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Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass
throughout,
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)
...
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
                  more...
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
what's the biggest difference
between 20th century's
french and german
existentialism,
    and the 21st century's
primarily, anglo-sphere,
realisation of an existential
   "crisis"...
           anti-jew meme...
         the globalist octopus...
imagine...
     some people have
recovered from an existential
crisis, having established
vast constructs of thought
way back in the 20th century,
namely
the french, and the germans..
but...
my oh my oh my my...
the anglo-sphere of linguistics
has only, "just now"
awoken to this...
   quiet a predicament,
wouldn't you say?
                         fertile ground...
oh sure, there was existential
angst in the anglo-
sphere among irish
pillars...
                beckett, joyce...
but concrete architectures
of thought, regarding existentialism,
seem to be absent...
  so... counter-argument:
so how come i can
freely buy a copy of some
german philosopher,
a french novelist turned
philosopher...
           but...
  i'm skint... when it comes
to english thinkers more
or less associated with
my status, rather than stance,
on contemporary "translation"?
   elitism...
no... it's not that...
      i could have just well
have procured
a life helping out my father
in industrial roofing...
             i didn't mind roofing...
it's not an exactly pristine
labour of love sort
of environment...
the scottish widows' h.q.
roof near st. paul's?
        me.
   i was part of that
monstrosity...
       but... come again?
but there are some many attachment
cursors when it comes
to an anglican take
on "revising" continental
existentialism...
        whatever crisis
the continental people
felt, and consolidated
the 20th century people...
is only just starting to bud
in the anglo-phonic world...
start-up, island,
end result,
    h'america and australia...
there was never a question
as to why, or if,
the english-speaking
people would ever entertain
existentialism,
but, suddenly they are,
at least starting to look
into the pit,
from their ivory towers...
immediate escape
impetus?
      reach for the fictive
narrative,
                disavow journalism...
make journalism bedfellows
with political rhetoric...
there's no debate...
circus, however you look
at it...
             you can't fathom
an abstract variant
of the german or the french
mind, gripped by
an existential critique,
a piquancy,
    a pedantry...
in the english speaking world...
there are,
just simply...
   too many attachments
to deal with...
       - growing a beard:
meant exactly that -
eat ****.    
         i don't see where
there a "me" to be found
in a (0, 0) starting space,
of net-worth-"work"...
     coumpters-freeze
network...
for a language...
that ridiculed,
or became succinct
in succumbing
to its anglo-preferences
of objectifying counter-standards
for its own...
shortcomings...

  what has 20th century
existential philosophy have
to do with "anything",
esp. if arrived from
the either french
of german, cultures?

we have Joe Slave over 'ere...
oh right... sorry...
paweł nowak....
just took joe stephen slave's
role was
the person, the hands,
in a recycling factory...
do you mind?
  rather:
do you mind...
teaching your natives...
   to...
   and you know how that
cindarella story ends...

introducing existentialism
to the brits and,
generally,
  the anglican variety of
the tongue, being
used...
   will end up as, failure...
the 20th century
taught me this,
the irish failed,
the french
and the germans...
basically a "foreign" idea
is more than just...
******..
the people are ******,
with paradoxes
of their women...

                sure... a bit like
Iceland...
oh, ****, a bit too close
to the continent...
like madagascar
  is to africa...
and sri lanka is to india?
i'm not 'ere to care to
the idiosyncratic
concerns of island people...
contra the, "collective"...

island people will forever
remain island people,
"solipsistic", idiosyncratic,
idioms...
            i can't change that...
always prone to export...
but never to import...
    island people,
       the **** is there to say?
ever bewilder yourself
over chanel 4 news...
and how...
  john snow is slipping
into dementia?
      you listen to the cue?
no?
                  sorry... john...
dementia on the horizon...

attempting to adapt
existentialism into england
will fail,
given their moral high-ground
of the "migrant crisis"...
it's an island...
  the borders are clarifying,
distinct,
        sure, the people can be *****
when their language
is bored in being
a "lingua franca"...
         but other people have
other, in-debt defences...

western slavs?
ever hear a spaniard speak
pollack, just because
he hiked with a polish girl?
yeah... mahler...
                       violins and ****...
you only listen:
                  for an idea...
it comes, it comes,
it doesn't come...
well... you move onto
some khachaturian...
        so,                 no biggie...

you can't import continetal
thinking to an island people,
they have no concept
of borders...
their naive presupposing
barrier, centered-ground is
unshakeable...

   existential philosophy
"meme" rate of survival is... ?
0.1,
binary, negation, an affirmative
statement,
and then the fiasco...

       it doesn't help
that there's an alternative
outlet via h'america or australia...
i'm not looking
at the "bigger picture",
when there isn't one...

     20th century existentialism
will not work in 21st century england,
or any english-speaking world
to begin with...
there are just, too many,
attachment points,
         as many nurtured
nostalgia avenues
as there are amnesia riddled
currencies of attention
exhaustion...
        it's just a pristine model
to revive the serf...

there's no point reading existentialism
to a people,
so far lodged in their
isolationism that they
can claim, both an island-stature...
and two continents,
by extension
       of stating: "being aware"...      

i guess you have to be born
on the continent
to read anything by 20th century
writers,
but... trying to implement
the word...
into the idiosyncrasy
of island-dwelling people,
akin to the English?

                    i'm not even going
to bother trying...
they're island-folk...
   they "think" of borders akin
to coastlines...
and not migration
fake bordering of a contradiction
of peoples occupying
a quicksand pit
of looking at a geography map...
island-folk...
  they know border...
because they know... island...

you can't translate
something that's already
paradoxical to them
  (hypocritical, is not a milder
term of usage for the desired
execution)...
     no...
                not going to happen...
two islands,
some set of continental enclaves...
culture...
whatever you want...

             i've lived with them,
even though i've lived pretty much
among either the irish migrants,
or the scots...
    you're not going to translate
an island, into a continent's
auxiliary...
  right now...
you'd think that
   Estonia would become
characteristic of an island-people
auxiliary mentality...

       i can't blame these people
though...
   an island environment
provides an island people
mentality...
    if you have never been
part of a congregation,
geographically...
   yes...
      but they're borrowing
continental idiosyncracy...
****** *****...

   Iceland?
            yeah... oh yeah...
they're hot on the topic of what
island life is like...
being so...
   conservative that they even
have developed apps
for people to check their
genetic proximity
and any immediacy to live,
+ baggage...

      the Brits were always 'ere...
the Icelandisch?
were always there...
          and...
  sorry... for the already given
postcard: wish you were
here analogy of...
            curiosity killed
the cat...

           but island dwelling people
will always be,
an island dwelling people...
right now,
you do what i do...
you play chamaleon...
  "sociopath"...
                you...
begin with: a-pathy...
          without pathology
looking for... what requires
you to mingle with the most
pathological examples of
a hushed sanity of society...

          and...
          your luck, as well as mine...
nothing really happens...
like butter smeared
over a gently toasted
piece of toast.

