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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
psychonalyse what's mechanised, don't mechanise what's worth psychonalasysis, not mechanised by uniformity to prove a theory true: avoid mechanisation via the analogue theory that encompasses both freudian and jungian starting-points... psychoanalyse ex machina... don't psychoanalyse ex ego / ex deus... you'll only get machina ex placebo... theory and patent drugs to craft the perfect zombie.*

some might reflect on the title and say... ‘amateur’ psychiatry...
it’s good by defenition... what i do with my cat...
he’s still has the enthusiasm of a skier / skater,
imitating a marathon with his paws against the glass:
it’s going nowhere.
so do the nearest thing he can understand
that’s a noun, and adjective, a pronoun a verb...
his meow... his senses are orchestrated, unlike ours...
he is in equilibrium with the outside world,
there’s no inside world to speak of,
the door handle has a thumb attached to it...
he can’t differentiate like we can...
standing on the hind legs he’s almost half a meter tall...
he can’t understand the world through the onomatopoeia
i’ll write to feed a sense of sight...
we’re less able, being confiscated by the letterings
to grow blind and deaf...
he tries to enter the kitchen via the living room,
i re-assure him doing a re- tactic
of imitation crouch...
if he sees this like a repeated sunrise he will be fed by calm...
so again the optical parallelism counter intuitive in the algebraic x...
one eye and the upside down...
two eyes working together and the perceptive cross-eyed missed...
then coming along the cross-eyed perception drunk and blurry...
and we have a problem understanding synchronisation...
when eyes synchronise they synchronise from the realm of the sea,
underwater eyesight i guess...
a bit like the dreamworld fable of wanting birds’ wings
but lost in terms of eyesight where
the highly evolved have their eyes front-lobed...
staring right at you...
conquering the birds’ beak with soft cartilage, avoiding
horse-blinders and cranium architecture to aim sideways...
cats eye fronted, dogs eyes fronted... man’s eyes fronted
to allow the actor his stage and the audience its rotten cabbage.
i can psychoanalyse the cat
keeping him comfortable by repeating a mundane action
of crouching and standing straight till it becomes sunrise for him...
but i can’t theorise an impersonal unit of each man known as ego / scalpel
to testify a use of the impersonal scalpel on the personal unit that each man is
his own as worthwhile;
i can cut the whiskers of the cat if that helps - and tell you about it.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
now that i'm relistening to this track, i remember the sole reason why i worked that dead-end night club job: to earn enough money to buy myself a mandolin... which i did: i entrusted myself to earn the money than to pocket the money out of my student loan... never mind picking up ****-filled bottles from the bathroom: being sexually assaulted by some ****** who thought that long hair was something akin to women and not to old-school metal-heads: which i was back then... you know: getting groped by the *** by some man who later thrusts himself at you while you're picking up ****-filled bottles of beer... oh sure: with retrospect he would have said fellow to my forehead... how times change... well yeah, i worked that job to buy myself a mandolin... which i did... for the sole purpose of learning the mandolin part of Rod Stewart's Maggie May... which i learned and played it for Fiona beneath her kitchen window in the student flats... she giggles blah blah... but... Maggie May soon turned into that other favorite song of mine: And One... Military Fashion Show... perhaps the music is sort of Disco Polo... but the lyrics?

cutest girl behind my door
everybody's hiding in love from war
the beauty broke down their chains somehow
who's gonna living on my body now?

a growing pain within my pop divine
will I ever regret the line?
switching on the light
i will not reassign
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

drop her white pants wide open warm
now she's slipping on her uniform
and every second would become so mis-defined
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

