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Prenup, Smeenup
I don't plan staying stagnant with it
But I don't care if my partner makes more than me
As long as I have dreams and aspirations and I'm putting in the work, so who cares?
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
having applied myself to two languages with different parameters of execution: writing in primarily in English, reading fiction and poetry primarily in English enabled me to gain strength in reading philosophy and conjuring up white-rabbits from a top-hat in Polnisch - i can't read philosophy in English - which explains why few interests in philosophy exist - the English have undermined the worth of philosophy, oh sure, David Hume is the rave in Scotland, because he's Scottish - but the English took to solely understanding the world via Darwinism - image deciphering accounts of how the natural order of things is attached to inanimate materials propelled by falling apples - the continental procedure is less concerning Darwinism and more akin to a mental fashion statement, as in: what's vogue these days? what's the cognitive vogue? the English "philosophers" with their rigid Darwinism are like priests - which is why they attracted biblical literal interpretation - the creationists - there's no other explanation why the creationists emerged - it was because of militant atheism, atheism without individual originality - invoked by a sense of herding the sheep to the grazing hills of nihilism - the pillar that became the crutch - of course i admire and know it's true - no Genesis story that's merely a p.s. in history is ever going to undermine the naturalist's fascination with the world in every minute detail - i'm not against that... but at this moment i was thinking of a cult idea for a naturalist - take a pornographic movie, and give it to a naturalist to assess - after all... we're just mammals - i think this could turn out to be a real daytrip for a naturalist - oh sure, it must be ease with organism that apparently do not derive any pleasure from procreation... give two beings that apparently do derive pleasure from procreation... to later debase it with the malignant forces at work in the Encyclopedia that's 120 days of *****... the naturalist narrating a pornographic scene would be bewildered as to why these highly evolved creatures are exponentially higher-up the tiers of evolution, needing so many complex adaptive techniques - boredom for one, people have created more distractions than they have created tools of necessity - but perhaps they're equal - our evolutionary drive? the thing that makes us tick is not necessarily physical discomfort - we exercise for the pleasure of physical discomfort - the drive is boredom, the fear of it drives us mad with constant ingenuity taking form - like a ballerina in a salsa bar... sadism in the aura of hot-sweat-and-coconut-***-shaking as if playing dice in Las Vegas... Don Quixote (the ballet on three days away)... we're done with the empirical satisfaction of Darwinism, we know it, we need a humanistic approach to it, something that goes against the English priesthood - Darwinism will never be vogue in continent Europe, continent Europeans just say: Egyptology is as far back as is necessary to go... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... we want to write history, not look at history as a burden and therefore try to erase it, placing ourselves in a garden of awe and glass; honestly? Darwinism is a bit like creationism - it all starts with a garden, awe, and the grand spectacle - only the other includes a need to procrastinate by doing some ritualistic mumble and Hosanna Hallelujah in the highest - and the other tries not to yawn.

so onto my favourite topic... rich boy's slang -
do you really think a *prince
of Egypt would speak
slave tongue Hebraic?
do you think **** & 'arry could speak Bulgarian
or Romanian? let me think... no.
they might speak French... maybe German...
but certainly not the eastern tongues -
now, whoever wrote that book wrote it in ancient
Egyptian, the chronologically speaking
yes, female genital mutilation was practised first
in Africa, notably Egypt, prior to male genital
mutilation being instigated by frustrated Abraham -
the collision was bound to happen -
see how pretty prince slang looks?
it's poetic - the rich boys call it poetry, the poor
boys call slang - which is why poor boy raps
and over uses rhyme - or perhaps rhyme is easier
to remember than free verse poetry -
rich boy brings a page on stage and recites because
he's too lazy or not bothered to memorise,
poor boy says yeah a lot in between his lyrics
without a page so he can the the bowling aisle
movement as if he's rolling in a convertible Cadillac -
sing ***! yo! ***! yo! so the chronology matches,
Eve first, Adam second - but not as in: they did it first -
later down the line they cut off the precious skin
and hence felt naked, they fell, they revised was not
to be revised - sure, the man got the favour right -
he was the winner - but at the same time, the loser -
hence the good & evil bit - we don't really know -
is it really necessary to have good *** to later have
a fickle partner and laws being in her favour via what's
called the missed prenup thought? to me it's just a literal
reading of the text - looking for laurel leaves to cover
the revision of the genitalia - not the actual genitalia per se,
just the revised versions - so if the female variation is
whatever it is - less pleasure from *** and what not,
for man that also means counting the stars and weeks
and having no pleasure from ******* when her period
arrives and you have to try a diet of **** or something -
well of course it's slightly uncomfortable with it -
but at the same time you increase your endurance with it -
a slight sadomasochism, no whips no ******* women,
no leather, no adventure, just raw meat and raw meat -
no fantasy no role play - just a little bit of skin making all
the difference - can you imagine Marquis de Sade writing
as frankly as this? well... every time i revise my thought
on the book of genesis, i obviously become a covert literal
reader of it, deciphering the eloquent slang of a prince of
Egypt would use on such "delicate" matters -
but with that being said: it becomes all the less fascinating
a myth-making engine, and given he was forced out of
his comfort zone (and i mean a comfort zone) he would
cite God as the word (reason), but by word alone and
the word only - the reasoning behind what entered the land
of Egypt as being the same as what entered the Garden
of Eden... and tempted... the temptation came with the pyramids -
oddly enough only the Eiffel Tower was higher than
the pyramids - look at the time it took man to become so bold again!
look at it! massive - and in some weird quantum physics
interpretation of the mythological past becoming the actual
future - the tower of Babel... and... yep, you guessed it:
the Burj Khalifa (or the Khalifa Tower) is its equivalent;
but ****, only the Eiffel Tower overshadowed the pyramids -
something must have happened back then then,
if man was so shy in rising his structures too far up into
the sky - but i guess the Enlightenment spurred him on...
later to crash back down with the atom phobia of the second
part of the 20th century, which in the 21st century morphed into:
well, how will wars be profitable if we drop a nuke?
e'oh! no, sorry, one nuke will make us bankrupt -
we need tanks, guns, bullets... huge bulks of them!
stockpiling nukes ended up a bit like stockpiling too much...
ah crap... don't have a good analogy - just started thinking
of a desert of sugar - sugar dunes... imagining a desert
like that... well, partially true - with the Arabs not drinking
alcohol and eating too many sweets, diabetic amputees throughout
the desert land.
lluvia de abril Jan 2016
'When you leave
don't hesitate
don't look at me
don't pretend to forget
something of yours, returning again
for just one last kiss
or the look in my face
that says I am okay, I will live

When you leave
there is no need to pack
all worth taking is mine
and I will need everything

you cannot
take a thing;
not the look in your eyes
before our first kiss
or the part of my soul
intact and inked
in the letters you wrote
that Sunday, last spring

I will fight to the death
to hold on to your gaze
at three o'clock in the morning
when you think that I sleep
and you quietly sing
sleep baby, sleep

I will keep every
word, every phrase
and, yes I will keep
every sound of exhaustion
when our bodies embrace
and the joy that it brings

You cannot retrieve
a caress from my skin
the light in your smile
dreams that we made or
the sound of your voice
when you promised to love me

When you leave
you will take just what's yours
an absolute me
my heart following'
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
even wording an intellectual debate
focusing on the word: warrior,
is, to me, something of a ****-in-your-underwear
and then swing it around like a missile
and hope that the other monkey is dead...

what do i find in terms of persistent Darwinism?
media akin to Groundhog day replication,
a distrust of media and politics
doesn't go anywhere akin to El Dorado,
it goes to areas of grey and thistles, and weeds,
and trying to defend a political system
that monopolises on the media? e.g. Iraq.

what's the modern trait of the **** sapiens?
he's not intimidated by the advertisement
industry to spend, he saves his buck...
modern **** sapiens feels no regret at not
having the chance to procreate with neanderthal
women who shout rather than moan,
modern **** sapiens isn't wooed by the ooh's and
the ah's of a modern public audience,
modern **** sapiens man isn't ready to turn
women into butchers in Afghanistan,
or what Sappho called: butch, butch, butchy, butch-butch,
      target practice for the *****:
   now your chance to shoot a machinegun.

the **** sapiens doesn't get the Coliseum,
in whatever shape or form as the modern solution
to what would otherwise be: watching paint dry,
    there's no football Sunday over brunch to
holler and cheer and get things done.

the **** sapiens man will not mate with a neanderthal
woman of these times... he has no need to lose
his integrity to mate with these over-sexualised creatures...
modern **** sapiens lives in a time when
science has lost its mojo,
and became arrogant like a chef cooking up
Sicilian pasta in Chuckle Street...
   modern **** sapiens man does not grace procreating
with the mannequins of neanderthal women...
oversexualised and almost Somali in caricature,
which is hardly 5 brats running around for the stately
                 feeding...

modern **** sapiens isn't interested in how offensive you
sound, or how uninteresting you actually are,
the 26 digits on your tongue will never quill a
woodpecker readied for carpentry...
you have physicists for that and that ancient gauge
of sclera iris and pupil: which kinda looks
like clouds, green, brown, blue, grey,
              pupil and to whatever necessary telescope
for the constellations / twinkle in the eye...

     the modern **** sapiens doesn't want to procreate
with modern neanderthal women because
he thinks his feces will smell of mustard...
          he's ashamed about the way sport has
replaced national identity,
              and that watching ***** do the exodus from
a ******* and assimilate into a genesis of an ****
has become magnified into 22 wankers kicking
a ball between two fishnet stocking pair of legs...
              neanderthal women get it,
**** sapiens man doesn't... he's wondering why
there haven't been many drunk intellectuals...
                to state this case.