hello tomorrow.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
english humour?
       they call it black...
             black as in: i 'aven the foggiest...
sure... it's witty, but up to
the point where slapstick origins
do a dodo and ******* into nothing
while at the same time inviting canned laughter...
               it's black humour they say:
what... you mean bile?
                  now ask a pole about
humour... and he'll be like:
         i'm flying a kite over auschwitz...
i can't believe it's two things at once:
   a "tourist" attraction for some...
                an islamic deterrent, for others.
sure... we can fire up the ovens once more...
             it'll be like that scene in the hobbit
where a few dwarfs started to imbue
life into the abandoned mine of the lonely mountain...
see... that's the thing with english humour,
in that it's black... in that it's too intelligent,
which makes a lunatic laughing for no
perceptible reason...
            enigma jokes... you know the kind...
       but a comedy that forgets itself, having
origins in a schadenfreude... well, it becomes
desperate... it's gagging for an auxiliary settlement
to be staged in the first place:
  canned laughter, enforced laughter,
                  the tyrannical face of western humour:
***** you better laugh! or i swear i'll do
      sum-fin                    nah      sss    tee... tea...
                ty           ti      taikwondo,   taekwondo?
eh?
                   this is starting to look, very much
like kabbalah for the party kids...
                 let's levitate an inch above the alphabet
and **** around with syllables...
         chi       chai                 china       chichen itza
chicken eats ya                 oh you... yes you.
       that's the thing though:
   translate humour from poland into english...
                             it's night... and it's foggy...
             and there's no moon...
                         or crescent... of that northern
star that sometimes aligns itself
        when there's a crescent and you think:
turkey!            no! no!                         pakistan!
                           pompous bozos...
     but this magazine is funny...
   first they write an article that's sorta related to
serge gainsbourg - and then onto
                the doctor who tweaks the faces
      of millennials
-
                and i'm thinking: did i suddenly get something
wrong?
            what a horrid piece...
                   it's journalism, for sure...
   but i'm thinking: the stepford wives...
                  austin powers: fem-bots...
                                ex_machina robot *** slaves...
no, nothing else...
              let's just say i'd sooner find a £110 an hour
bulgar ******* in her 40s more desirable
          than these women think they'll become...
                odd, isn't it?
                             so you pay ten quid to enter
the brothel... and there they are: sitting pretty
                               and all the more intimidating...
a £110 an hour beauty...
                and then this drops into my lap...
an article about my generation bracket doing
  all this fancy **** with bough-toxicity that leads
neither to the roots, nor to the drowning-man's
arms of branches trying to cuddle or at least
                          allow birds to perch on them...
  now i'm really going to have fun with this...
                  pinch of malice, dab of a rotting corpse
of a fox... hey presto! you're in essex,
                                   with the cliche of oranges.  
                        poo poo pout! ooh!      
                              **** underwear or a diaper?        
as random as you can get...
                           but you know what this boils
down to? obviously on a serious note...
    it's whether you care for darwinism or
etymology more.
                         i'm pretty sure the monkey and
the man will lead        (led) - leash - huh? -
           lee lee....                    le!             ole!
(acute e missing, couldn't be bothered inserting it) -
     it's almost like bypassing the whole genus
concept... of family traditions...
   e.g. the family ****.... the tradition? sapiens!
  i wish that was true...
                            how about proto erectus?
or    mono erectus?
                              darwinism has become such a yawn
after it became a form of cultural indoctrination...
    honestly... i rather go to a zoo and watch
a monkey scratch it's ***... sniff it's hand
and then scratch it's head...
                   so yeah... etymology...
     i just spent the afternoon shooting words out
of my gob, going: well... that's funny...
          a dog with three legs, go!
       w                ł
  
                          v                ­        there...
    you'll get v'eh (fff'uckers!) joke łen sum' fin
                     really 'appens...
             and ven... you'll be like:  please me sir...
         m'ah  łoman -            went into labour...
        plus there's no concept of v in polish (st. paul
on a leash) -
                      there's w = v
               there's  ł = w
                                                       and there's u.
back to the botox beauties...
                                          at £110 an hour?
these bulgar women? (they're not *** slaves
if they get paid) -
                               what's the difference?
   they're mandible...
                              like play-dough...
                                like clay... you can mould them
into an ******... these instagram perfectionists?
         why would i want to **** a porcelain girl?
i'd be scared to **** her thinking i might break her...
   but back to quasi-etymology, that's quasi
for a bilingual fascination...
                   winda (v) = lift... so no, it's not windy
        when govinda yawns... qui?
     wróbel (v) = sparrow...
                      or...          in the russian currency...
     hold a sparrow in your hand? you're... a ******* millionaire!
               tulipan = tulip
                        tu (here) is where you impress your lips -
    and that is an actual conjunction, i.e. tu -
                                       róża = rose
         hmm... maczuga! maczuga = bludgeon...
      wω                             buttocks, with a missing H:
                               or wow or: woah!
        curve 'ere v(u)               ******* sharpenings 'ere ω(w).
honestly, i still think that there's been a diacritical
****... two proofs:                 i          and             j.
         that's ****... it's presupposing that ι (ιota)
                            needs a diacritical mark hanging over
it, a bit like damocles' sword....
        just hanging above it on a single hair of
a horse's mane... i'm guessing it's also called:
                                                      pre­cursor of the violin.
but if you really want to pronounce an acute z (ź) -
      you'll have to use a syllable from the word euthanasia.
oddly enough, when in st. petersburg
   i didn't spot a single mcdonalds...
                       it's like this odd feeling that you're
in a chiral environment, being used to seeing this
  outpost in little england...
                   and they don't really drink coca cola either...
they drink this carbohydrate drink called квас (kvas -
    western slavic?                    acid) -
           and eat pancakes with orange caviar...
black caviar? that's for the opera people who
  nibble on it on canapés... orange caviar is
                for the no nonsense people.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*

a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
just because your problems are bigger than mine,
doesn't qualify you as being
better than me;
but sure, we need apes, like we might encourage
buying stake at the butchers and
a quasi-Narcissus reflection in Darwin...
that's what happens when presupposing
someone's supposed idiocy, it happens
that way in democracy, without a autocratic godhead
of authority, many more are prone to being
prescribed madness, because being sadistic
with dementia patients and those disabled is all
that more rewarding than when a "patient" can punch
you back, ******-nose your face...
and this is how Christianity makes sense?
might as well call the adherents of Christianity
children wetting their beds and fuelled by a desire
to maim their fellow examples of the species...
Darwinism will not do... it's a farce...
the animals involved to a categorical grouping
would not do what humans do to each other...
so we evolved from monkey to escape the tiger
and the snake? i hardly think tigers or snakes killed
with sadism involved... for pleasure...
but if the sadistic impulse was always ours...
we evolved for no good reason...
i'd rather experience the hunger of the tiger
or the snake than experience the sadism of a fellow human being...
and that's a humanism, it doesn't invoke a god
or morality that should be kept...
i'd rather a tiger **** me for sustenance than some
trivial bog-standard thief from the London estate knifing me
for a ******* bike... i'd rather end up in a tiger's digestive
system than in the "evolved" court-of-law debating
bicycle theft -
animal-cohesiveness knows no sadism,
human-overpowering of animals knows everything
but humanism, hence the need for humanism per se,
poetry and a novel... we write poetry but at the same time
perform holocausts... if we are evolutionary products,
we are by evolutionary standards a successful paradox...
we contradict the pluses with the negatives we produce
subsequently... we have evolved / transcended
the original parameters... but we did so paradoxically;
i'd still rather die from a tiger easing my death
by the vampire-bite of my neck that
the exfoliation abiding with the electric chair or
the iron maiden... the author of the Bonfire of Vanities
got it wrong... we really did use our imagination...
we used imagination for the expression of torture...
Disney can do **** all than quack like a duck
to quiet simply approve the endemic continuance
of the practice... because most people will
simply apply for t.v. and come dine with me
spectaculars.
Joanna Oz May 2015
projection of disemboweled guts oozing blood
dripping entrails onto starched white linens
hung in pristine precision, poisoned into submission
my demonic parole officer has come out to play
from the dungeon of hell's seventh circle
i swallowed a hive of maggots with my lunch today
forked serpent tongue slurping slime and slugs
unholy satisfaction from magicking fantasy into
ghoulish, gory realities and ******* tears from deserted lungs
the lion's dinner watches his stomach being eaten
dull but forceful rock formations cracking and crunching
disembodied hallucinations, presupposing predilection
i am the grim reaper's prom date, predisposition
gussied up in cobweb tulle and glittering larvae
with a chloroform corsage, what generous perfume
the skeletal dance floor creaks under my spinning,
groaning of lives sped through on tranquilizers
dancing a tango with Death, i smirk in dizzy abandon
the band is beating their bones to chalky pulp
music made from desperate self-destruction
projectile ***** onto my pedestaled ideas
chunks of last week's insights stink the room
the bile which processed them to rejection
is sticking dripping off the untethered chandelier
i watch them both fall towards me
first, in slow-motion glimmering
and then,
all at once,
i am below them
and we are below the skeleton floor
in the cellar of the scorpion's dungeon
that i escaped from this eery morn
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
for some reason, i never seriously branched away from american rock / metal into the alternative of black metal or viking metal of scandinavian... the finnish music scene gave me an appeal for their music... given the folk tale of herr mannelig... well... it's come down to: either hedningarna or gjallarhorn, when drinking, you really want to mellow out... you still like classical music, but you just can't keep up with the shrieks and the heavy guitars anymore... you want to return to the roots of melody, above ferocity... god, i hate the strauß family... i can't stand that sort of music... the non-contemplative type... it doesn't allow any meditation... because you imagine yourself constantly dancing... dying from st. vitus' dance / sydenham's chorea... there's nothing contemplative from their music, their waltzes are cannot entertain thinking, only dancing, or clapping to the rhythm.

existentia (existence)
     "existence" (existenz)
   ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")
strutting among non-beings:
            
  cogito - sum   (i am thinking - i am)
   the simultaneous answer,
      
the vector guiding the cartesian sum
   is to provide conversation

the vector guiding the cartesian cogito
is to provide an anti-claustrophobia
   (you can really become claustrophobic
  in a conversation... i.e. be put on the spot /
    high heels, of uncomfortableness).