nope, i never had any luck with women, maybe i should have picked up gambling: but then again i don't like testing luck when it comes to being lucky with bus times... i like waiting for a bus for a minute... but with women, i sometimes observe my parents and then realise: ah... that's why i'm not married... makes perfect sense... the idea is lovely: i can never get over the idea of loving a woman, but then i realise a woman also has an idea what it implies to love, hardly a man, hardly a semi-automated thing, something that's offensively useful, from time to time activated but altogether sterile... hell: if it didn't take me playing the mandolin to a girl outside her window: Romeo is ****** as hell... Romeo is gone gone gone... the only luck i've ever had with women were with prostitutes, that realm of evidence where the transactional is up-front... there's no looping of paying for meals for cinema for celebratory self-congratulatory pieces of doodle / jewelry... there's just the up-front "rent" of a body... job done... let's get other aspects of "plumbing" worked on... i'm not even bitter... i'm just sort of: on a snooze button mentality, sort of sleepy... sort of disappointed... that? the men who wrote about love from the 19th century are antiques in the 21st century: not even 19th century folk: antique: pre-historic mentalities of the current zeitgeist of insomnia and over-burdening libido being frozen in a frenzy of self-doubts and self-appeasement of pleasures not met... by the other... i just feel disappointed by having invested so much time in Stendhal in Kundera... seems rather pointless...


i finally picked up my Trek mountain bicycle today
from the repair shop...
i came in talked all giggly and bubbly with
the owners... ah... Hemmingway got it spot on
in that novella of his of short stories:
men without women...
play cards, drink, tell terrible jokes...
make loads of oaths sparingly beginning
with the letter F...
i was told £75... but the guy comes to me and says:
the cassette has been worn down?
your advice? what's to be improved, how will
this affect my cycling?
blah blah this blah blah that... o.k. i know you're
trying to milk me... milk me but don't waste my time...
if it needs changing just tell me...
'oh, but we don't have the parts'...
o.k. ask your supervisor blah blah blah...
he comes back to me and says: oh he have the parts:
SUDDENLY... no no... not suddenly:
the customer, i.e. i... am willing to pay...
how much and how long?
£35... 15 minutes... great! do it! i'll go for a coffee:
which was a lie... i went for a pint
of Guinness and sat by myself like
some ******* portrait of an absinthe drinker
by Degas... they should do one of a Guinness drinker...
a person who sits alone and drinks a pint
of Guinness watching a table of about 5 men
and 1 ****-ugly woman drinking merrily enjoying
each other's company...
with the solo drinker lighting up a cigarette
and lighting up a smile on his face thinking:
oh thank **** i'm alone...
i used to drink with "friends": with people...
i soon realised... they're as much things as much as
i am a thing: sure... dehumanizing...
but so much of philosophy and of medicine
is infuriatingly dehumanizing in achieving
the pinnacle of objective-reason, no?
tell me, am i wrong?
            
i can tell you my favorite quote of mine:
i don't hate people... i just hate things...
it's not my problem that some people behave like
things rather than as people...
reality simply states: some people, simply have not
depth to them, or around them,
they are worse than thespians and thespians
are the worst: since thespians are the most eloquent
of thieves... they steal people's shadows...
they steal other people's soul... essence...
i hate actors with the same passion i abhor
the sceptics... add that to my list:
given these two strands of being and thinking
are the most popular in the current zeitgeist...

so i drank my pint of Guinness and walked back
to the cycling repair shop... picked up my Trek...
listen: i've been cycling for the past year solely on my Viking
road bicycle... neat handlebars...
i used about 4 maybe 5 gears to climb
elevations... or cycle harder: faster...
but neat handlebars... trim... a sense of a tuxedo smart...
neat: for moving between traffic... like all road bicycles...
he gives me my old Trek mountain bicycle back...
**** me!
i was riding a Lamborghini for a year...
now? i'm given a ******* SUV... Royals Royce!
my god... it's a Behemoth!
the handlebars are wide... the brakes? so easily accessible!
**** me for ****'s  sake...
too many gears... i must have been trigger-happy
when it came to gears... must have changed them
about 30 times... three gears by the peddles
and 7 at the rear... wheels... don't get me started on those...
with a road bicycle you have a width of about 23cm...
these ******* where thrice if not more at that...
so wide that they made a sound akin to
me thinking: where's the train? they made this weird
sound i couldn't possibly express with letters
to combat an imaginary words...
the closest approximate is a SHOOM / WHIZZ....
what does a thick rubber tyre make on
a pavement, rotating, that's not insulated
by a frame of a car? what?! exactly...
then add the elevation of the wind...
i simply can't write an onomatopoeia for that sound...
it's not as easy as meow or woof... or bark...
or howl... or coo... or the crackling grr of crow...
gurgling of a crow...
impossible...