**** sapiens man is wondering why this isn't even
an insult... by a version of a continuum
best addressed when worded, rather than
    chess-chanced on a board of fixations and
cheap-labour and psychiatrically guised excuses
that are in concerto: lethargy etiam propus.

   **** sapiens is wondering why history froze,
and this be the new ice age...
and why only one day gets a mention,
he's wondering why there's no media sabbath...
         i.e.: when no news happens.

**** sapiens is bewildered by this fresh zeitgeist
of having a need to speak...
  **** sapiens is wondering: why Ned the Destroyer?
**** sapiens is asking: what about the think?
       **** sapiens says of neanderthals:
i guess they really need to talk
because they cannot accept the monotheistic concept
of thought, and stress the democratic: blah blah brechen
to protest, stitch placards and walk a lot and do
cathedral bells a justice of repeating chants: kneel
to pray! tramps aren't trump! etc.

**** sapiens says: they once imagined telepathic
with telekinetic and then they said no to Marxism...
now there don't seem to be that many individuals around
apart from those in suicidal succor.

all in all, **** sapiens simply says:
i will not fornicate with these neanderthal women!
i don't care what my genetic prenup would look like,
    it might look ugly, it might look pretty...
            if we're going down this route...
there's me: exit,
                and then these women:
            lamenting what queen Sheeba said to
king Solomon:
                          the copper skinned will rule the world.

well, here's me and my automated reliance on
extinction...
                           i'm taking a bow...
i'm bowing out...
                                i find only one sensual solace in
this world...
                    music...
                           ­         i'm bowing out of the rest
that comes like a Mongolian revival of a horde...
          and even if there was a love for a woman worth
defending... i already declassified it as
neanderthal... so much for Darwinism when uncoupled
from theology and coupled to history;
evidently my mind is a bit blank when i try to go beyond
the written records... nice gallery by the way...
sure, the shrunken coccyx gave it away...
and i wish i was... doing acrobatics on trees, still;

**** sapiens said of neanderthals:
if only you had an immune system built to
                                        not succumb to advertisement!

but **** sapiens man said: poach the ivory,
but the elephant will play you a trumpet underwater,
      and you'll ask: why?
              because if the elephant farted you'd
get a methane jacuzzi, and not a quasi-jazz concert...
that wasn't even meant to be funny.
ZWS May 2014
I can't dream if it's from this closet
Every thing I want to do just sounds so ******* pompous
I talk about what I want to do and everybody thinks I've lost it
I'm on the radar, but I'm the darkest blip
Walking the plank on purpose, S.S. *******, I'm off this ship

I feel like I've finally got it, and of course then I've lost it
I write a masterpiece, "hey where's the follow up?"
Like me and my girl jinxin the future with a prenup
'Oh you know we just trying to be safe,' right *****, let's marry up this **** then
You can take it all just split them assets
Get me bent with no price or rent

See I ain't tryna get around just tryna win this
Can't seem to get to the top when I'm the only one in the bracket
Try to be a team player, but my teams full of *******
I'm Harry Potter *****, imma smash that *** like quidditch
I gonna hit that pinata, till the cash flow get me riches

I talk ***** but I miss the way you talk
British, you a fit birdy, girl
I eat my grits, but I ain't really eating till after we're flirty, girl

Take you to the back room, pour some wine and then some feelings, watch some mad men and tell you bout my last girl
I said I like the way you talk to me but I think I just like how I can talk to you
You're an outlet, and I'm plugging, your sticking around, but you should know I'm just thuggin
And maybe I just say the ***** things I say to mask my potential under promiscuity cause I got a real problem promising myself I'll solve my problems too
(I'd never admit it though)

See that's just something me and my crew do
I guess it masks all the little ***** blues 'fake cries'
During this poem I think I grew three inches for you  
In my heart
See it's so easy to gravitate to you like your the sun and I'm Mercury, I'm too close and you're burning me alive, but I can't pull myself apart, girl it'll never work
We can't stop Miley, that's melancholy for sure (but keep the twerk)

You make me feel like Frank Sinatra, and I can't even sing
So **** confident, you let me discover myself, I'm deep, I can feel, I'm Mike Tyson, Kung Pao chicken, I bring it all to the ring
All these little kids on the streets learning how to *** from me 'like fricken'
The thought of you got me sick to the stomach, it's sticking
..
Too bad you're just a ******* fling
Or at least I'd like to think so..

Testing out the rap game, give me your feedback
B Mar 2013
verbal contracts
and eye contact
make for good contact
future bedroom contact
**** so hard lose an eye contact
six months later marriage no contract
no prenup
no time for that
it's all rushed
no consent
of the heart
just quick, no smart
now you're there
it's all ****** up
life is twisted
your heart's wrenched up
never knew
what this **** could do to you
all this extra contact
now you're hurting
need a hospital bill, 911 contact
all from too much contact
now you gotta delete out your phone contacts
so she can't contact
cuz that **** got crazy
if you ever see her again
hope you dont make eye contact
cuz you'll fall twice
for that ******* trap
don't let it happen again
it's a breached contract
www.deeperinsideofme.com
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
at the Hajj, the people are told to pick up pebbles and throw them at a crude representation of Satan by some Gomorrah Rodin... the ****** is delivered, the junkies then stampede each other dead... religious Darwinism can thus alone be met as recipient of the more eloquent theory - that i, in my ivory tower, be kept a slave in learning... as the below stated, a pebble picked up will not make you scale a mountain - a chance trinity of a pebble touching a lake, fair enough, maybe Narcissus will wake up on the third stroke... what matters is, is that polytheism taught by example, an example set by the demigods to not imitate - monotheism has everyone bothered... but the sincerity to imitate lives like a butterfly - 2 weeks max - is plagued by spandex elongation - people want to imitate the demigods of polytheism in monotheism as the keepers of time - and change - but there are no lessons to be learned, unless one... the fashionably 15 minutes late, antidote to the fame riddled 15 minute Warhol; backlog of celebrity, before celebrity there were the utility people, after the utility people vanished we created a celebratory quasi-Coliseum caste of people willing to never have a private life... because they were willing to sell it... voids of supposed apology. fame was never about achieving anything in the universal realm... in the particular realm we all got on with our jobs... but the hunger stemmed from the universal realm... people never wanted celebrity per se - per se... the box that's a sundial for a priori and a bomb-timer for a posteriori - knitted into a per se (from in itself), preferred as ex per se - fake hiding something for a minute, then expose it in all its a fortiori / a infirmiori perfection; fame was never about ****** recognition devices - fame was a way to alleviate boredom - whether the wild cowboy outlaws or modern actors - acting as the prime alleviation of boredom precursors our need to lie in social circumstances - we lie more because we celebrate acting  people become famous by ways of hammers being useful across the globe - we like to lie in social situations therefore we glorify acting - we don't glorify poetry because we like apathy - we don't glorify philosophy because we prefer calculators to mental arithmetic - but we all end up staring at Plato's Cave - where once our former self no mere puppeteer's shadow... we fear loneliness but we also fear the herd, our phobias are magnified day by day - we feel a loss of original content to express ourselves as merely part of the conglomerate - yet the original sin we have committed; there's no fame to be claimed, the people spoke! there's only a boredom to be given a plumber who blocks our boredom with a load of selfies - ask Narcissus what he thinks of the matter? he would simply reply: i looked once, and i was forever mesmerised... people haven't even looked once, nor looking at themselves a million times could they feel mesmerised; if beauty be in the eye of the beholder, why are we so obsessed in keeping it in a paparazzi museum? modern beauty to me is a rigid prenup skeleton at the hairstylist for the aim of zenith: "pretty"; beauty ought to be mandible, flux-prone, never the dusty-upkeep of ****** bones immune to fracture; if the sin we committed was so original, why are we so good at plagiarising it without noticing its originality? all the animals are therefore excused from original sin (or celebrity), because they committed the virtue of plagiarism; and we really do fear it... it's just another conversation about Communism, that "failed" system as prescribed rhetoric of the Popes: gotta have the harem and those ruby red shoes marching in Kansas.*

picking up a pebble
will not make you
walk up a mountain.
J Novic May 2013
America, how long have you been blindfolded?
It was only supposed to be a count of twenty;
Eight years? Thanks, ****.
September 11, 2001
Sitting in a gym, wearing shorts slightly too small
Hitting a birdie back and forth
The towers fell quicker than the Jonas brothers’ career.
Thirteen and the whole world an opportunity,
Liberties taken away, like a baby needing her milk.
But that baby never had her milk, did she, America?