ah... *ex-sistere
("to exist", "to stand out")...
isn't that the western mantra for
individualism?
                   how can it not be?
why is individualism so sacred,
        so nauseating? this segregation of
one's own, from the ownership of all and
no one?
              it took king solomon to look at
an ant, which didn't exactly transcribe into
a humbling... just an crying out of
what individualism leads to: vanity! all is vanity!
                   vanus! vanus est omni!
ah, but no day is void of its content,
   as being the vessel of emptiness,
  the day, is a vessel brimming, full,
   a dam about to collapse, that fills me
with at least something that otherwise makes
me devoid, of entertaining it, in the first place.

but all these "political" conversations...
    these conversations might as well
start off with a sticker:
   hi, my name is...          bob.
i listen to these political discussion and
think...
         wow! the cartesian libra
       weighs so much toward the "i am"
side of the measures...
     such is the scenario of poly-identifactions...
i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative, i'm a progressive,
i'm into alt. right, i'm i'm i'm this that and the other...
given the conversation, and a complete
lack of silence i.e. thought,
           i'm also about to create a collage
of identificators...
   but i'll begin with: hi, my name is...      bob;
like any goldfish might.
        
  to me these people are talking presuppostions,
they are presupposing they are what they "are"...
     which suggests their thinking aligns itself
to suppositions, that they "are"
                          what they "think" they are...
they're not thinking, they're talking...
   non-stop, ad nauseam...
               i gather that people who are
       vox-philic, are also musica-phobic...
sometimes i think about knocking on a door
for about 10 years and not have it open
than listen to these people talk "politics".
       sometimes listening to hammering
in nails on a building site sounds more entertaining;
oh wait, should that be dico-philic / sermo-philic?
      whatever.
     i found that the people who love talking,
have no passion for music.

     silverchair - freak:
lyrics -
               no more maybes, the baby's got rabies,
       in the middle of the andies... yeah, heh!
i'm a freak. nature!
   yeah, heh!e
    if only i could be as cool as you.
   ****** and soul, i'm a freak, i'm a freak...
           trying to be different...
   whatever different disease...

   yep.... index finger moving against the motorboat
effect of the lips vibrating...
       hey presto! a mongolian harmonica.
              
ex omne diem
                  (out of every day)
               out of every moment...
    there is a driving momentum,
              to counter the shackles of systematic
clarification of what existence actually is,
or can be, or will or never will be,
            for what existence was...
                         is an selective memorisation...
a memory drives my curiosity more than
a spontaneous thought...
                 the thought is in the now,
a memory is in the what was...
           when walking in the desert of thought,
you must certainly stumble against
   the mirage oasis of a memory, suddenly arising...
i count memory, to have a higher status
     in the hierarchy of mental faculties
as that of dreams...
             for one... memory is attacked by
institutionalised learning, say,
       the pythagoras...
                                    i rather respect memory,
and keep as much of it as i can,
   than demand an interpretation of dreams...
i literally, have no respect for dreams...
                      none...
        memory though?
        memoriam est grata, somnio est non grata
(memory is welcome, dreaming is not welcome).
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
two sudokus down, one pending, and the drinking is insatiable, peering into the stack of books, there's a copy of seven years in tibet and in start to wonder: what sort of interesting life should ever produce a book? the majority of me is asking: really? 7 years in 7 sittings of reading this?! who imagines writing a book, having "completed" an interesting life, does not imagine the majority of the readership, discarding the actual book, and being tibet bound... jealousy is such a cheap emotion, to be honest jealousy is the cheapest of all emotions, cheaper to pay a ******* for an hour's service, than take a fine girl to dinner; what, was someone expecting an "oops" with that?

i sometimes can't imagine the quality of pop,
it's not a pedantic "observation" -
it's just: well, could have done better,
but then again: you clearly couldn't have.
    i like rereading shakespeare and thinking
than minor additions would make the works
stand in greater clarification,
notably in shrapnel -
- 1st witch: why, how now, hecate?
you look angerly.
- hecate: have i not reason, beldams as you are,
saucy, and overbold? how did you dare to trade
and traffic with macbeth, in riddles,
and affairs of death,
  and i, then mistress of your charms,
   the close contriver of all harms,
  was never called to bear my part,
   or show the glory of our art?
such minor revisions, pedantic, of course...
i.e. - how did you dare to *trade and
make trivia
with macbeth -
      better still: trade & trivialise -
         and
   - in riddles, and in the affairs of death;
suppose we don't live in times
of man's "omniscience" etc.?
                but we do, and categorising ourselves
as such, we can only seem to test
knowledge via answering trivia question -
the triviality of knowledge oozes out
of game shows: where enough to be
knowledgeable is enough to known the most
encyclopedic set of facts...
    having to encompass all of man's
endeavours seems rather mundane...
             heidegger's aphorism 91 ponderings VI...
and the arrogance of writings maxims /
aphorisms...
        you read them as if they are basically true,
but then again: they're written as
propositions, rather than as presuppositions...
there's not a single word in the works
of nietzsche or la rochefoucauld
that supposes an observation to be true:
        a bit like the legal system dichotomy of
the english vs. the european courts:
  a. innocent until proven guilty, vs.
b. guilty until proven innocent...
                it's the ****** bombast of writing
maxims as propositions,
   there's no room for "error":
said content is: necessarily true,
                         but unnecessarily observed;
most of the time maxim notation is
an erosion of common sense, and subsequently
the killer proteins of alzheimer eating
away at the fatty tissue of the brain...
          mental exercise?
      who the hell wants a schwarzenegger's worth
of brain, i.e. exercise what?
           i don't like nietzsche's style precisely
because i don't like aphorisms or maxims...
          they're bombastic in assuming they're
true,
   i.e. once observed: forever replicated
to the same summa summarum...
  i think it's unsavoury to presume that one's
observations are fit for purpose of replica
observations taking hold of the reader...
if, perhaps, these aphorisms were written with
an overtone of presupposition,
             and left in the la la land of: supposing so -
they would be guarded by an element
of surprise...
                      an encroachment moment,
with an element of surprise...
         if only the loss of propositional bombast,
and the mediation of supposing-so,
   with an undertone of prepositional discretion...
stating the obvious in that stating
the obvious is stating an: unchallenged truth,
an unchallenged observation shared between
to people, well, aren't we talking about
  simply observing the perpetuated plagiarism
of what is "observed", without ever
deviating back into the "unobservable"?
       i believe that aphorisms (as a medium)
are plagued by a certainty inversion -
             sure, they're true, but they are also
true without a guarantee of replica -
                 for the most part they are placebo
ridden...
                and the only aspect of philosophy
that is unscientific...
                for the most part the style of writing
that's aphoristic is placebo,
        and not res replica...
           unless offensively forced - stereotyped.
if only the writing of an aphorism was
plagued by presupposing rather than proposing
a conclusive play on a voyeuristic act -
             the presuppositional attention to detail
would be tactful - and part of the cartesian
continuum...
             but propositional observations,
akin to making stereotypes, have no element
of founding one's thought in the cartesian dynamism
of doubt... there either is, or there isn't -
existentialism akin to the genesis in nietzsche
was born with the cartesian roller-coaster
of fusing an emotional regard for feeling,
i.e. doubt... negation being the prime ingredient
in existentialism, is oh so boring...
         ego negare, ego quasi cogito - ergo..
      i deny, i sort of think -
                                             therefore;
pretty obvious, we had to change the song -
we know so much already, in the current times,
that doubting would be pointless -
    doubting used to have a thrill of purpose
never being finalised,
   existentialism replaced doubt with denial...
so few things can be doubted,
   and when so few things can be doubted,
  we purposively lie, deny, lie, deny, to somehow
muster an origination of awe in emotive
experiences, which only bring failure -
  awe does not coexist with denial -
           you can't be in awe via purposively lying
to yourself...
  you can only seek awe by being forced
  into an emotional system of doubt...
but since existentialism eradicated doubt and replaced
it with denial...
     as already mentioned:
we deny, therefore, we sort-of think -
      we deny, therefore, we "think";
as the zeitgeist suggests - robotics, and other
forms of automation are taking over.
the argument still stands:
  if only the medium of writing aphorisms,
or succinct "truths" could be universally tested,
or at least universally observed as being true...
     if only there was a lost propositional(!) bombast
behind these pieces of writing,
or rather: a presupposition(?),
     since both approaches still converge in the realm
of supposes;
   a position is taken and one is for it -
while a supposing is given and one predates
it with a spontaneous unearthing of unnecessarily
having an opinion about it -
to presuppose is to not suppose -
since presuppositions are more archaic in always
being unforced observations,
  whereas propositions are enforced results
of having forced oneself to think: about something
with the end result of: a maxim,
or the extended maxim, i.e. an aphorism.
          - so who would actually want to make
language, and easy, and accessible, to the majority
of man?
          did not the power reside among
the priesthood who spoke latin, while the general
populace didn't?
   so why would anyone not decide upon:
speaking an english, within english,
   that the common englishman could not understand?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
the three scripts of time:
                       and there are only three...