tyres one aspect handlebars another...
hands out-stretched... which means? too much
availability of a manoeuvre...
that's what happens when the handlebars
are less restrictive... wide...
you have too much manoeuvrability potential...
you're like that guy inside a London black cab...
you can practically do a 180-turn...
become a dog chasing its own tail...
i used to love mountain bicycles... now?
i ******* hate them... i don't know why i spent
£500 on this piece of junk...
unless... i try it out on some dirt road...
fair enough then... but compared to a road bicycle...
a... kolarzówka... (road bicycle in ******)
no... not going to happen...
i though i was going to be happy to own two bicycles
and change from one to the other...
it's such a beast to ride... sure... it's aesthetically
pleasing to look at... even when school was out
and the boys were coming out of school:
one spontaneously announced thinking-aloud:
that's a nice bike...
yeah... nice to look at... yeah... sure thing mate...
great to look at... but a ***** to ride it...
compared to...                              exhibit (a)
a cheap £125 road bicycle with the right sort of
handlebars... mountain bicycle handlebars are
all wrong too wide...
you just can't handle such a beast on a long stretch
of road... you require something more
gravity driven / prone...
at least with a road bicycle you get to steer
with slight details of force going towards
the intended direction...
i think you must learn on a mountain bicycle...
to then explore the road bicycle...
but let me tell you... one you have mastered
the road bicycle... going back to a mountain bicycle
make-up it like going from Einstein to ******...
i was becoming queasy with too much maneuverability
in my hands and not centered in / with
my entire body and bicycle attached...
i know i'll think differently when i take
this beast into its proper environment...
i know that's what will happen...
but mountain bicycles don't belong in traffic...

aha... right... i almost forgot... just before i picked up
the beast from the repair shop...
i has in the supermarket picking up a bottle of cider
to keep up my stamina of: not bored...
no no... i'm not bored...  

onomatopoeias... i'm sure as a supervisor i told
some of the stewards that i'm only doing this job
for good reference: for references that might me
apply for a job as a chemistry teacher:
since familial ties of references will not allow you
to apply for the position...
last shift at Wembley some pink haired freak
of a beached whale of a male started to mouth-me-off
about jumping the queue...
i retorted like for like: you ******* see a queue
in front of me? i'm standing in the same *******
place! you ******* fearful of being called
a racist: you silly little thing of an anti-racist?!
you ******* HOG of what could have been
a woman... you afraid of insulating the Somalis?!
we know that they're like... that's how African
queues work... people jump the queue...
they huddle... Africans are not a Mongolian horde:
they're huddling people...
they stress themselves by the numbers
they're allowed / are given...
all the Europeans follows some details of
the aesthetic of queuing... the Africans?
**** me... they just inverted the bottle-neck...
if bottles were to be invented in Africa...
they wouldn't have a neck: they'd have an entire
******* torso... and be slim at the base...
that's how Africans behave ergo: think...
that's not racist: that's a ******* anthropologist tactic....
on the last shift this one Indian looking chap
said the following lines:

'don't think me of being racist...
but what do you think of these blacks?'

ha ha... one curiosity after another...
  i love mingling with people: you never know what
you're (n)ever going to get!
i'm working with this one "creature" who's super
clingy to me... adamant that he's anti-racist...
but... oops... slip... he's actually homophobic...
just because Brighton has a "reputation"...
but a staunch anti-racist.... yet a homophobe....
me? i hate *******...
esp. if you're collecting glasses in a night club
and you're getting groped by... some ******...
come on: a man with long hair is no excuse to
fiddle with my *** while i'm picking up bottles
filled with ****... ******* ******!