When did marriage become the window that needed a brick through it?
All we needed was love, but now it’s a prenup and some *******.
Nothing is genuine, except the music people tell us is good.
Holden, you’re just as phony as the war on terror.
Maybe if you keep repeating the word, people get the idea.
Hey MGMT, I'm in the prime of my life,
but the man holds me back every day.
You tube gets me through the day,
It reminds me of a better time
I watch cartoons that remind me I’m still a kid,
Even though I know it’s not true.
Hey Arnold! Did you ever have to grow up?

Did you ever have to tell someone that life only gets better if you believe?
When did people need chaos to give their lives meaning?
I sit with my frat and drink,
Everyday.
We’re the new melting ***, America.
You’ve been sitting on the stove for too long.

I put my heart out as a sacrifice,
I’m not Mayan, but I can see the truth
Dramatic examples drive it home.
RIP Heath Ledger.
Daniel Day Lewis isn’t far behind

December 21, 2012.
Both dates have something in common,
0, 1 and 2:
Two days in which the world was altered
One race; blinded by the truth in front of them
And zero hope, that we dig ourselves out of a pit of pleasures

What about nine?
Nine can turn around and become a 6,
We’re all imperfect anyway
**** perfection.

Hey Chavez,
I'll stick up for you;
Anyone who likes MLK can't be all bad.


America: the place where you can speak your mind;
Every other Tuesday
Randy Johnson May 2015
When a man came at me with a knife,
I was forced to shoot and take his life.
It was self defense but I was still horrified by what I had done.
I would be dead and buried if I hadn't been carrying my gun.
But he said something right before he died.
After he said it, I was even more horrified.
He told me that my wife put him up to it.
She tried to have me killed but she blew it.
I found out why that she was able to convince that man to try to ****** me.
She was going to share the cash when she cashed in my life insurance policy.
She put him up to it but it was something I couldn't prove.
I divorced that witch after I packed my bags and moved.
She would've been on easy street if she had succeeded with her crime.
But she failed and because of the prenup, she didn't receive one dime.
This is a fictional poem.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
there are only two options...
******* into the wind...
or... pouring gasoline on the fire...

but there's always that third
avenue of "substance":
once the overrated demand
to speak freely -
when... thinking could be...
in the winding
crude pivot of...

       what was it that "we" were
trying to achieve...
ah...
writing is not speaking...
writing is an extension
of thinking...

    outside of the comment
section...
freedom of speech: retracted...
i must prefer the patience
of a spider...

the circus is over:
time to eat enough matter
to have one's teeth agitated:
to watch the toothpicks march
on mensa!

         come now... come...
the clowns are crying in the street...
it's just no fun...
to have no alternative narrative
to work with...

              a thing onto itself...
the advent of all these workaholic
slogans...
i will: as i have...
spend 2 hours pretending to sleep
on the floor...
trying vanity...
and how claustrophobia works...
when...

          the sunset has become
suffocating... the sunrise has no horizon...
and the old fable...
  of the moon's litany of lies...
seeking a skull about to melt
into... a lake of mercury...

          i want to shut up...
i want all my fingers to be broken...
i want to read braille with my elbows
and the tip of my nose...

         but i don't want that...
when... poetryfoundation.org...
has nothing new to post...
beside... an open letter of commitment
to our community...
well... the **** is way past
stinking... it's drying up...
it's becoming brick adequate...
one could confuse it with
a horse-**** shoe...

                   i hear a gallop of four horses...
but no... i want that to be the sound
of a train 5 miles away...
but "something" is sinking...
and what i hear is...
     the rattling nuance...
of a million rats fusing into several
centipedes...
scuttling... burning bridges as they
come... and go...

there are no details of my involvement
in any of this...
there simply isn't a question
to pose...

         not out of cowardice...
for once it would be good to know...
what all this hullaboo pertains to:
being asked...
when - the exhausted pronoun >?<
    wanders onto the stage...

       and there really isn't a worth
of question to be asked...

    i.e. ? walks before the mirror...
strips ****-naked...
             ? |  !         yes...
and an exclamation mark is all
that's arrived at...

the clown-world meme isn't funny
anymore... no one is juggling
reverse-psychology tactics...
i.e. laughing = crying
       and crying = laughing...

i forgot to put... the preservastion
of nuance as: what's to primarily
survive this... **** of self-righteous
gloating...
                
two names come to mind...
                  muammar al-gadaffi...
and... who ever said...
that... saddam hussein would
be... anything but...
that saudi king on his magic
carpet ride over yemen...
                  
   ill-fitting glove...
never the ill-fitted hand...
                                 always the...
prenup - juggling words...
prenup: hullabaloo...
               thai squid loot of the depths...
that ottoman slave trader
of the janissary corp...
    
i once had a soul...
i once had a mind...
          i probably still have...
the verb antics of the exclusivity of
a body...
it's not like the mind had
telekinetic capacities...
     schizoid telepathy... good riddle
for the metaphor junction:
ausfahrt...
                       mr. n'gogo...
                 and some mistress of:
m'lakak'eh-goopt'ah...
               for the first time...
i started to imagine speaking
without the use of their nasal cavity...

past-oral:
              vs. "pastral"
                         i guess there's a big O "missing"...
concerning... it's written pastoral...
it is said: pastral...
       "apparently"
                  equal to... the choir...
and... that one "idiot" attempting
to not sing...

               one junction i know of...
esp. with weißbier: franцiskaner: weißbier...
beer... liquid bread...
and ol' michael schumacher...
"living" as a cucumber since...
2013...
                 that's of worthy note...
   "living" as a cucumber...
ever since... slam-dunking head-first
like a lucifer / icarus while skiing...
                         against sisyphus' stone...

any limbo-land beside this...
mad-max fury road and let's...
keep the cufflings...
give me the sober rules...
and i'll just work my way around
them drunk: as any sanity prone
clown might...

  not this... but... apparently...
all this... and necessarily: now...
the cat never borrows the moon
for a smile...
but indeed... death...
will borrow the sickle.... and when
the sickle isn't enough:
the scythe...
             reworking of the flag...
the hammer and the nail...
who's to be the hammer...
and who's to be the nail?

                       petitions open: now -
our new "flag":
whatever we arrived at...
when burning it... some time ago...
1970s Tehran best.
Angie Rai Jun 2020
Leaves, attached to the stem allowed limited reign over conversations with the wind.
Our first meeting, then the second, again the third, nights of sweat and liberation. No barriers.

The stem in which is branched out, sturdy and workable.
Compromised where we laid our prenup and hard lines.

The trunk, rough, thick and unmovable.
Our limitations, the barrier slowly crumbling, seeping through cracks.

The roots deepened earth as the foundation in which we lay our relationship.
I am always yours.