  journalism,
             the study of history,
                            and...
                                   mythology...

modern journalism
is the most errosive component
of the "structure" of time,

why would it be worth
anyone's wonder to see
people bypass
history, shy away from it,
and find some sort
of escapism in mythology,
if they are being
bombarded with journalism,
like a night club strobe
light source,
   mishandled,
overtly sensitive to
the persisting stimulus
of news?

      it's almost like being back
in school,
but unlike being back
in school:
the figure of authority,
is a phantom-esque
                        ditto-head...

mythology is no more
a fiction than
what fiction already does:
borrow from real life,
morph the details,
and place the wording
on the altar of the archetype...

how to make this concise...
i don't "like" the current
strap-on of heroic
masculinity,
   but i'm being bombarded
with it,
   like... any sort of
pornographic fetish doesn't
even come close,
to what, i know,
is, un-achievable...
          the heroism of paying
your council tax,
of taking out the garbage...
    
   people, who have been
bombarded by journalism,
journalism:
  the second erosion
of the faculty of memory,
with its "shy" beginnings
in pedagogy...
   is now in full swing...
this, current,
aspect of being sentenced
to a blitzkrieg of information,
and information
that's heavily censored...
why wouldn't someone
succumb to grapling with mythology,
with metaphor,
as a coping mechanism?

   almost everything these days
is plain, dumb and obvious...
it's not longer a case
to say something different,
it has been reduced to how
to say it, differently -

    i once suggested a media
sabbath...
    which would imply that
there would be no monday newspapers
in print,
  notably the volume allowance
of media fibre from a sunday
newspaper lasts for up to 2 days...
but no...
        sensory-overload,
prescribed mainstream insomnia...
how people managed
to ingest l.s.d. in the 20th century...
i will never know...
i don't want to know,
because right now?
    i've been given a clarification
of the impossibility
to repeat, whatever happened
in the 20th century...

   so... the three scripts of time:
journalism,
    history
and... mythology...
   people would always gravitate
toward mythology,
away from journalism,
   simply because history
would not provide them
the desired escape...
     albeit: some do succumb
to the echo chambers of history...
but a history is not exactly
a beginning and an end...

       it's the mediating structure
of the script of time,
   now, apparently,
any citation of history is deemed
a racist sympathy...
      sign me up for a lobotamy,
i guess i need a part of my brain
removed
to fit into the current
   journalist narrative...
      journalism:
         the form of script that
has god-like ambitions...
   it actually wants to be
omnipresent, omniscient...
                the blundering three-legged
bull of a medium...
            
   i don't even want to understand
how some people want to
"keep up" with the "narrative"...
i put on a vinyl,
and disappear for about an hour
pretending to be edward hopper
without paint, brush or canvas...
looking at how shadows emerge
from the casting of light
                                from a bulb...
i just void my thinking,
and begin with:
    thinking about thought,
and whether there's any worthwhile
moral ought i am supposed
to entertain.

i don't "like" this journalistic blitzkrieg
on the mind...
   history leaves you with some
relief from modern journalism...
pockets, seances of remote pleasures...
but sooner or later,
you're ejected from entertaining
history,
    are shoved into mythology,
and told: you have to somehow counter
this modern, journalistic
                       barrage / harangue.

well of course myths are true...
what is true about yesterday's news
in a week's time?
   poetry is a coping mechanism
of explaining something:
outside of the journalistic framework,
outside of a historical framework (even)...
the time-frame is so grand...
esp. when facing the modern
journalistic event of a daily newspaper...
"history" on amphetamines...

the beast that never sleeps,
always eats,
    and rarely ***** out something
decent...
          real life events happen
in journalism,
       but you'd sooner find
calm, on an atomic level,
     watching the atoms of ice
turn into water, turn into steam,
than allow yourself to be influenced
by a week's worth of journalism,
and all that:
   with multiple competing outlets.

mind-numbing...
        seeing as i could be the next
attention-fed-*****-of-the-media...
      the phenomenon
of the resurgence of archetypes...
   which is counter to
   the hindu: there are only a fixed
number of people,
   the rest are... quasi-people...
   unwillingly...
   certain archetypes come to the fore,
willingly, or unwillingly,
suspect, or prying open
the archetypical act on an unsuspecting
host...
           but that doesn't imply
the host in question:
    isn't given the benefit
    of the noumenon:
of being unfathomable as to why
the archetype became manifest in
him / her...

        100 years from now...
how will history filter through all
  this current journalistic barrage?
at the moment... 2001...
     that's 18 years ago...
                   and that's still
the only real domino...
                          i just think
of the scrutiny we'll be subjected
to, by the future generations...
       and...
                     that's not enough...
paranoia is only an elevated
           circumstance of consciousness...    
which means anything
and everything...
             as for now:
the ever reticent climate of
                         faking poker games -
dubious, as ever,
     presupposing everyone is playing
the same game of...
   the most informed,
the most moderate,
      the benevolent,
                 the: shoe-shine polish glee
and a pair of well laced shoes
walking a fine line between
egg-shells
                 and a heap of skulls.
Need is my lead.
I will not bleed for greed.
I will lay back in a field of green;
to look to heaven to see what can be seen;
to chew on a long stem of grass;
to think about which path to pass;
to look upon the waters close at hand;
to oppose presupposing by plan.

I will not deny fear of evil or strife.
Fear gives light for sight in life.
You are with me by faith and heart.
Comfort slows my racing start.
Trust will be re-written.
Inequality will be de-positioned.

The table will be for discussion and debate.
Reason will rule without hate.
My head has been anointed with oil and sweat.
My income has been overrun by debt.
Surely goodness and mercy sustain the wait.
My life will dwell in this house of heart by faith.
CYN Mar 2014
January 2005.
What a creep.
The end drove me to foresee.
Imagination went wild.
New creature arose.
A whole new world.
New different level.
Living on the edge.
With the creatures I created myself.
They are all fiction.
Yet I believe in them.
Postulating them real.

How?
To stop presupposing.