about blacks? well... what do i care if i already stereotyped
the Somalis as useless idiots... not even useful idiots
of Communist propaganda...
they're like the Irish... you simply psychoanalyse them...
they're so detached from reality that
they might as well be called Moonpeople...
Somalia best be called Moonland...
no, seriously: not as a racist (although i'd love to be one)
but as an anthropologist (these days?
an ethic apologist, if?!)
they are just that... devoid of reality sort of,
sort of... sort of... a sort of "people"...
a sort of "reality" is attached to them...

never mind that... i was in the supermarket buying a bottle
of cider... a woman with two young girls was making
her shopping... some BLEEP emerged from
the cashier's desk... some... BLEEP some BOOP...
hmm... we're talking primary school aged children...
children... completely un-fuckable... although as loveable
as dogs... perhaps even more:
since? you can't exactly mould a dog...
you can't mould a little Frankenstein of your own
with a dog... a dog is kept ontologically within
the archetypical exactness of what a dog is supposed
to be: what a dog is...
but man? oh... that's a completely different barrel of
laughs!
i stood behind the trio... and listened...

onomatopoeias... once those infernal instruments
made those sounds... the two girls mimicked...
imitated the sounds ...
i would be a terrible father... or perhaps the best...
i like the cognitive-focus on the negative:
maybe that's why i adore the cynics...
i adore the cynics and abhor the sceptics...
i like negative-thinking...
i once assured myself that negative-thinking
attracts... positive-being...
magnets... blah blah...

with i have on my heart's "conscience":
something so innocent... the cure's: a short term effect
from the album *******...
no... woman! no!
that trio of curiosity...
i was going to do an in-depth Kantian analogy
of the origins of the onomotopoeia...
it just so happened that i was walking behind them...
i'm pretty good at lip-readings...
too much exposure to headphones...
NEUROTIC BEASTS OF **** UN-******...
the ugliest women imaginable:
busy-body women.... UGLY *****...
MOTH-FRENZY-MOTH-*****....
i'm good at lip-reading...
oh look... a ******* is the area...

no... is just so happened that the trio bough
more goods that me at the store...
silly ******* agony aunt!
no! i was just going to ask
the two girls...that you spoke an onomatopoeia
without knowledge of what an onomatopoeia
actually is!
an onomatopoeia in the mouth of a child
is not actually a word...
it can't be... there's no rigid Apollonian "humour"...
when a child imitates a sound made by a
machine...
it doesn't imitate the sound with an allocation
of ascribing letters to them...
i could be the best father:
and perhaps the worst...
    i'd become too curios... i'd become a naturally
born scientist...
the mother? just ignored them...
but this **** of a THINFG threw empty accusations
into the air as if it were breathing...

i learned one valuable lesson on my own...
there are people... and there are THINGS...
me, what?
you ******* THING! remain INANIMATE!
sure... move... but remain without character!
did these girls have knowledge
of the "onomatopoeia" of an ONOPATOEIA?
too many ******* vowels..

that's Greek for you...
i'm a what? it just so happened that it's suburbia
and i'm walking behind a giddy trio....
i'm suddenly, what?! HIDE! HIDE... you neurotic *****!
you soothsayer you Satan's last **** available!
you mediocre human being!

how would they know... they're already exploring
onomatopoeias without knowledge of onomatopoeias ...
these creatures mimic... in fact: an onomatopoeia
is something that's to be exacted by being written...
these children... they are yet aware of letters...
letters beside nouns... nouns beside the concepts
of verbs pronouns and the like...

first i'll ask politely... secondly i'll ask less politely:
thirdly: don't tread on me..
fourthly: enough is enough...
but that's how life happens...
you exit the mind-set of... it's not jurisprudence...
etymological hell-havoc...
              ah! pedagogy!
and then the reality of all that's around you...

neurotic old women who think you're: an project
you're a predator;... ******* ****-less *****!
i just wanted to hear what her onomatopoeia went to...
you objectionable UGLY CUT of ****!
she was uttering her first onomatopoeia without
a rubric of letters! as a man who's not going
to be a father: i thought that rather: inquisitive...
i know you women are ******* boors and boredoms...
the more you age the uglier you become
in spirit: let alone in physical appearances...
******* hyenas start looking pretty are a while
once you peak!
no! that's the point! i'm being serious!