We are each other.
We are whole again.
Me and you.
dark blue Nov 2022
it ended so fast
unexpectedly
saturday morning
sitting on the couch
while drinking coffee

you wanted kids
now
your biological clock ticking
to get married
tomorrow
no planning
no prenup
gave me an ultimatum

we had fun
you were a great girlfriend
the quintessential party girl
you’d be a bad wife
a horrible mother

i said it’s over
said goodbye
got up
walked away
avoid a disaster
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
you know what sweet sensation of
whiskey hitting the nervous system,
just after you've been awake for more
than 30 hours...
     and every gulp you start feeling up
a touch of cushion,
   like it might be your mother singing
a lullaby to you as a child?
****'s all... fuzzy...
                    fictoid...
  which is the alternative of a factoid:
an item of unreliable information
that is reported and repeated
so often that it becomes accepted as fact...
well borrowed from real life,
that's focused upon it (life,
or the narrative) being usurped from
being staged...
i still don't know how drunks manage
their quasi-epileptic
        space-oddities by climbing
7 stories of a building,
  to simply know on the balcony window
from the wife: refusing them
entry via the conventional route,
of utilising a front door...
               true story that,
****** managed to do the spider-man
up nearly... wait... circa two metres
per storey...
             sigma, circa: 20 metres
up in the air!
                 that's not exactly 100 metres
of comparison while holding
your breath in a jamaican sprint...
          blind wind playing the flute
of a pine forest...
                but there are certain sensations
you just can't suspect of
being the product of a Saturday night
revelry in Essex, England...
                some drunks do the Dante's
inferno expedition into:
       everything and anything -
   but only when embarked upon, solo.
my excesses of insomnia are
countered by my "excesses" of drinking,
       what could possibly be wrong
about a teddy bear among romanian
****** dreaming, awake,
  of a pillow?
                it's not even a comfortable
numbness,
      it's a mollusk encapsulated by
the safety of an oyster's shell mentality...
         i mean, there's only so much
much of the FIFA world cup you can stomach
before seeing a proper game...
   and when you do manage to receive
the spectacle of a 3 - 3 Spain vs. Portugal?
**** me... that's like receiving
the ******* eucharist!
                        RAMOS!
                       ­          ******* child of
            a one ******* ball-sack of Franco...
   and those Spanish eyes:
you know the ones...                    (    (
romance with a real tear-jerker...
             but what more entertaining
than the football is,
   the behind-the-scenes preservation
of the political narrative by minors,
minor-intellectuals, and:
                  behemoths of swaying the gamble
of history...
Iberian eyes?
        i'm starting to call them
                          siamese Shiva diamonds...
muguruza has them...
                           very idiosynratic...
in vino veritas?
    i find twice the amount of truth
in a dose of sleeplessness and whiskey...
       which usually ends with
a knock-out and: the great void eating
            all concern or, "need" to dream...
hell with a brain like a sponge that
requires quasi-x-ray
               to suit-up to the everyday
in the mythos timing ref. to boiling an egg
in real time...
         RAMOS!
          you already know of the extra
long football socks, and the rolled up sleeves,
   Puyol would be a proud
second-far-removed-claim-of-fatherhood...
not that's the case...
      beside the point...
                but there's no distraction from
my perspective,
              an appreciation of, sure,
               but you can't exactly forget
the premature ******* quasi-thrill
of listening to the bundestag match of:
left-to-right, right-to-left,
             and something in between
being plagued by a w. b. yeats quote about
all centres,
            apart from the gravity hard-on
of god, which, for reason for the four seasons:
always seems to hold,
   tight like a ******* mousetrap,
tiger pounce...
        very humane, in terms of a rodent
passing bypassing being a plaything
of some bonsai feline...
                ha ha! in vino, veritas?
every tried a dosage of sleeplessness,
   and something more, strict?
   a Dublin ****, or a Glaswegian
                                           apple juice?    
****, the mingling with sleeplessness...
you'll speak more truth than
the C.I.A. would mind giving
                two shoves to a shovel over...  
nudges? sure...
      nugget crisp and...
                  oh but i like the current
digression...
     the facade...
                      the momentary month of
blissfully forgeting the talk of politics,
and imagining the head
of Commodus being kicked about by
                          22 legionaires...
no greater cathedral to make man's
concern stupendous,
        than in a prayer-house of amnesia...
and, there isn't a reason as we'll somehow
forget for half an anno after the month?
circa, of course...
                                                     well?
by the sober judge i make my plea drunk...
and should the judge drink?
          first i nail him to a cross,
   and then: allow him to pass judgement...
who the hell doesn't pass
crucial judgement concerning sexuality,
on the throne of thrones,
without first doing the no. 1,
  and then doing the no. 2,
                   and then not doing the no. 3?
i should be all "hot-and-bothered",
   should i?
                          a case to say:
                                 don't date, on a diet;
because not on the cruel slab of
the altar of mammon are two naked
bodies suddenly: phantom?
         does eating, **** the butterflies?
what sort of contract for an hour,
require a prenup of eating,
      for a time constraint that's more than
            the actual: non-verbum flex,
                          which constitutes an hour?
RAMOS!
                    always the central defender
role...
              because... well...
              given the hard-on for the tournament...
you can somehow listen in on
political-football kicking-off simultaneously...
while the Tsar is found stark
naked, dressed in gloat, gluttony and glee,
the little people can take to tongue and chess...
little people, like the Warsaw pundits,
the staggering delayed pleasure Londoners...
and Berliners-***-Bavarians...
               and whoever the hell is left...          

ah, the quiet life: and it's little wonders...
   but a Tsar that appears so well attired in his
self-with-nation
                             goat-fat smile,
    like a Davvy Cameron prior:
      plump doughnut and plush well oiled
cheecks with missing bones...
                     plump little doughnut...
can't help but admire
   the arabian formal checkers pajamas...
sorry...
           i forgot it's high-fashion over
there too...
             houndstooth print
                                   coffee-table-cloths...

come to think of it, this western-union
euro and the post-nationalistic experiment?
**** the tongue, before claiming
a dead soul, to control the living thought...
i only allow english for reasons
that i can speak it, above a certain
framework of its native contraints,
   but if another Belgian is going to think
i'm going to let him perform a sujud
on me like i were some half-wit from Congo?!

the swiss still make milka...
                   so...
                                see you in Ypres?
and yes, truth is a form of audacity...
                               Benelux: Banalflux;
cite Forrest Gump to boot, if y'all wanna.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/         it's like being a fish, prodded
        by a fishing hook!

absolutely no lethargy!

    and you go into the kitchen,
eat up yesterday's cabbage dill infused
broth
   with dill infused soft boiled
potatoes...

and out of the fancy...

make yourself a french toast...
that piece of bread,
soaked in egg, a pinch of salt,
and fried,

     later "imagined"
  with a decent dollop of crème fraîche
and a drizzle of honey...

and... given that you wake up
in a furnace of a room facing sunrise...
walking to the end of the garden
where there's a patch of
naked soil...

           in nothing but your boxer shorts,
lying down in a crux form,
having that most authentic:
   prenup cigarette having
just eaten...

               under an eucalyptus tree,
bothered as to why bees
seem to misjudge evergreen trees
as ever being in the possession
of flowers...

then fiddling with your 9kg cat on
your knee,
       trying to clean him from
garden debris...

                        then feeding
him three pieces of raw pork...

      and then starting a drinking session
at 20 minutes past 7am.

the french toast though?
      that ****'s just magic...
   like "attempting" to drink mineral water
having boiled some tap water...
can't buy a brioche bun, or a croissant?

   kramer vs. kramer shortcut:
dip some white bread
in pre-scrambled-egg-goo,
                                     and fry it...

     but lying almost naked on
the breathing earth pre-july englush sun
reaching its despotic zenith of
an afternoon?

                       1 point to be precise:
shame my *** didn't make contact with
this: extraordinary cool breath of
a trans-geological marriage.
Neville Johnson May 2020
The red leather banquette gives comfort to the jazz loving private detective Peter Bend as the quartet grooves in the half-filled, restaurant-bar that borders on noir
Nursing his gimlet with a lime twist, he considers the events of the day
He’s been hired by a billionaire, Archie Kuehne, whose wife, Edith,
disappeared a week ago with a complex ransom note seeking mucho bitcoins left in the house
Archie has now become a suspect ergo Peter has a proper retainer
and a client who swears he’s innocent
In cases like this, the husband usually did it
Doesn't seem to be any evidence of suicide
Edith had signed a prenup agreement so money doesn’t figure
Nor are there signs of marital discord
Police are baffled, in a tunnel
Investigative journalists hover everywhere including in this semi-dive
Where to start?
Archie already paid $1 million to the kidnappers to confirm she was alive but that didn’t get him anywhere
Cryptocurrency is not easily traced
“Guess I’ll have to learn about it,” Peter thinks
The retainer feels pretty good in his wallet
Because there’s a job to do, Peter pays his tab and marches
into the twilight
He’s paid to produce miracles, but miracles are hard come-by
He whistles a happy tune, then looks at his rearview mirror
Uh oh, somebody is following him
His gun feels comfortable in the holster under his arm
He wonders what this is about?
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2021
Death will be like sleeping
But never waking up

Why am I afraid?
Pass the chalice cup

I still miss Quayzar
Had him as a pup

Marriage is misery
Don't got no prenup

           'Sup
a m a n d a Feb 2018
i've been thinking about you
for awhile.
at first,
i found the whole thing pretty funny.
the parade of women.
all the photos that
suddenly disappear
only to be r e p l a c e d
the next day
with all new ones.

then i saw a photo of you,
and you reminded me of myself,
before you know who
quite literally
destroyed my entire life.

and i became genuinely concerned.
are you a hardened old ***** in disguise?
doubtful.
so you are probably a wonderful,
sweet, intelligent,
beautiful woman.

let me ask you this,
how would you feel if
you saw a baby in the jaws
of a wolf?

because that's how i feel
when i see photos of
the two of you
together.

alarmed. like i need to take action,
and help you
because i'm not
a ******* monster
like he is.

so this is not about him.
up until now i'm sure it has been.
but once you know the truth,
it is about you.
and you will be making a choice.

before you,
there was your predecessor.
and before her,
there was me.