Haul me.
Salvage me.
Patronize me.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2018
it would best appear that:
  talking really aids talking to flesh -
and yes, beside the psychoanalyst
triad theory of the "narrator" -
          the ego can become an ailed
limb - a limp arm,
an amputated food -
                     when the square
doesn't fit through a square shaped
opening: the ego become fidgety -
and it aches beyond the ache
of being, a physical inconvenience /
convenience...
    the ailing ego is an ego
that can only construct a cogito
without the ergo dynamic of trickling
toward a "satisfying" sum...
           because there really isn't
any other suited adjective -
  other than the already aired:
because there is.
         i wanted to concern myself
with the dynamic of what is sickly
or at best: an unease unit
of fathomable concern...
              ego must,
ego = limb...
           it's not a central
foundation to all things apparent...
          and believe me when i state
that i require verbiage to make these
statements...
           when the ego is a cubus,
and thought is the "river"
                        quadratum -
       having to encompass the perplexity
of the Freudian Triad...
  it doesn't really matter,
  does it, to concern a cube passing
through a square, when a triangle is
concerned, is it?
                  a mental "illness"
  needs to encompass a "flat earth"
akin to reading maps: no good knowing
a spherical globus exists if you
can't get from A. to B.
                     that is why i don't
understand a stigma with regards to
a "mental" to "physical" dichotomy -
which it has become having divorced itself
from dualism...
          the ego being a limb and
thought a body,
       reiterates my concern with how
mental illness cannot acess the freedom
of a body, or thinking,
                 in a fluid manner:
akin to the thoughtless extracts of
               a disembodiment ascribed to
ballet dancers...
             hence the sickly limb comparison:
the whole affair isn't worth
an atomists' venture to find: a middle,
a nucleus...
                     a sick "ego"
                              disvalues a concern
to think: akin to any worth of
****** function...
            the conscious-unconscious
paradox of the ego is that:
    it's health is supposed to coexist
with the way one treats a hand, finger, elbow...
the fact that a "sick" ego is by no means
sickness apparent doesn't mean that
it is not a form of: dis-ease -
  not a bad word, merely a reformulated
aversion of saying it quickly...
  there does exist as - negation
   of ease...
                       i have found this with
myself...
                          apparently
it was necessary to outdate Latin grammar
once again, while keeping the ego
a necessary ingredient worthy of theory
when cogito ergo sum was
summoned... because where is the ego
in that? the ego is the antithesis of
a narrator of fiction!
             who ever said that fiction
was without Trojan walls and biological
membranes?
                   the ego is either foremost
an ailing limb: or the unscathed narrator!
it can't be both!
          - but the limb comparison makes
more sense, since what is primarily
distrupted is thinking: rather than writing
a book!
                    i have experienced
the distruptive ego like a fidgeting snare of
a limb in metaphorical Parkinson...
               but i am not keen to
sub-assert a division of it worth a sub-ego
and an id... without an ob- prefix to boot.
a "sick" ego disrupts cogitans
in that there is no ergo
       to make a cohesive translation into:
wanting to be a bellerina - i.e sum...
i.e. sum *** non cogitans...
  and that's because the ego is a heavy
load, already not stressed in
the original maxim "prompt" of:
think - and you will be...
  well no... most of the time it's a case of:
don't think, and you will be...
      the fact remains:
  the ego treated as an ailing limb is
akin to an ailing limb disrupting
the sigma of ****** expressions -
             with the sigma of ****** expressions
being best met with mere: thinking...
                 hence the irony of
a "mental" illness -
      there is no ailing thought -
but an ailing ego -
  which is a contradictory summation
of character, presupposing
a character is at the same time narrator...
the stigma? well...
   a person of interest is asked to
have both status of a healthy character
and an ailing narrator -
      or rather: a character
incompetent of having a narrator...
   or whatever this constricting observation
implies...
   the fact still remains:
   the ego was allowed a Ronin status
when working from the Cartesian maxim...
    it allowed itself to flourish in Freud
who took to impregnating it with
  a pseudo-Christian analogy...
         if there is an element of medicine
in philosophy... ha...
     odd...
            how can the mind be ailed by
the body prior...
      there must be a paradoxical intersect
of ergo ( = ), i.e. ≠...
                    whereby the same is true
for: the mind can be ailed by the body:
but the only prior to a body is a mind...
            since there is no prior to a mind
to express: body...
           otherwise why are we to concern
ourselves with a "mind" of the underdeveloped...
ah... but the underdeveloped body...
       hence?         |    a ******* stick
in the ground!
                  it's a simple juggling act of
two *****... on thinking terms,
but yet it is simpler to juggle three *****
on un-thinking terms!
              all i "know" is that
a sick ego dissonates the fluidity of thinking,
and it doesn't aspire to anything
but that in its ailment -
to make it any more complex to
suggest an atomic caricature of
the Freudian id - neutron / superego - electron...
   an ego that distrupts thinking
does not make a cohesive unit worth
a theory...
                 you put a stick into the river
of Heraclitsus: the stick will remain
a stict - the question is always asked
concerning the river!
                - as far as i am concerned
the disruptive ego has "unfathomed"
  the fathomability of thinking -
       notably:
          the mundane cul de sac thinking
of ordinary people -
a lost day-dream break from inacting
a "greater-good" focus of: transcending society...
     and attaining: "the" individual...
    i've experienced the sick ego
unable to convine itself with staging
thought: akin to an theatre with
a stage unable to consider itself:
    not fit to hoist actors on it!
                   hence my concern with
res vanus...
            the "thing" within res cogitans!
the whole point of:  (ego) cogito ergo sum!
          which is why those who have
reached the status of, say: prima ballerina
exact a "cogito" ergo (ego) sum status!
- at some point i really will be
starting to digest the VII-XI ponderings
of Heidegger...
                  bewildering myself as to how:
1939 a.d. was conjured.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
becoming bored of the: what came first, the chicken or the egg? i had to ask a similar question: what came first, the letter δ, or the digit 6?

the only reason why philosophy books
take so much time to read,
is because,
of all literary traditions,
               philosophy books extoll
a need to allow re-reading,
  and no, not a re-reading of the omni-
reading: the sigma / the entire
work -
              but passages of a work -
philosophy books take such a long time
to read, because one is forced to
reread certain passages several times,
if not the nadir-minimum of at least
twice....

notably? perhaps one of many examples
(and i was serious that
heidegger's being & time
  and kant's critique of pure reason
are, reasonably, worth 2 years of your
life to read through, and several
other non-philosophical books
in between...
      yes, poetry is a grand aid when
reading philosophy -
   notably due to his "
agoraphilia",
and its love for sparing the eyes
from straining themselves in
the fudge of tight-knit paragraphs):
that said: the elders should read
either newspapers or poetry,
while the young, with their hawk-eyes
the deluge of claustrophilic
sentencing...
          funny... we hear more of phobias
than of philias...
    last time i checked, our society
entombed only one philia,
among many phobias...
        you know the philia, it begins with
the letter p-;
           odd, isn't it?
                         to fathom a rainbow range
of possible phobias,
     and disrespect a possiblity for
what's devolved in etymological terms
    from greek, i.e.?
  how philias are understood in english:
quirks... eccentricities.
england and its people is a nation
of eccentricities, any russian can tell you
that... you don't even have to cite
     the neo-tsar of the current year;
a less pleasant ascriptive-noun /
       denoting? a, bunch of ******* weirdos!
(yes, the comma implies a quick cascade
of utterance - like ******* a
                            shoelace of spaghetti).
the example though,
   rereading aphorism no. 93 (ponderings V) -
what does reconstitute man
     as *animal rationale
rather than
firmly establishing him as **** sapiens?
well... for a **** sapiens
there must be a deus insapiens -
                   for a wise man, a mad god;
but beyond the notion of god...
would it not be easier, as aphorism 93
suggests invoke a trinity of concepts?
  no "wise" man discredits god,
  whether in idea, or whether in existence,
or when in idea in non-existence -
    because isn't that what atheists provoke?
namely that god "is": in idea in non-existence,
existence per se, cannot be an idea,
since in invokes the 5 senses
      rather than the 1 non-sense (thought),
simply, i can't grasp existence as an idea,
but i can grasp the existence of x
as an idea, since the mechanics of "an" idea
is to treat it as non-existent, and therefore
requiring me to think about it:
and since nature doesn't allow vacuums -
what could possibly fill the nature of
man, if not the ontological construct of
the existing-"non"-existent god?
    what? some hot chocolate and a cookie jar?!
that's beside the point...
     reducing man from the status
of **** sapiens into a state of
     animal rationale opens our demand
for the original status "quo",
that man work from the foundation of
qua categorised animal rationale
and moving to the status of **** sapiens,
which, by so doing, avoids
the burden of presupposing oneself
as **** sapiens, and "re-inventing"
the wheel, and crafting the posit for
                                        a deus insapiens.
the aphorism does suggest that we
are breeding an animal,
                      an animal of genes,
              rather than a human of memes,
for "man" to attain the status
   of **** sapiens from the origin
of animal rationale - is to also claim that
the current claim of "man" as
     **** sapiens reduces a "god" to
be categorised as deus insapiens
  (as stressed by the emotionally infantile
pressure: ******* built a pyramids!
   oh... so looking at a mountain from
a distance wasn't good enough?) -
but categorising "man" as striving for
the status of **** sapiens from the origins
of the already well versed
                    atheistic demand
  for the animal in man, rather than
the man in the animal...
             who could not be persuaded
to allow the striving of a "god"
              from the confines
  of animal rationale ut deus insapiens
into the existential-"zoo"
            of **** sapiens ut
                                         deus sapiens
?
can that question even range into
  asking whether **** est deus
ut deus est man - and that this whole existence
has an omni-spaien dimension
  with a ?, given that the big bang was
not ? remark, but an ! -
    a question is hushed
into philosophy (murmur), while awe
and fancy and daring shouts! explodes!
Julian Apr 2023
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