it only takes one false accusation: lip-read to demand
a crazy momentum of reaction...
oh no no... it's not going to stop!
best ***** assured this ******* momentum
is not going to stop! now i'm grizzly bear tooth worn
on smiling...

now... i have encountered men who encounter violence
of man against man...
i have yet to encounter men who encounter violence
of woman against man...
let's just say... it's more complicated...
i love children... some women love themselves
to the point of willingly perform... what's that name?
oh.... right... has he risen too?
the deity that's Moloch... the deity of infanticide?!
has he? so... i'm not alone...
there must be more of me...
gents! we're being redeemed!  we're going back
to a singing status of existence in the ***** of our
dearest "Abraham" of Ha-Shem!
let's put on a proper, decent, show!

then again... i might: i just might be...
a solo trick-of-treat... bellowing into the depths of well...
after all... as i looked at the whole affair from
the antithesis of Darwinism...
the strong and the smart don't really reproduce:
en masse...
the idiots do...
mammals like insects...
the ill-fated reproduce: that's why they bemoan
their fate of being ill-stocked in genes...
smart people are exploratory...
i'm exploratory...
i'm not saying i'm smart but i'm certainly not dumb enough
to have children in order for them to suffer
unnecessarily... for a per se reason
that's somehow supposed to be self-explanatory:
without... an accountable self!

there's no chance in hell these two girls imitated those
sounds in the supermarket with...
a knowledge of an onomatopoeia!
no chance! speak to me an "onomatopoeia":
onomatopeia!

     ono-m'ah-t'oh-p'-ah!

   they wouldn't even catch the vowel catches of Hs
in the plural sense without the apostrophe...
no...

write me a poem using linguistic notations:
i.e. onomatopoeia: knock knock: woof woof: .
details of some book... frankly? no book...
journalism rules...
/ˌɒnə(ʊ)matəˈpiːə/
   /nɒk,nɒk/
        /wʊf/ /wʊf/:
      /ˈdiːteɪl/ some
/sʌm,s(ə)m/
                       /bʊk/
  
yeah: that's what i like... linguistic graduates...
graffitti artists with a TAG..
children and onomatopoeias...
you want to play more and more games?
aren't we living in the most circus prone times?!

hey! in current environment of events:
hello herr besondere!
drop qords not bombs!

= +- / ha;f and half...
Emilia May 2019
Gee, this is gonna be a long one.

An open letter to my Father,
Patron of my anxiety,
Champion of my desperation.
I know you mean love, I know that's all you ever meant,
But you were cruel, Dad, I'm sorry.

You brought me into a world you believed to be uncaring and cruel.
Why?
Why would you do that, Dad?

I'm not angry, I say,
I just want to psychoanalyse you.
I think you're depressed, I say,
You've just assumed that your experiences are the default.

You see, that's always been your problem.
When I say I think about death,
You tell me that's normal,
When I explain that I never wanted to exist,
You tell me everyone feels this way.

But you're wrong,
And childish idealisation has held me to your words for too long.
I made you promise not to die back when I was an atheist.
It was the only way I could live.
Now I make you promise to haunt me, instead.

Ironically, I am more realistic now than ever.
Don't you find that funny?

Fathers do it;
Mock their wives and mock their daughters.
Tell me I'm insane, I'm crazy, I'm deluded.
When I say you're close-minded you tell me you can't be,
Not after sitting among the pews.

You do realise Christ isn't the only saviour, don't you?
Fluoxetine, citalopram, sertraline.
I take propranolol for panic attacks you induce.
I tell you to go to anger management classes all the same
And mum tells me to ask the doctor about family counselling.

Oh, and she tells me not to tell you, either.

The worst part is that I love you all the same,
Soul-*******, depressed, arrogant
Father of mine.
I make you promise to never stop looking out for me.
I make you promise to wait for me on the other side,
So I won't have to go alone.