Mrs. Buscemi.

for 10 years.
his fiance 6 months before that
and his girlfriend 2.5 years before that.

do i know everything about this man?
admittedly not.
but i do know more than anyone else,
including him,
and including you.
and if you were ever married
or in a relationship that long
you would understand and
feel the same way.

i get the appeal.
especially now.
everyone seems to admire
and love him.
he has energy and passion.

but he is also mean.
ungracious.
ungenerous.
and downright cruel.

you would never know this by looking at him.
but i know.
and if you don't listen,
so will you.

in my recollection,
the grace period is about a year,
year and a half.
maybe he hasn't even
screamed in rage at you yet.

i mean,
especially because he had someone right before you,
and someone right before her.
someone he put on a ring on.
twice.
sorry, three times.

he likes to punch things
when he's angry,
like holes in walls.

he also likes to hurl what he would
refer to as some kind of radical honesty
but is really just an insult,

for example,
during a fight when i locked myself
in our bedroom probably 2 years into
marriage,
he screamed, "****"
at the top of his lungs
while trying to punch or kick
the bedroom door down.
go ahead and ask him.

i had NEVER in my life
experiences anything like this.
i was terrified.

when you ask for help around
the house,
or say, ask him to help with dishes
since you cooked dinner,
he might say,
"why should i clean? i never asked you to cook me anything."

he likes to buy things.
A LOT.
he is very attached to toys
and machines,
and his outward appearance
to the world.
not so big on the love.
you have to remind him
to call his mom
and sisters.
sometimes you have to tell him
that certain things are important for families.
you will think you can fix him or save him
or help him,
but he will eat you alive.

every single person in his life
that you have met are looking at you as
a replacement to a replacement.
i was the original.
i had his name.
i know so much more
about him than you it's literally insane.
you have to understand,
i thought i was going to grow old and die
with this man,
so you can probably see how
this could be upsetting.

he refused to shovel
or plow snow
for years.
not once cleared a spot
for his wife.

he does an absolute **** job
of anything around the house.
he stuffed clay in a mouse hole
outside once in a house
we rented.

he will take your love
your energy
your devotion
your sacrifice
your money
your ideas
and he will run.

i know you think you're different.
and maybe you are.
but let's look at the numbers.

did he tell you
that your predescessor
was a friend
that had put us up in her home
years ago?
i slept in her bed.

and what i got for 10 years
of marriage with this man
was
n o t h i n g.

he was talking to her
behind my back
while we were
still married.

maybe he met you
and started talking to you
while he was still engaged.
maybe not. i don't know.

but you best keep an eye out
for the next one.
i could give you a list
to start with.

did he tell you that
i taught him all about
cameras?
the man didn't even know to buy a
DSLR and bought some dumb camera
without a removable lens.
After I explained why that was stupid,
he returned it and bought a new one.
he didn't know what aperture or shutter was
or how to use a camera.
did he mention i was a high school photography teacher
for 10 years?
did he mention i taught him how to use photoshop?

what about the hours proofreading
or straight up writing copy
giving opinions and tips and advice
on photographs?
designing business cards, price sheets,
etc.?

am i saying that i am responsible for his work?
no.
but did i contribute?
**** YES.
and you tell me,
do see that anywhere?

all while working and/or going to school full-time,
and taking care of him.
who do you think sacrificed when he decided
to start his own business?

and i will tell you that
approximately 2 months before
i left our home,
we were sitting at an Appleebees
discussing when to move,
how many years to wait,
what town to go to,
talking about maybe
having a baby.

this is not a stable human being.

becauses 2 months later,
i find out he's seeing someone else
and refuses to do a single thing
to help save our marriage
since i wasn't the weight he preferred.
that came right out of
his disgusting mouth.
i'm sorry, he is the direct quote,
"Loose weight or I'm done." - Andy

to which i replied,
"Well, then, I guess we are done."
and left our home with
$300 in my account.

he had told me that if
i ever got pregnant,
he would be repulsed
by my body.

he told me he wasn't as attracted to me
as he was to other woman.

we had some interesting years in therapy
and there are a few habits you may want to look into.
it's not pretty.
and it will not make you feel good.

if you have any credit card debt,
you better not let him be in charge
of the bills.
he paid his off while ignoring mine,
then left me ****** with
all the debt in my name that
he purposely wasn't paying.

i can tell you all about divorce.

he "bought me" a car
i was driving an hour each way to work
he told me his business was doing better
and i could pick what i wanted,
except if i got a new car,
he had to get one too.
my credit was bad,
it couldn't even go in my name.
he assured me we were good.
i was a teacher that had struggled for years
to get a tenure track position and still
didn't have one. my job was always getting cut.
i wasn't an idiot that was going to go around buying
new cars on a teacher salary.
this was him knowing all this and saying
that it was ok.

next thing i know
i'm getting divorced.
do you know what i got?
he paid for my car for one year.
that's what 10 years of marriage is worth.
he would pay for a car i never would
have gotten without him that he
took me to ******* get.
then, i have to pay $485/month for 4 years just for the car.
i had to move out of my home.
i got laid off from teaching.
and i was forced to pay this outrageous car payment.
because of that, i couldn't
save any money.
do you understand i got nothing?
no money in an account -
i literally asked with the lawyer for
$2,000 because i was so desperate
and Andy refused to give me a cent.
i have all my credit card debt that wasn't paid
because he was in charge of the bills
and didn't pay them.
the lawyers didn't care.
and i was at the lawyer with no money,
with literally no one even there to help me.

and since only 5 short years ago i found all this out,
and he was with your predecessor for i
don't even know how long,
i highly doubt he is a changed man.
in fact,
i know he's not
because i know this man
better than he knows himself.

i have a box of letters and cards.
a wedding album.
13 years of emails and photos
doctor appointments
sorrows and happiness

it did not end well.
and i can tell you
i gave him space.
i asked for nothing.
i went without.

and in my worst hour
he treated me like f i l t h.
the woman who took care of him
for thirteen ******* years,
through college,
moves,
grad school,
job changes.

he made me feel ugly.
stupid.
w o r t h l e s s.

but it didn't start right away,
and it's hard to feel it
coming on because he will
make you believe
the things he says
and the way he acts
is normal.

you will stupidly believe him.
you better get your ***
a prenup because this guy
will ******* d e s t r o y
you.

and in the last 5  years he's on
his third "marriage".
so maybe take a minute.

i have documents,
photos,
marriage certificate
wedding dress
i have it all.

oh, and he doesn't like to wear
wedding rings.
he will buy one.
or even two.
but he won't wear them.

he likes to show off.
he wants people to think he is
open minded and so passionate
and creative.
dear god, he might even talk about
"finding his creative self" or
"feeling more like himself"
now that he has met you.
and he is emotional.
he will cry.
and he seems very sincere.
but i'm telling you,
if even a drop of this sounds familiar,
the very least you need to do is ask some questions.

i wish that i had someone to warn me
before this man ruined my life.
and that is the only reason
i reach out to you.

if in 10 years you are in
my position,
then shame on you,
because i am warning you.

if you are blissful,
then i am thankful you were able
to find a way to avoid a mess like the one
he has put me in.

i know you think it can't happen to you,
or you are different.
i know because it is what i thought.
CJ Sutherland Aug 16
For a young couple,
Wedding rings a simple gold band plain
The more money the couples makes
The ring the price becomes insane

The three C’s; Cut, clarity, Carat weight
Global standards diamond quality great

These Diamond standards Dictate price,
pretentious perceived prestige nice ice

A pompous show a Garish display
Family, friends envy gush nothing to say

Succumb to the Trappings of wealth
Too Pretentious for their health

With all the crime that I have seen
I stopped Wearing my wedding ring

A Symbol of Fidelity and love
The ring means nothing to God above  

Love yes, and so much more
Marriage is not a revolving door

Marriage is a covenant between
God woman and man convene

It’s Not taken lightly a Vegas drunken binge
It’s not for insurance or prenup fringe

It’s the most sacred Vow a couple takes
A lifelong commitment they will made.