DIDDICOYS OF CACHALOT CAMARADERIE SCAFFOLDED BY A VYGOTSKIAN SUNRISE OF SAFFRON SAGINATION OF A PINGUEFIED SLENDER DAMSEL OF STAR-CROSSED AFFLICTIONS BEMOANING THE GRUELING TAXIDERMY OF LIVID TRIUMPHS FOR SPRINGBOKS IN THE SPANDRELS OF JAMDANI RARELY DEFINED BY THE ZEAL OF THROTTLEBOTTOMS TO USE DELITESCENT MALCONTENT TO FOMENT THE FLARES OF REVOLUTIONARY GRIPES OF GRIM SUMPTERS ARRAYED BY THE PLENARY INHABITANTS OF DENEHOLES OF THE AGES OF ARBALESK GAUNT AND DECIMATED BY VINEYARDS OF FOISONS OF UPAS IN ANTINOMIAN HARVEST THAT DECRIES WITH THE CLENCHED DECLENSION OF MISCARRIED JUSTICE THAT OVERLAYS THE MAGNATES OF OUR TIMES WITH SELECTIVE IMMUNITY THAT WE MIGHT FIND STATOLITH GRADGRINDS OF IATROMATHEMATICS IN PORTFIRE THAT THE CHRONOMANCY OF DIKEPHOBIA ROAMS REGNANT IN NEBBICH PATAVINITY BECAUSE THE PASILALY UNLEASHED HEREBY IRRADICATES A MYTHOS UNLEASHED BY VEESES OF VESUVIATION FOR VARSAL PICTURES OF PIXELLATED SALVATION THAT EVEN IN JASPERATED GOMPHIASIS AGAINST GONFALONIERS BRAZEN WITH BRAINTRUST AURILAVE AUTHORITARIANISM THAT MIGHT THE HACHURE IMPREGNATE A STERILIZED TIME THAT BLUEPETERS OF MULIEBRITY MIGHT EXORCISE THE MISANDRY OF THEIR TRIBULATIONS INCULCATING  THEM TO BELIEVE SUCH HARRIDANS AND SCARAMOUCHES OF SACRILEGE THAT AN INVENTED PARSEC OF FARCICAL FATIDICAL LIES OF ****** PELARGIC DENOUEMENT THAT EVENTUALLY THE CULPRITS DISMISSIVE OF ACCOLENT CULTURES OF HEYDAY BECOMING THE CENTERPIECE OF TOMES OF AFFLICTION THAT THE PROPER COMPROMISE BECOMES A BETTER AVIZANDUM THAN SHOW-TRIAL BUFFOONERY BY BABIRUSA NOMENCLATURE OF JUGGINS JUDOGI ENFORCED BY CABRILLA THAT USES CADRES OF CABRES TO OUTFOX ALL GENTILITY IN THE SUPERSTITIOUS FLICTION OF FAVELAS SQUIRMING AROUND JAWHOLE SENSITIVITY IN SIMULTAGNOSIA TO BROWBEAT ELEUTHERPOMANIA EVEN WHEN ITS RECOURSE IS A BONANZA FOR HUMAN FRUITION BECAUSE IN BOUNDLESS BELIEF AND COUNTLESS DRACULIAN DRAPERY OF THE POSTCENNIUM OF HEBENON LIES TRYING TO TREACLE AN INVETERATE REGARD FOR SACRILEGE RATHER THAN PROMOTING A SACROSANCT REVOLUTION OF PROPRIETY MIXED WITH APOLAUSTIC FUROR MIGHT WE THEN SEE TIME CULMINATE IN THE RICHES OF LAVISH INGLUVIES RATHER THAN SUBORNED FAGINS AGAINST NEOVITALISM IN THEIR CASUALISM OF ACCIDENTAL PROAIRESIS WHICH OFTEN NEGLECTS THE WONDERWORK OR THE WUNDERKIND BECAUSE THE KUNDLESROMAN PROFFERED BY CLOYING LIMITROPHES OF ASCENDANCY IN DECEIT FINDS A SUBTERNATURAL HAVEN AMONG OBSEQUIOUS OBEQUITATION BECAUSE OF AMENDES NEEDING REFORM AND PUNCTILLIOUS REGARD NEEDING A HONED INSTRUMENTALISM OF UNIVERSAL SALVATION AFFORDED EVEN TO THE PHARISEE GENTILES CLOUDY IN HAZES OF PHAROAHS OF ICEBLINK VERGLAS HAUGHTY AND SUPERIOR ONLY BY THEIR OWN BARAGNOSIS OF WEIGHAGE BY THE STEVEDORES OF VANGERMYTE VAMPIRES WHO FLAUNT CARELESS CAUSALITY AS THE ADVENT OF AN IRREVERENT NIHILISM ALREADY DEBUNKED BY THE CLERISY WHICH SEES HOW INCULCATION CREATED BY IMBREVIATED MYTHOS MIGHT BECOME A BENTHIC TRAP OF NIDAMENTAL FUROR AGAINST THE WIREWOVEN TAPESTRIES THAT BORROW FROM STATE FARM TURBINATED TOURBILLONS OF CONTORTION A WIELDED SENTRY OF MECHANIZED CONVENIENCE BY AGENTS OF CONSUMERIST MASKIROVKA TO THE BENEFIT OF ENTIRE SOCIETIES OF LARGESSE ONLY TO THE EXTENT THAT THE FUNNEL OF SIFFLEURS REMAINS IMMUNE TO PROCRYPSIS IN INVAGINATION PRIOR TO THE INITIATION OF THE BARNSTORM HEYDAYS THAT YIELD FROM THE FULGURANT TWANG AND TWISTLE OF TWIRES OF TYMPANY A MOUNTENANCE OF SHARED GROWTH THAT STANDPIPES ***** TO IMMUNIZE AGAINST ENCAUSTIC MEANS OF ARTIFICIAL DEBASEMENT IN AN UPCOMING ERA OF THE LAZIEST BELLETRIST EVER AUTHORED BY CYBERNETIC HANDS RATHER THAN PURIFIED HUMAN INGENUITY. WE MUST FOREWARN, THEREFORE, THAT A SOCIETY THAT JUST GLOMS AND TWADDLES AROUND LIKE A LAZARET WHEN ELASTANE SIMPLICITIES COMPOUNDED BY AN INVETERATE NIVELLATION OF HUMAN AMBITION BORNE BY ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE MIGHT WE SEE THE DANGERS OF PROSTHESIS AS INCLEMENT BUT INTEGRAL SIMULTANEOUSLY TO A FASTIDIOUS LUCRE OF AUTOMATION LEADING PAST THE STRICKLES OF MODERN CAKEWALKS OF A WALKING STALKING MUGIENCE THAT LAMENTS WITH THE GREATEST INSISTENCE THE ERA PRIOR TO THE OVERTURES OF ARCEATED ECONOMIES INSULATED FROM THE BRUNT OF BRUTAL PANGS OF KNELLS SOUNDING HOUR BY HOUR BETOKENING INEVITABLE DEMISE TO THE AUBADES OF DAWNING ABORIGINAL SUFFRAGE TOWARDS A SOCIETY WHICH MOURNS MACROPICIDE OF YARAKS TO THE EXTENT IT IS A SUFFRAGE TO MERIT CONSTRAINED BY ABDERVINE STRICTURES HEEDED BY EVERY PEJORATIVE JAWHOLE DESCRYING THE DENOUEMENT OF EUPHEMISM THAT THEIR JATO REFORMATION IS BOUNDLESSLY A YESTERTEMPEST OF AMELIORATION BOTCHED BY QUIDDITIES OF QUIXOTIC ATHENAEUM THAT ARE ANTEPONED IN STRIFE AND DELIVERANCE TO THE TIROCINIUM OF A CASEMATE STOKEHOLD BRITSKA WHO HERALDS WITH THE GREATEST CAUTION THE CASUALTIES AND DEGREDATION OF MAN INTO CARNAL LUSTS RATHER THAN SORBEFACIENT MORALISM WHICH WILL SUCCEED IN TRIMMING THE HEDGES OF BANGTAIL ATTEMPTS OF EMICATED CONTROVERSIES YET FETCHED BY DOGGED DOGGEREL OF PERSISTENCE. WE REQUIRE A MASSIVE TIMMYNOGGY TO STREAMLINE THE EDUCATIONAL BEDROCK OF AMERICAN AND WORLD SOCIETIES TO THE SENSE THAT BEDIZENED SUFFICIENCY GLARING WITH GLOWERING AMARANTHINE CADASTERS OF THE SQUAMATION MEASURED BY EUDIOMETERS MEASURING SERICULTURE THAT THE YUAN AND JAPAN OF TIME CAN FORESEE A SITUATION WHERE A SWOLLEN INDUSTRIALIZED APPROACH TO EDUCATIONAL REFORM SIZZLES WITH SEETHING IMPERATIVES TO ENSURE THAT GRIDLOCK RESULTS IN FEWER STATISTS ENTHYMEMES OF CAIMANS TRYING TO COERCE CREANCERS TO BELONG TO A VESTIGIAL COVVENGER PALLOR ETCHED ON THE CHALKBOARDS OF REGRESS RATHER THAN GALLOPING TIDES OF HEADLESS HORSEMEN REVERENT OF REVERENCE ITSELF IN NEVER A BLASPHEMY OF ABARTICULAR INCOGNIZANCE THAT THE FUTURE MOBILIZES EVERY FORCE CAPABLE OF REVIVING A ZEITGEIST OF DISTRACTION FROM THE NETHERWORLD TWINGES OF SUBSTRATOSE AFFLICTION BECAUSE THE TRUER GLEBE AND POTAGER OF A BALIZED RHEOTAXIS OF MISGUIDED TOP-DOWN UTILITARIAN UTOPIANISM WHICH SCALDED THE PAST WITH INDOCTRINATION RATHER THAN SYNTHESIS THAT WE MIGHT ENGORGE EDUCATIONAL BUDGETS SO THAT WE CAN ENSURE THE ANGLOPHONIC POLITY OF DEMARCHE CAN CLAMBER FASTER TOWARDS THE PINNACLE RATHER THAN DESCENDING INTO WHISTLERRS OF NOTOREITY FOR A WORLD PREPOSSESSED WITH FAKE LANGUOR AMONG WHITTAWERS AS THEY BROWBEAT THE ICEBLINK OF RESONANCE BECAUSE OF A PROTERVITY OF SELF-INTEREST THAT ALL SALVATION HINGES UPON THE DOCIMASY AND THE DOCTRINE THAT THE INSUFFERABLE PAST WAS A NECESSARY PREDICATE AND PARAGON FOR THE FUTURE ENLIGHTENMENT AND ALL CONTRARIAN MOVEMENTS TRYING POTICHOMANIA—THE GREATEST FOLLY KNOWN TO THE MANDARIN MANDARISM OF POORLY STEWARDED CABOOSES OF A TIM COOKED WORLD—THAT THEY ARE IN FACT ICONOCLASTS OF THE WRONG ARTIFACTS BECAUSE OF A JAUNDICED AGENDA THAT PRETENDS TO BE AGAINST JAUNDICE