they were already sentenced with... i have no contemporaries... all my compatriots of now are... still in high-school... i have no contemporaries... befitting... all i have ever read was by those already dead: necromancer: reads.... conjure up the devil without fire... with smoke and mirrors he comes... or came... with a cat screaming: cite Bulgakov! i do the *****... rather: i do the ***... he play more the backgammon because... chess is... ******* boring... given the adventure allowed by FFVII... for example... we were teenage boys once... we still are... come to think of it... i don't want to learn of the universe of women and... at least with prostitutes... i have a heart that's the size of a pebble... and a tear the size of a lake... yes... that's plenty.


either the day begins like: pouring some milk into
a glass of water...
or the day ends like: pouring some water
into a glass of milk...

the day, sober... began with:

cussons' imperial leather:
cotton clouds & white cashmere...
a shower fragrance like
no other...
    well... if a shower gel reminds
you of a mythological
sweet / pastry you had
aged circa 4... on a train...
going from Danzig back home...
i guess that's probably right...

but if i'm wrong about that
i'm certainly right about:
a splash of ***... or whiskey...
in a black coffee...
why did i ever bother with cream?!

then defrosting two refrigerators
got in the day...
house chores: cleaning the "stanzas":
the square...
one remorseful hour with
the road on my bicycle...
no thought: just spatial coordination:
unconscious arithmetic...

linger until midnight...
past midnight pretend to sleep for
an hour... then get up and "hunt" for
a glass of milk...

eclipse heritage: mount gay Barbados ***...
a fine fine ***...
finer than any mr. whiskers or ms. amber
has to offer...

why has it not dawned upon the western:
liberal man that...
he's somehow... not... the... universal man?
translated in Afghanistan?
who the hell is going to bemoan
the rise-up of Taliban "two-point-oh"?!
i'm celebrating...
like the partisan h'americans are still trying
to celebrate the Hebrews having their
land back!

i'm happy for the Afghan people!
why wouldn't you be?
well thank you: mr. universal man...
thank you for the railroads...
thank you for your chemistry...
thank you for so much...
but... don't you have an incel "problem":
trying to shove it under a bright orange
carpet of psychiatry...
it's going to be much harder to bribe
these monks...
than it would take to bribe the Jihadis
with 72 virgins...
after all: ever heard of a jihadi that
performed an act of Jihad by killing
his mother, first?

it's like that joke akin to: a priest,
a rabbi and an imam walk into a bar...
an incel, a jihadi and a...
walk into... a nunnery...

mr. universal man... thank god you're
finally leaving Afghanistan...
are the Hebrews the only sacred
cows in your Hindu zodiac?
i believe firmly: leave the people to their
own fate... or demise...
last time i heard... Afghan women
were waterfalls of poetry with their
Landays...

                     mr. universal man has attracted
a multi-cultural palette...
even the Armenian bread like lavash was
some story...
sorry... when was the last time you
heard the ******* backstory of
a croissant?!
only the "noble savages" have stories...
we have turkey-t.v.:
we have no stories... no heritage...
nothing at all concerning
the French fries... we didn't invent
anything: culinary...
never used mint... rosemary... thyme...
we just ******* nuked nuked nuked...

the flat-chested flat-bread paupers
who were beaten by a pancake
and never hunted down: yeast! yeast!
rise! miracle of flour!
rise! like the sun!

cheap-****-sushi...
let them be... let them shove a stick
and a rubber shoe into the mountain
to draw some water to nourish their
goats...

mr. universal man...
why are westerners so concerned with
what might happen to Afghanistan?
probably something less terrible than
what already took place:
i'm of the maxim:
the terrible has already happened...
Viet-Now...

mr. universal man has problems re-abstracting
what is concrete to others...
since... mr. universal man
hasn't lived long enough to have lost
what others are vying for...

he invented all such splendorous games
and amusements befitting a cosmopolitan
echo chamber that he forgot what
a tree or a rock might imply...

he's so blind to churn out an introspection:
a new breed of terrorist he hides
under a blanket of psychiatry...
thinking: this one more time... this time again:
the sun will rise...

these need breeds start with killing
their mother! or end with killing their mother!
jihadis aim for collateral fog...
they're aiming for 72 virgins...
what have you to bribe these "monks"?

eh... there's a romance to be had with
Afghanistan and the Taliban...
it's not unlike
the amphetamine fuelled antics
of the Syrian pseudo-caliphate...
an Afghani is not ****
in the eyes of the Hindu...
he's a less sensitive breed: almost alien...
somewhat teasing the Iranian...
but then again... what do i know?

reminiscence of a time when a troll
of a girl chased me in high-school...
i was cycling up to the top of Bower Hill
when i stopped to change the music...
a woman was jogging against
the tide of traffic i was encompassing...
she too decided to stop "jogging"
to change her soundtrack...
she must have been admiring my Turkish
take on ****** hair... if i had a mirror
i too would be... in between itching
to squeeze the last maggot of phlegm
and acne from my face:
because Beelzebub took a **** on my face!
if he was a she i'd imagine it
would run along the lines of:
she sat with her fully fattened *****
onto my face and told me to slurp!
whizz-kid concerning oysters...
n'est c'est pas?

i feel inclined to dream about joining
the Tally-*** band of brothers...
i'm bored with the music...
last time i heard they were into listening to:
pretending to listen to: listening to:
silence...
next comes a Hegel or a Kant...
attacked by bouts of schizophrenia:

loose term... i much prefer the older
noun... dementia praecox...
premature dementia...
it's less a metaphor...
after all: what is the experience of consciousness:
the science of: drugging up the experiencer?
to dull the experience?
what senses are we inviting when
the schizoid is hardly: half-of-hearing?

ha ha!
of those philosophers' ivory towers that are books:
some followed-through: some unchallenged:
some unread...
like Kjartan on Heidegger in Knausgaard's
vol. 4...
apparently living in London:
well... it's not like you can be ever bored
of London... south of the Thames:
esp. circa the central projects of attracting
postcards... is all the same...
but south of London... isn't it... Kent... Sussex?
that's most certainly not...
the grand underground wheelie of...
Hainault is Greater London...
but Chigwell is Essex... proper...
south London is a different country...
it might as well be Northumbria!
never wishes to awaken from pleasant snooze

Appellation (with trailing switchback
and/or additional colorful turns
of phrases) emphasizing assigned
nom de plume "princess goldilocks"
hardly flattering compliment

gently aforementioned sobriquet mocks,
jabs, and stings painful as botox
analogous when the Daily's
(mean neighbors on Lantern Lane
out in vinyl city Audubon Boondocks)
hurled sizable rocks

at our then spry hybrid shorthaired
Boxer/Dalmatian, long since
pushing up bonafied daisies, when
I too sported crew cut,
versus choicest hardiest, meatiest... most
grooviest personal unorthodox hirsute

with unmatched socks,
yet parents, who (along with
paternal grandpa Aaron)
scorned long hair donning
pencil neck geeks as laughingstocks
among cruel classmates,

add diminutive physique
topping off effeminate traits
oft times purposely mistaken
for a girl - courtesy beefy "jocks,"
which mine trademark lean
nonestablishmentarian
non mean mien
gave bullies free license

to rain taunts,
they feigned threatening moves
to clean out clocks
belonging to self
and other wimpy kids
even tormenting old folks
suffering dementia praecox,
our ladies of perpetual responsibility

this haint nun cents
(think Garrison Keillor
Prairie Home Companion)
took me under their wing
metaphorically inoculating yours truly
as against some deadly pox
at providential spiritual crossing
divine intercession really rocks!

— The End —