Inspired songs
1) The Ring, a perfect wedding song
By T Carter music2019

2) We’ve  only just begun
by Carole King sept 12 1970

3) Two old wedding rings
(official lyric video) by Kolt Barker
(FYI this one MIGHT make you cry)
I have my original wedding rings
10 year anniversary
his mothers wedding rings
renewing the vowels 30 years
a substantial Ring.
It’s A ring someone would want to steal.
the Latin can be turned into the Nomadic ABJAD if: we appreciate that that Africans didn't leave any phonetic encoding script and the Egyptians are Mediterranaean... blah people... but that ABJAD can be achieved by hiding the vowels while MknG the consonants dance with upper-case and lower-casing: Lk S jST s Y knW... savvy?!

fudge: snails: orbits of yawning cats
and tortoises:
i promised myself:
not to right:
write: right wrongs...

           TRANSGENDER...
well:
beyond the realm of the pronouns XYZ
bad grammar poppa
bad my mother and Reyla...

TRANSGENDER:
for the implosion of man
into woman as woman pretend...
i need to find a tapeworm
i need: a CYBORG SYMBIOSIS
and TRANS-BIOLIOGY
metamorphosis:
Dune: will remain unread

QUARUS was sleeping in the bushes
and i already feel he brought
back a messanger
in the form of a gnat
or something:
i once meditated with air and water
when  a   mosquito suckled at me:
vampire:
now this Zodiac Vampire Zombie:
cataract...
i feel something crawling into the area
around my elbow...
i'm: BIOHACKING...
not defeating death:
but if earth angels that are trees
can create a SYMBIOSIS
then:
what's this Jungian psy out
collective unconscious precursor?

i need to imitate woman:
a: woman:
i need a fetus:
i'll do mushrooms before enough
drinking and smoking marijuana
when: i get my fetal transgender imitation
TAPEWORM of a FETUS!
i need a parasite!
i need a parasite: a digestive parasitic
symbiotic: soothing eclipse
of not even being aware of
being LACTOSE INTOLERANT:
i gnash my teeth:
i talk in my sleep:
i sleep-walk:
like moon-walk i sleep... and also walk...

PRENUP:
you are not guise of such authentic self:
the ridicule of the work
of my father
and my mother...

line up the men willing to ingest a parasite
and imitate women
as child bearing:
i fear we had a more: biological:
transaction-al-et
we could morph and bilingual the strategy:
fusion of bodies therefore disguising the civilized eye
and i of gods
mice and men...
i am: PSY_BORG...
      
     i am looking for a bio-hack infusion:
i want to be a permanently pregnant woman:
i want to fuse myself
with a TapeWorm
and later do Mushrooms
and talk in the Trinity
of:

"i" the Tapeworm and the Mushroom:
can someone love
me like a disgusted by the disguise:
guess to guise? dis?

me and my father love sports...
Duplantis in Sweden:
maybe the same sort of French
as Chopin:
active Europe the Europe of ideas
dead in England because
of corrupt America...

             i love my father: i need to wager
with:
prenupital:
            i said no one else will have you:
but there's friendship
and i can't simply give you my father's and
mother's abode: on whims and prized
assets of "playing house":

this Holocaust is mine...
i will stP THNkNg
Nd        BRRw TM

                     i need to ingest a tapeworm
to concern myself with diet
and women giving birth:
not giving birth...
too late... this fudge packaging
Moroccan clepsydras
for NASA invoked telescopes...

byut i=
but i be the brute:
i'll lock that girl of yours
in a museum in a tomb
in my house
i will lock that girl up and
i'll become the DRagon
Dr Agony:
i will love that girl up and she'll be
happy:
just scribbling:
please save me:
yellow snippet takes:
counter: psy: please, please: don't save me:
daddy kisses me
i have a dad
i'm not just a scientific proof
for the religiosity
of the conformity of the sexes:
there can exist
a Feminine Vatican and a Masculine Tehran:

i need to ingest a taperworm
and spin off on learning from the meta-pharma:
****, alcohol... mushrooms...
later... later...
i will raise hell in Old Amsterdam:
just shy.... of old Amsterdam...

gender neutral pronouns:
low... hanging fruit:
subjectively abject pronoun inclusion:
third term, dimension: diameters: you think:
i think? you is closer
to i that is i...

no that i invited the parasite
bad disease an anti cancer
into my body....
do i call the dentist or the optometrist?
i'm building up a fetish
for: men with latex
gloves
putting their fingers
into my jaws:
like the Antichrist of a *******:
i was getting aroused:
a long long time: ago:
it was getting trimmed my a Turk:

            there was a fly and a cloud:
and a sky: hey presto: window!
Kfk                    Anonymity Anonymous....

                 i need a tapeworm in my body
i need to imitate a mother:
i a fetus:
the screen dawns dark...
           i need a tapeworm in my digestive
pyreduct: the travels of fire:
before i = you: yo-yo + "i"...

                 tapeworm in my gut am i truly
lactose intolerant...
then talk to mushrooms:
i want the anti-thesis of cinema:
i want my own mind to entertain me...
i want me ego
to be a dog on a leash.
"it's such an unfair advantage working in security, joke of a job, or rather: there are too many people in this industry: mostly women, who 'think' they can appease a restless drunk, man, who they have no coordinates for in terms of the stressors of nihilism: if religion was still alive: but god is alive while religion is dead... if these women knew that simply popping out a golden doughnut of a bambino: we have it harsh not that it matters but we don't have the luxury of fashion and make-up... say that to someone obsessed with latex, the Marvel comic universe... Rod Stewart's train-set... and then this ****** antics... yachts galore... but a woman? pops out a baby and hey presto! cul de sac of existentialism sort of become a tempus per se: agreed... there's no locus ad hoc: no space for this... so the child is a discomfort a 'discomfort'... but i'm not such a bad drunkard... i don't get jealous, i just tease my wuvva bovva when she tells me that she has courtesans in her vicinity of that juicy *** of a peach... but take religion away from man and replace that with the Coliseum: replace the Church with the Coliseum and then spike his ingestion of: moderation of wine: excess that with beer... don't give him a purpose: disorientate him with sport: doubly so! make him twice the unappreciative leech on what sport is: blind-side him with football fanaticism: so that he can't appreciate athletics and mathematics: the two mothers looking for a third: perfect thirst for melancholy and knowledge: namely philosophy: perhaps it's only a struggle in this tongue, this English: zunge... this lack of thirst for language bagging some Stanley 'satan' Shakespearean itch: that night when lying in bed and i felt a creepy-crawli rummaging into my skin to get at my nymph-nodes... now i feel my skin itching... and only yesterday... the chances of cycling and catching a ******* insect in my eye... eye not yet watery but still blistered... maybe this freak-ah-zoyd reclining should stop just watching people video games: at least she might not be prone to doing **** like: selling bathtub water for the desperate or maybe i'm also one of them: i'm pretty sure that if i spread enough words into the stream of connectivity i'd get away with prying open the gimmick: bagged me a Puerto Rican ****... a Puerto Rican **** and i don't feel inclined to explore sexuality most extreme in ****... i like the vanilla tasting her swallow... but then again i have my three-switch flick of the index prompt regarding one finger in her mouth and another in her ****: but boys being boys it wasn't enough that i was envied for courting a Russian girl: now i challenged the spectrum and went the other way all the way to H'america..."

it's sports commentary:
i listen in on all those former footballers turned
sport pundits and
jeez: ****** as General:
not the competent Erwin Rommel...
there's the genius and there's the artistic
turned dictator: flop...
sports commentary concerning football
is... ******* boring:
maybe that's why the fans are so vocal...
but if you just listen to the commentary
surrounding the Tour de France:
well: it's linear: the race:
unlike F1... very much unlike Formula Uno:
one...
ah! that's what i forgot!
to scribble in some katakana!
since N is so special a vowel in Yap:

オンエ   (not one: oh-née:
        i.e. not one or won)
the plural of feminine: those women...
different in the masculine
realm replacing one letter:

      オンイ... oh-knee...
no... wait... that's exactly the same: even with
the surd inclusion to morph meaning
of the same sound...
oh-n'eh: yes yes... oh-
  no... wait... that's right!
what was i thinking?!