ITSELF BUT SUFFERS FROM A MARIVAUDAGE OF BLUEPETER ORTHOPTEROLOGY WHICH INCENSES BY REDEFINING MULIEBRITY AND VIRILITY ON UNEQUAL PLAYING FIELDS TO PLEASE OPPOSITIVE INTERESTS OF WHERRETING WREPOLIS AND GUARDED WRIKPONDS AS THE VANGERMYTES CHOMP FUTURE GAINSAY WITH GUARDED OPINIONATION BECAUSE OF URCEOLATE AVARICE PREDICATED ON THORNY IMBROGLIOS THAT TRY TO EVADE TRIBULOID NECESSITIES TO THEIR OWN PERIL THAT WE CANNOT IGNORE THE STOCKINETTE BECAUSE A COLORBLIND WORLD IS ESSENTIALLY BLIND TO WAYS TO SOLVE THE ISSUES OF COLOR AND COLORATION SUCH THAT DOLOROUS CRITICASTERS CAN LAMENT THEIR HEAD OVER HEELS OBSESSION WITH ****** AND GARISH HUMAN SEXUALITY TO THEIR GREATER PERIL RATHER THAN THEIR LURCHES TOWARDS SALVATION. THERE IS NOTHING INHERENTLY WRONG WITH A WORLD THAT EMPHASIZES A MAXIMALISM IN THE DOGMATIC ACCORD THAT PROMOTES THE FAIR WAGES OF THE OPPRESSED BUT THERE IS SOMETHING GRAVELY GRAVID ABOUT THE WAYSPAY OF STERILIZED MERCURIAL DESIGNS OF PSYCHOGONY TOWARDS NEPIONIC ENLISTMENT INTO RADICALISM THAT EXISTS ON BOTH FRINGES ONE PRESUPPOSING THAT THE WORLD IS A SOURDINE SORBILE DISGRACE UNWORTHY TO CREATE A NOTITIA AND THE OTHER JUST AS DELIRIFACIENT THAT THE RENEWED WORLD MUST BOW DOWN TO A SACCHARINE JOLLY RANCHER ECONOMY THAT ETIOLATES ALL FORMS OF INITIATIVE AND INITIALISM BECAUSE THE BROCKFACED AGENTIC FORCE AT THE BRONTEUM OF FASHION TRIES WITH PEREMPTORY REGARD TO NORMALIZE THE NOMOTHETIC LIVES OF ELITISM AS THE COMMON GONFALONIER WHEN IN FACT IT STRANDS IN ZALKENGUR OF HALKENDS A DEPRIVED WORLD THAT DOESN’T DARE TO ACCOMMODATE A WORLD THAT NECESSARILY DEPENDS ON PIECEMEAL BOWLDERIZATION BECAUSE OF  THE DERANGEMENT OF UPBRINGING IN NIDIFUGOUS HOMES THAT ARE OFTEN SUBSIDIARY AND PANDERED TO WIDELY LIKE A ****** HARASSMENT PANDA TRYING TO ACCELERATE THE DOOMSTERS OF RIP VAN WINKLE IGNORANCE THAT THE SCARLET LETTER BECOMES A SCALARIFORM CORDWAINER MARKET WHICH IS A DISEASED OPINION OF THE SOCIOGENESIS OF THE HUMAN FRONTIERS BECAUSE OF ITS VERY FINIFUGAL ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT HOW THE SCAFFOLDS OF REDSHORT BRITTLE SUBHASTATION OF HUMAN DOGMA TO SERVILE SKITTLES AND SCARAMOUCH RUFFIAN RAFFISH INCOGNITO DELIRIFACIENCE OF A DISHEVELED BARAGNOSIS CAN PARALYZE A PARASELENIC TIME WITH A TORPID WOKISM THAT REMANDS INTO CUSTODY TOO MANY KEY ARTIFACTS OF AMERICAN HISTORY DELIBERATELY CONSTRUCTED PERDURABLE BECAUSE OF THE VALENCE OF THEIR STOICHOMETRY FOR NEW WORLD NUCLEOTIDES AGAINST THE GAVEL OF DIKEPHOBIA. THERE ARE BALISAURS OF BALUSTRADE RUSHING TO THE EXITS OF NAZE AND MURENGER WHO GUARD THEIR PRIVILEGES ZEALOUSLY TO SUCH A GRAVE REGARD SOME REMAIN INSURMOUNTABLE IN CAGOULE WHIGGARCHY OF CALVOUS SERVITUDE TO THE BRICOLAGE OF TRUCAGE IN ENTERTAINED DIVERSIONS OF STRIFE AGAINST STRIFE ITSELF BLACKGUARDING THE SPATHODEA BECAUSE SOME PEOPLE IN SUNBITTERN TIMES IGNORE THE SUNDOG REPUTE OF THOSE WHO BARNSTORM FOR THE CREDENDA AND VISIBILIA OF REASON OVER THE PUNDITOCRACY OF REMEDIAL PINGUEFIED STANDARDS OF A BLOVIATING FATIDICAL SHALLOP OF  SILKALINE IMPLEMENTS BRUISED BY THE WICK AND WHICKER OF THE NEIGHS OF CAMELOPARDS GALLIVANTING WITH ARGALI BECAUSE OF THEIR PRECISION OF ALMAGEST IN ARENOID ARANEIDAN COVERT SOCIETIES DESIGNED TO FORBID THE PREROGATIVES OF TOMORROW BASED ON THE GLOSSOLALIA OF THE INCHOATE CELSITUDE OF STADIOMETERS OF THE MOST PRECISE ENTELECHY IN STRADOMETRICAL REFORMS. ESSENTIALLY IF WE ASK FOR LARGESSE IN A COUNTRY PLAGIARIZING PLAGUES TO GAIN EMERGENCY POWERS WE SHOULD QUESTION THEIR DRAGOONS TO THE EXTENT THAT FUTURE CALAMITY IS FORESTALLED BY EARWIGS MAKING THEIR SUBSIDIARY WALLETEER SKIRMISHES PALATABLE TO WHELKIES THAT THEY MIGHT IN TIME BELIEVE FINALLY IN CAVERNILOQUYS OF A GREATER REFORM FOR A SOCIETY OF DEMASSIFICATION THAT LEADS EVENTUALLY TO MUTUALISM IN HARMONIZED SYNCOPATION THAT THE HERALD OF TOMORROW MIRRORS THE VALOR OF THE PAST RATHER THAN GLORIFYING THE PILLORY OF HESTER PRYNNE BECAUSE OF THE PRESBYTERY JUST BECAUSE IT REMAINS AN INVETERATE IMBROGLIO OF SPECIOUS FREUDIAN PSYCHOBABBLE THE MISCEGENATION OF SO MANY DELETERIOUS FICTIONS OF FINALISM RATHER THAN A VALIANT BELIEF IN NEOVITALISM PREDICATING GOD BASED UPON THE UMBRILS OF A SALVATION UPCOMING AND A BLOCKBUSTER TWISTER TRIAGE OF THE PAST UNDERSTANDING THE CHRONOMANCY OF THE PRESENT. THE ASSUEFACTION IGNORANT OF THE CELLARERS WARNING ON THE STYROFOAM OF CABOTAGE UNDERSTANDING THE GLEBES OF POST-MODERN HUES OF REFORMATION IN AGGIORNAMENTO LEADS US TO A CULMINATED PROWESS WIDELY MANUFACTURED TO ENLIST PEOPLE COGNIZANT OF LESSONS OF NOVERNARY WANCHANCY AND THE RUDENTURE OF THE CURRENT PALLOR OF NEBBICH STEM ISOLATIONISM THAT IS TURBINATED UPON INTRORSE SATISFACTIONS IN AN INTERRAMIFIED  WORLD MIGHT THEY FIND THE POWER OF THE BAILIWICK WITHIN THEM TO DECRY THE NEPHROLITHS OF CASUAL STOCKINETTE AND FIND THE GROWTH OF RESURGENT HARMONY A BETTER PARABLE TO GUIDE THE RESURRECTION OF A SOCIETY GOVERNED BY A MORALITY ATTEMPERED BY THIS ZEITGEIST TO ENSURE THAT SO-CALLED VIRILITY REMAINS STRONG AND STOLID AND MULIEBRITY REMAINS INSURGENT BUT RESPECTFUL OF THE PREROGATIVES THAT GROOM THE ESTABLISHMENT PRISM THROUGH WHICH THE CLEPSYDRA OF ECONOMETRIC REFORMATORY CONSERVATION OF COACERVATION SUCH THAT THE RACKRENT NEVER BECOMES AN ONEROUS RHABDOMANIA NOR A SEDERUNT OF ALGEDONIC TILTS INDIRECT TO ALL COBBLESTONE PATHWAYS TOWARDS THE MANUFACTURE OF SALVATION IN INVEIGLED ACCORD BECAUSE OF GREATER CAENOGENESIS AND ORTHOTROPISM IN INTELLECTUAL AMBITION BECAUSE THE BROCKFACED VENTRAD LATERIGRADE SYMPHONIES OF IMBREVIATION LEAD US TOWARDS CATHEDRALS OF ALABASTER LIGHT GLOAMING ABOVE TWILIGHT HOUR RESIDUE SUCH THAT THE FENESTRAL WORLD REMAINS A EUDIOMETER OF TYPESET MUGIENCE BUT BECAUSE OF A BRICOLAGE OF INCITEMENT TOWARDS CROTALINE OPHILIOPHILIST REFORMS MIGHT WE BRAVE A NEWER CENTURY WITH A BOLD BRONTEUM THAT NEVER RELEGATES AFFLICTION OR IGNORES THE GAUNTLET OF FUTURE  SUFFRAGE TOWARDS SYNCOPATED HARMONIZATION BUT ULTIMATELY THAT THE CAVERN ENCOMPASSES ALL BREADTH AND DEPTH OF THE RIGOR OF PRAGMATIC LURCHES OF REFORM.
Imagine the uneasiness in the pit of my stomach
Raging war against my natural instinct
Fleeing quickly from what I already know
It will fail again because I have been there before
Oh but to love again would restore the balance I once knew
The happiness I felt when everything was anew
My heart betrayed me before, how is it different this time
Second guessing and presupposing it's not worth it, I get it
But to love again will it survive life's test?
Will I give it my all, will I try my best?
Should I follow my instinct or listen to my heart?
Oh but to love again would be a great start!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
poza godziny: tzn.
   wypełnić dzień - dniem...