Dad, I know I seem sad,
I know I seem angry
And childish and obsessive,
But I am wise enough to know that I am not wise yet
Which is more than you can say.

How does it feel to have no sense of wonder?
To sit in a Church and feel nothing?
To tell someone their God is a fraud to their face?
I tell you I worship the Universe as It is,
That my God is Everything.
You laugh.

When I listen to you, I am missing half of the visible light spectrum.
Your colour-blindness is catching,
contaminating.
Maybe the Universe was an accident, but we cannot deny it exists.
But you would.
If anyone would, it would be you.

Dad, hear me out:
Maybe the colours will be brighter after therapy,
Maybe you'll understand me better if you listen,
And try,
Really try
To understand.

"And why do you listen to him?"
Asks my therapist.
Dad, I had no answer for her.
It certainly wasn't because I believe in what you say.
"Why, when he doesn't listen to you?"

Dad, you told me it was acceptance that saved you.
But I don't think that's what it was.
You call it acceptance, I call it 'resignation'
To the only fate that doesn't scare you.

Dad, I will see you again.
Without eyes, without senses,
But I will know you,
And you will know me, and I will let you know,
"I told you so."
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
i imagine death with a book in reading: half tucked into my head and
thus half of me exposed, perhaps i too half tucked in it
standing as a miniature on a bookshelf - a talking bookmark.
but all pomp on napoleon’s grand theme for the toilet flush of power -
‘ha ha! prussia down the loo! prussia traced back to lunacy!’
that’s what the little colonel said - although he probably... ah never mind.
so when this grenoble girl told me i should get out a guilt spanker
and do 1 2 3 with it on my forehead, i said: polonaise! polonaise!
duchy of warsaw! d’uh! (which made the map of europe
look just like it was when the bubonic plague roamed the continent.)
well i forgive her, she was, after all, a psychology mermaid who’d
drag every man down for a kiss in the depths that would
be a kiss of the men’s lips being bitten off,
perhaps one man would then joke with her in comic book narrative
(bubbles of course) - how’s my todkopf lächeln?
she would then sit on the couch and allow me to psychoanalyse
her wish for feet -
and i’d end with the diagnosis - ‘too many men in your unconscious,
you ate too many and they’re speaking from your belly
as cancan dancers stomping a morse code of pitfalls into thoughts
wishing you grazed with lamb and men who ******* their heads
into “nothing” with lambdas.’
or that’s what comes to mind, in the least, from a passage
of canto **, read slowly, on the throne of thrones -
concerning the rewards of the rowers - not for oxford or for
cambridge - but for odysseus.
ASB Apr 2015
desire is only a product of lacking knowledge
she wrote
and so she tells me nothing --
and I
fill in the gaps of her
with my imagination,
I do not psychoanalyse
or discover,
I love simply the visible,
the impressions of her that
cannot
form a whole,
as if perception is reality
and beauty is truth,
and so I love her
only
in all I do not know
yet.
I'm just attempting to manage my emotions,
I'm doing the best I can,
Mostly I think I'm doing very ******* well,
Or maybe I just want all these "professionals" to be wrong.

Occasionally I stop and remember:
"Of course they're right Chloe,
How can you possibly say you don't have deep psychological issues right now?"
But since these dissociative symptoms have started:
I've felt amazing mentally.

I must admit that before that,
I felt pretty bad - bad enough to actually admit and ask for help,
But doesn't that show how I'm "dealing with it",
I don't like people telling me my body's dealing with my psychological feelings physically,
I express myself all the **** time,
And they don't know anything!

I'm sick of the psychoanalysis,
And then them claiming they don't psychoanalyse
On that website they keep telling me to revisit.
They seem to think if you talk about your problems -
They just disappear!
And if you educate yourself on conversion disorders -
The symptoms will finally go away!
I could go through that website,
A thousand times and I will still
Remain to have spasms, tremors
And weakness.

I am managing my thoughts and feelings at the moment,
But that doesn't help me manage my physical symptoms:
They are literally debilitating and unmanageable,
Only they tell me I need to "accept it",
This whole poem is showcasing me doing exactly that.
As many times as I deny thinking that this is a functional illness,
I match referring to it as just that.