        probably something about becoming blind
in one eye: which one? the ! or the ? eye?
and ears likewise: deaf like
that's a monstrous punctuation adventure
a colon in one ear
a semi-colon out the other...

in the plural then: AXIS... summon the *******
i've worked with enough drunkards
that i understand an unfair advantage
when i see one:
i summoned up bulking and bulging
i put on an extra kilogram or so
so i look more obnoxiously formidable like
i'm waiting for the action doing
response but all i see it people
wasting my time
i want to be traumatized like most people
become when doing this job
but all i get it politeness and maybe
i'm just a big smooch:
the way she described other males
trying to chirp her up all lavender and honey
i didn't get disorientated
i just told her: it's coming up to 4am
and i'm still thinking about tomorrow's
weather and the heatwave receding
and your daughter is eating dry pasta
and that's almost like me clinging
to exercising my bite and gnash
on my own teeth and other instruments
of torture until bone bites bone
and a new geology is born from the chips
and my grinning chipped teeth:

onesies i think "they" call them...
don't know: bad grammar is a disgrace when
so made into fetish for bad politics
like chess are people or people
are chess and this is a nightmare circus
but fair enough:
if that eases the strain on god's antics
in the omni-verse of -potency etc
then i too think Yo needs...

it looks so terrible for anyone who's either
schizophrenic or bilingual,
this whole notion of: "gender neutral pronouns":
perhaps it's an English-thing:
with its already in situ:
gender neutral nouns...
which makes no sense to summon
the idea, the whisper: but wow! so vocal:
"gender neutral pronouns":
the ******* nouns are gender neutral!
learn! another! *******! zunge!
in other languages there's no confusion:
nouns are gender exclusive!
there's some inkling into this reality with
calling the Moon a boy and the Sun a girl:
or in the ancient script calling
Latin Moon girl and Latin Sun boy...
but come on: Britain: the Afghanistan of
the ancient world: before the Saxons conquered
this respite for conquest:
these Irish, Welsh and Scots...
don't bother me when i'm still residing in Essex...
before the Germanic influence:
the devolved people pushed into a now
impeding homogeneity of Pseudo-Babylon...
with all the rest of the people of the world
making their claim to
bad weather and even worse diet!
well **** me! might as well sell them ****
and make them feel like twice the overlords
and conquerors with their breeding patterns
and state-dependence:
me? i'm ******* off to Hawaii... leave you to it...
i'm beyond one ounce of giving a toss:
i found myself a girl i can escape pornographic
daydreaming:
on a hunch: well yeah:
the day i brought her present to the brothel:
a ****-ring...
the 20 year didn't know what i was doing
but neither did she know what was what is
a ******* before the advent of the monotheistic
mutilation by the Arab-Hebrews...
oh yeah, yeah: i'd get circumcised (if i could,
but i can't but if i could: but i can't
since i have a caduceaus of veins around my skin
on my **** so: bleeding gums murphy)...
circumcision should only be permitted
as a prenup agreement...
only then: not right off the bat hey ** let's go!
if i get married then yeah:
guillotine my *******...
but beyond that you ******* barbaric sods: ha ha...

it's still bad grammar...
gender, neutral, pronouns...
as in: "neutrality" of enveloping the singular with
the plural so that he is disguised as they
and she a them: wow! applause! stupendous
******* applause!
i'm having to listen to the DYSLEXIC goblins!
the fury and the agony of: supposing
the priestly-caste became limp-**** energy
and people became over-ambitious in their
first: thirst: ambition for scribble scribble scribble:
but then the scribble scribble scribble
comes back and you begin to wonder:
all that... for this?!

it's not even bothersome what sport you watch:
but football these days has the most
terrible of commentaries...
you switch off listening to it
and appreciate the game:
with the exception of, say: John Motson...
Jonathan Pearce... yeah...
but beside that: ex-footballers...
one exception...
two...
            Ian Wright is not a commentator:
he's a pundit...
as is Roy Keane....
             Alan Shearer... Ally McCoist...
legend...
                  Martin Keown: measured, reserved...
sober(?)...
             Tour de France commentary is
different: you're not supposed to be watching
the race, well: you are: you're not...
regardless:
i don't see a bunch of women raising arms
at length to salute and say:
we also want to be the brides and girdles
of the Tour! give us some!

equal pay: but i really want women to play
5 sets in tennis!
i want to get my money's worth!
if women are to be paid equal as men
in a sport:
they should at least play to a 3 set winner in
the grand slams... surely... no?
why are they getting paid to play a maximum
of 3 sets while men have to grind out
a 5 setter?
doesn't seem fair:
but we're only talking about a pedantic minority
of hard-core feminist-nazis to begin with
so i'm not really bothered about outcomes
of my spontaneous verbiage...

                  but if you don't attract a massive
crowd to watch your matches...
with the exception of the national team
then i really don't understand
how all these women think they can be
****-boys and not look ugly
while we know all the ****-boys
are Peter Pans and that's really not something
you aspire to
since you know they're only ******* the gullible
ones and that's an intellectual sub-par
of what's talked about outside the bedroom:

i didn't ask whether you can cook and clean...
then there you go with:
but i'll earn as much as you and get a maid...
seriously?!
so all for me but none for you
so there's no grand feminist solidarity
you'd rather have another woman do your chores
while you compete for my... responsibilities
and strains:
i didn't say: can you cook and clean:
i do that myself... i was just asking:
would you mind cooking and cleaning: with me:
but there you go all defensive:
but i'm not doing either:
regardless:
regardless of what?
butchering a poor animal twice by
overcooking the beef till it's dry and ugh and
i need blood and ju and goo:

no wonder then that i had to resort
to looking for a woman outside of England:
if not in Russia then in America...
well: Polynesia... South America:
not America-as-Culture as such...
somewhere "spicy": somewhere fidgety...
fiddly... jeez this itch...
i really do think i have a parasite crawling
under my skin: sometimes it pops like an itch
in my ear sometimes
on my nose...

it's still a case of bad grammar:
gender, *******, neutral, ******* pronouns...
it's bad... so so bad...
someone ought to cut off the dyslexic delusion
of prowess: give them some sweets:
a sugar rush and a motorcycle to speed
on and crash into a jargon busting dumpster
of a truck: re-orientate them with
clever tricks like:
only two experiences can compensate getting
a ******* as good as...
     getting a haircut in all that ******* Ottoman
experience and...
seeing a dentist: but that's not ethnicity related
like going to a Turkish barber:
any dentist will do:
shoving his latex GIMP
           hands into your mouth while you're gagging
and saying: i might just about to cry
from all that inverted ***: my-tho-logy?
    structure: that's mý-tho-logy:
when writing the schematic: it's truly there:
it's not my: aye: eye...
     it's a mýthology: hence no ý in -logy:
since that's: logically: -ee... e e... e... e... e... e...

i knew you were trouble: Taylor does DUB STEP...
Taylor does DUB STEP... drops the BASS...
softcore dub step:
i remember there was that musical movement
once circa 2007...
then died the quickest death imaginable...

that sporting events have replaced:
well what's the problem with religion is the carousel
of repeating familiarity
and perhaps people just want drama
drama that can be contained and if religion was no
escapism:
but it was escapism for people, formerly:
then religion can't satiate the problems of modern man
god is alive and well
in the mental asylum
while religion is dead or at least morphing:
personally i find i couldn't find any satisfaction
with religion
even as much as the Muslims want to make
their intricate prayer antics enticing with remnants
of mysticism
i couldn't possible lubricate my mouth
on the mantras that leave the Urdu speaking
confusion a half-baked Arabic...
  
                          since... maybe there's a living through
language: LINGUA PER SE
re-orientating itself:
something out of my power...
              maybe language is: primarily an etymology
instead of history
perhaps there's a secret layer of language
that balances out all the newly discovered
graffiti...
                            and i'm just here for the thrill
of: peacock: how can i best attire myself
in the right sort of feathers of words...
                                     which might make her O and A
and Ooh: in the whirlwind of the YHWH
with the two hatches as vowel catchers in sighs
and instigators of laughs: balancing act of Ah in Ha... ha.

p.s. so in the end, my "unfaithfulness":
non-committal...
i thought: can i be as or at least so: psychopathic
and escape the sanctity of ****** exclusiveness?
turns out no...
the ****-ring confused the young *******
as did the *******...
in the end i ended up paying her £120 for an hour
whereby i massaged her
and she cuddled to me like a daughter
and that's when i decided that:
all the lessons of the brothel have been learned...
there's no need for me to go back...
i think it was always a language barrier for me...
i think that language is: but especially is:
if you find your type:
voluptuous... volume: voluptuous...
              if you can find your type and become:
TYPO... strange parallels:
an honest monetary exchange: once, only once
since March... and... absolutely... nothing...
to engage a psychology with:
too many ******* swans in my head
and matrimony...