   too eager to retract "complexion"...
if that is even, remotely, available:
as a Caucasian standard...
return to my mutter-zung(e)...
some great migration
i'm guessing something borrowed
from history i'm guessing
the Copernican "revolution" had its zenith
now is the time of: everything vogue Darwin...

to find an hour in a day and do X -
the algebra notation
rather than the phonetic
i.e. xylophone for starters...
through the chalk-&-cheese grinder
sizzzzzzzle...
drone strike at the snore and snorkel...
unless... fax
me the details... it comes "last" or not
least "late"...
how sigma "behaves" or was
otherwise discovered
to be:
cedilla at some point...
     cursor...
            sNAKEs...
                      σN∀ʞƎς
                                        s'nay'x...

rather "unnecessary" but a must...
bothersome these strict barriers
and when / but when one returns
to the cascade of sounds
and what's to be said: sung...
thought & therefore seen...
i can forgo all the tux-juxtaposing
and a: dozen or so penguins...

bravado... one can try to read
a newspaper...
one does... one even uses this royal
****-off route to mind
what matters...
as an extension of
james marriott's book review...
i was a fan of jordan B peek-a-boo...
when all things in the wunder-land
of tubes: how was copperwire
invented? asked my glaswegian
english teacher? two scots arguing over
a penny... or a: PENCE - je pense!

newspapers have really taken a
hit for audience size, competition...
on the sideline you notice this...
"grief"...
what worked for the 20th century
propagandists... doesn't work now...
at all... no factions just... fractions...
and people in the congested
equation, somehow too...

it can be, or rather is, absolutely: unamusing that
one must have a mother...
for that matter - that there are two -
what with death being the second -
altogether: through and through -
unamusing and, or rather stringent:
      unmoveable shards of darkened ice...
at first that's about it...
        as one does when *** is a "waste"
or that ******* is something
    a typo for a metaphor for a misnomer
of what can't possibly be genocide -
or if it is: a solo project of an equivalence
that's met when...
scrubbing the dead skin parmesan
       off the soles of your feet...
    or having your hair cut...
          or engaging in grotesque pâtisserie...
i.e. pinching a loaf...
sitting on the... throne of thrones
for the holy trinity to congest the time...
frankly... there are not enough
hours in a day to
congest them with listening to
bbc radio 3...
i tried to cram as much radio 4
when in bed with a strict take on
a loss-of-shadow-hangover:
body as if a mollusc esque-form...
not borrowing from Kafka and yet...
glistening with a glitter and primordial
saliva gob-slob jacuzzi...
gurgle at every turn... gurgle-gurgle
and froth to ******: withs... bau-bau-bubbles...

but i'm thankful for the comparison:
and my own little life too...
little so little it doesn't dare to raise
notions of hierarchy...
that there is a hierarchy that's all
the better:
no one's moving up... no one's
moving down... plateau of plateaus...
but when i suckle at the bottle...
and it's a bottle of ink i can't spill
while i'm also drinking for a tease
of... teasing humour...
and i haven't written awhile...
while i pick up something grandiose
to experiment with... like...
bbc 3 will champion clarice lispector
but not machado de assis...

but agreed... what happened to
the "unread": i'll come dangling on
a hot-air balloon... screaming maxims...
first of most: or 'of all'...
i'll probably buy a bicycle and cover
those distances walked...
from havering-atte-bower
to... st. paul's cathedral...
coldharbour...
epping... in half the time it would
otherwise require me to tame
a marathon...

exemplar status... when i arrived in Paris
on my own i was not filled
with anything Stendhal likened imitation /
overbearing / copycat implicitness
(no implicity) -
         i exhaust the right to write more
than any of my drinking unfathomable
cruising through bottle and bottle:
message after message...
crab feet...
            giraffe necks...
scissor when expecting...
                           bamboo pincers... etc.

otherwise finally arrived at:
this "finally arrived" at
                dź (дь)
no vs. dż (дъ) otherwise...
what do i do with a "3":
                   эз: mind m'ah f'ez...
butter-fingers: deutsche! primo!
if my schnörkellos & butterfinger...
does you any harm...
crescendo + from the Urals
of the plural S... tomb of the vicinity-"victor"...

Paris... on the night of the Bataclan
stampede for bones, bruises,
tendons and sinew...
and offal... like... chicken heart...
chicken stomachs...
like that night when i was painting
my bedroom drenched in rose...
in chemical red
looking out for those mantis eyes
of lore like a bored
housewife of Pompeii...
before the irrittion
of the gods and the Huns...
drenched me with stuff all morbid
and splodgy...

suppose a ghost invites me to:
close a door...
suppose a door
suppose closure...
suppose the presupposition of...
****** theatrical null
and then a peacock of genesis...
a phoenix of exodus....

       a big chin 'arry delves into
structuring thinning...
who's a who who (a) what's already been given...
triptych on the buckle:
less hooves of horses charging
anti: against chaffs of wheat and more...
this sinking sensation requesting me
to make drown of all things
spec-tac-ular...

yonker: *****...
             mr. se(o)ul... his says...
says he:
           is any 'n' every...
Trafalgar Sq. presupposing
a Na-po-le-on...
to a somewhat... be...
well done.. boiling down:
the...         knuckles...
heave this limbo of cartilage :

oh i'm very much adapted
to...
insomnia
and "insomnia" libido too...

quake... nothing passes...
a biscuit might...
"crumble"...
a clown might poke fun
at making a...
"jellyface".
Devon Brock Sep 2019
Winds don't speak my name,
just carry on,
foraging stone for beaches,
combing grass for a song
like a rasp on a bowsaw,
like a drop in a bucket,
galvanized and rusty.

Winds don't speak my name
and if I went to school tomorrow,
I'd be the the fool with the apple,
conjuring bribes of better grades
and gradients carved in sandstone
ledges.

Hedges don't smell the wind -
they turn noses -
let the stank come in.

Days of wine and roses
were nothing more than days of wine
and headaches, presupposing
that a functioning drunk
was less a drunk
and therefore unimposing.

So the winds don't speak my name,
but rather split and run,
as I stick my nose
in all that flows,
in all that liquid business.

— The End —