                          a ******-pathology:
or rather a pathology of *** post the ****** revolution
in that:
it takes great strain and mental gymnastics
to go ahead with frivolous and anti-stereotypical
"awakening" casualness of ***
in the realm of the psychopath:
maybe that's why i did overcome that aspect
of ***
and did manage multiple ****** partners
and did manage to persuade some to perform
unprotected *** and that's a big thing
since in the brothel the onion and peel of
skin of extra financing the experience
but then a return to a comfort of the lived
rather than dying through experience
and how naturally there'a a lock on who you
experience either KINK or VANILLA with
and even in the realm of VANILLA
the KINK comes out: out of its own unconscious
rota of: can't hide forever...
and that's better than all the false sense of
the rewarding self: instead it's a self-punishment
with that promise of causal *** that's:
so... ******* monstrous i don't know why
**** ideology died
while this 1960s ****** revolution still lingers
like a bad taste absinthe and Marxism:
but **** ideology is dead
while there's the real human question
of sincerity when it comes to such topics
as Euthanasia and being unable to care / afford
demented relatives...
this liberal-anti-liberal monstrosity is just:
icky...
                                         and this is coming from
a place of "love": like:
why were only the Slavic people inclined to
test out Marxism to the fullest extent
(while door-mouse Chinese faked it until they
made it...)
        but at least there were a people who tested
the theory thoroughly and there's knowledge
of: Marxism would work well in current Syria:
like it did in Poland:
as a way of: Marxism in place under special
circumstances of: invaded by and distraught by:
at least 2 foreign powers...
and a special time period like half a century...
great undercurrent of cultural growth:
no foreign investment: F.D.R's isolationism like
that of Japan: a fail-safe mechanism...
nothing capitalistic: permanent...

                  but **** me that was the last time
i paid for an hour whereby i ended up
massaging a *******: gremlin ergonomics of
pseudo-economic achievements of earning: spending.
beer, as i discovered, is about as crucial to marinade meat as is salt and olive oil... especially when tenderizing pork... esp pork...

now pork, i do know:
unlike chicken or beef...
only recently i found out
that a quick Turkish marinade
with some Sumac
rosemary... rosemary?!
yes: apparently beef
works just as well with rosemary
as does lamb...

i don't understand the monotheistic
**** of logic against pork
maybe all that dehydration have
those "sputnik bros"
the wrong kind of hallucinations
maybe the rest of us are
forgiving of the sand people too
much:

but sure as **** Islam wasn't born
a heritage implosion
of Judaism:
Islam was born from having
to antagonize Christianity:
in the sentiment of:
Christianity begot waging
war of images against words
and Islam was born with a reply:
to wage war with words against
images...

pork i can understand:
how to marinade the beast...
tenderize it... succumb to:
the oink and the cartilage
in hoofs in nails
in ears in tail:
the most economic animal known
to man: in terms of edibility:
which is why these sand-people
seem so strange to
be so loved up in Kentucky
bird flute playing the flu
i don't get this backwardness...
this critique of god
it's almost like a gimmick
to show god and the people befriended:
so... these lunatics do realize
that: you couldn't possible
raise a piglet farm in the desert:

they do realize that Europe
was once a forest
and uprooting trees and turning the former
forest land into arable pasture
was not exactly...
what's the word: waiting in the desert
tending to camels spitting in your eye
blah: it wasn't super easy...
and yet the pig gets the brunt of the burden
of: weird people:
super weird people...
at least the Chinese with their atheism
and a lifetime of catching up
to the European fascination with
the Egyptians: but
what other written script out of Africa?
can we be summoned to the judgement:
well in part the westerners of the continent
but are we to blame for
how loudly Nigerians speak:
simply because they had no concern
for scribbling down the sounds that they
made and conjured up letters?

ooh look at me: i'm about to google
a politically correct... for fool's gold
if i didn't come across any African alphabet
until i already bypassed hieroglyphs then
what the **** am i expecting?
ideograms? Katakana syllables?
Korean thingy-ma-jigs?

          talking to Muslims and about Pork
is a bit like...
talking to someone about arachnophobia
holding a tarantula in your hand...
talking to Jews and pork is non-essential
since those other ancient spastics of the desert
finally succumbed to some variation
of liberalism on the culinary front
and in the most extreme scenarios the ones
that still to a pork-phobia
are the inbreeding types who wrestle
with having a state:
but not making statehood crux
of military service because of: "religious studies"...

******* camel jockey pork-phobia:
so blind that they see the letters
but can't hear the sounds:
like my latest fetish for the dentist:
like: it really was the antithesis of getting
a *******
and getting trimmed by a barber:
i got all tingles...
some man: two to be exact...
putting their hands into my mouth
wearing latex gloves...
it was like the perfect anti-******* *******...
so much so that i geared up
for the event by jerking off to
some ***** flicks with pregnant women:
god i love a good video where
a pregnant woman gets pleasured:
because:
if i was in the capacity to get a woman
pregnant:
i'd like to think what my allowances were:
could i **** her with that fetus inside her
or just all oral i mean i don't know:
just wearing a ring finger makes me think
all **** thinks all things godly and forbidden
and that's not even me contemplating
hell
because that's the one place were people
are there so sadomasochistic ends meat: meet...

boo hoo...
** ** **... Santa some variant of Satan's Clause...
i just don't understand why
this special spastic treatment of people
who fear eating pork...
clearly we are not literate
but imitation monkey: clapping:
that's not reading that's not:
it's just i say yo echo! echo! echo sounds!
baritone: get back to me later...
echo pork porky porky pi in the iota of sigma kappa
gamma... since: not real why-i-y...
but there's the j... which is sort of the antonym
of the sound enshrined in Y: Jive: hive:
yew: jew...

imagining a cannibal transported to a world
of vegan fetishes:
oat milk, dairy free: not eating poultry abortions
of eggs:
no cheese: no milking of the cow:
just rubbing firmly at a cucumber
to get some motivational juices out...
getting a haircut: primal instinct...
clearly we're not literate, collectively...
just because people can do more with signature
beside an X is
algebraic proof that: but people still adhere
to stupid ordeals of time-framed intellect
of progress that worked: for a time:
but have become: outdated and: this is no way
to live: this life of antagonizing pork
because somehow you can't be
the next sheep-******* and camel jockey
Don Muhammad
with an Envy of Solomon's Harem...

               lucky for me that i started basking
in the sexuality of a post-****** creature
now i don't have to worry about
unexpected pregnancies lock-me-up Scotty... spot...
Polka: that's dot dot... dot dot dot... dot...
now i just have to worry about a prenup
and...
well i was serious:
if i'm going to test hallucinogenic mushrooms
somewhere in a field in a meadow
in a forest enclosure:
i will need to sample the anti-thesis of Dune
or Dune proper
and ingest a tapeworm...
if i'm going to test hallucinogenic mushrooms
i need to bio-hack my consciousness
and create a trinity of me:
a tapeworm and a mushroom: fungal growth
of consciousness...

i am: deadly serious...
dope state deep of: my van Gogh is getting
the proper revisionist treatment of:
2nd attempt at seriousness:
first time it was all **** naked faking...

i still don't understand this prominence of
the desert people
and the literal obliteration of the forest people
of the Amazon...
because: clearly: the Europeans were living
in an area: this readily presented as the arable
breadbasket...
chisel the African man started rapping
blah blah bli bli blue blue blood:
but!
at least he converged and living among us
started to wear our clothes
and completely obliterated the stronghold of
classical music constipation with jazz
while the Muslim did: what?

but if it's all so bad
then why live among us why attempt
to intellectually clone as
as an extension of your repertoire of red flags?
why be so adamantly critical of god:
why would god be so critical of pig
if you laugh because English
is a language of mirror: GOD with DOG
and Allah: well: not exactly
symmetrical like YHWH when you think of
it: just LLH and that looks *******
****... **** beyond hope of not looking ****...
so...

m'eh...            pork pie!
Qualyxian Quest Apr 2021
I want to go down grateful
When my number's up

Confusion I admit
But i did both sip and sup

I fell and then I fought
I loved that Quayzar pup

Q and I went walking
No need for a prenup

             Protection!

— The End —