It's funny that I write so much,
And almost worship the skill
Yet I haven't felt the need to write about what's been happening for months now.
The reason I finally am in this moment,
Was actually because
I think I'm starting to feel things again,
And now I'm wondering if I've been pushing all of it back,
Which is exactly what they want to hear,
So they can say "your body's expressing it because your mind can't manage it, you need to express and deal with this."
You know what?
I really do wonder what the hell they think that "coping" is!

Maybe they would just say,
I'm avoiding my feelings and memories right now,
By coming to my notes section to seek some peace,
As what they would like to think of as a facade,
All comes crumbling down.

The waves of intensity belong to me,
And as much as I don't always enjoy them,
You can leave them all alone because they're mine,
And you can't tell me how or if I'm handling them properly.
Sometimes I just feel like this is who I am,
This is what I'm prone to,
And if you want me to just get over it then fine,
I didn't seek you out in the first place
So if you want to think that I'm over it,
Then that's okay with me.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
I.

i sometimes sit down and wish a poem could write itself...
i've recently inspected the output of a.i. writing
systems...
    there were three examples...
                           i must say: i felt unimpressed...
                               i hardly think that computer can substitute
the careless ingenuity of man in the realm of writing:
careless? i hardly take myself seriously...
                                  i would sooner be found dead than
rewriting anything i write....
                    i've become so good at it that: even when drunk...
i make very little spelling mistakes: if any? on purpose...
as a joke... and typos are never apparent...
but i sometimes sit down and wish a poem could write itself...
i'm just too comfortable: strapped to the memory-cinema
i'm watching in my head...
   like that one movie where i was a supervisor at an Ed Sheeran
concert... had 16 stewards under me:
had a "problem" with only one...
               how i fed them free burgers and because i fed
them they managed to follow my rules: which i didn't even
have to dictate... because i was constantly vigilant of them...
constantly walking my stretch of the stadium
and peeping in... no one was on their phones...
no one... no one was out of position... no one...
                thank you grandpa Joseph for teaching me
how to be human with humans and not to allow
authority and power to go and start ego-tripping...
because: at the end of the day? as a supervisor?
                you're beneath the stewards... you need to...
keep them in check by following a humbled demeanor...
they're supposed to be in positions...
toilet breaks: don't be silly... this is not prison...
you don't ask for one: you just go...
     but... you want water? you want coffee?
sure... let me know... and i'll bring it for you...
obviously i can't go to the toilet for you...

     ever the eternal anti-****: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
if that slogan was not scribbled as a sign before
the entrance to Auschwitz... but since it was...
                             i'm sticking to it... **** it... i'm stealing it...
says someone who was out of work /
in and out of work... but constantly writing for 10 years
dealing with psychiatrists... it's... refreshing...
i'm perhaps the most sane individual out there:
and i've come across a few crazies and oddities of man
as example and woman as example:
the neurotic types are easily spotted:
guys like me? diagnosed as having a psychotic complex:
we're harder to spot...
Polacks are like the Irish and what Freud said
about the Irish: almost impossible to psychoanalyse...
the psychiatrists i was working with:
about three at one time... and several medical
students too... gave up on me when i started
telling them: i'm arming myself with reading Kant,
Heidegger and Kierkegaard...
        and Jung and R. D. Laing...
                        what can you offer me?
             back in circa 2016 they let me out into
society... free as a bird... to... perhaps wreck havoc...

mind you... if a former supervisor worked with
some unruly girls... these unruly girls?
working with me? became subservient...
perhaps girls don't like other girls telling them what
to do... perhaps it takes a male approach...
oh sure... the unruly girls were attractive...
i almost think they fancied me too...
this one Somali plump blessing with extended
eyelashes just smiled her idiotically sweet smile
at me whenever i approached her and asked
her if she was happy...
    
she was annoyed by this other girl
  who kept criticising her for taking toilet breaks...
blah blah... in the end i asked her:
do you want to be moved?
yes... so i moved her... switched her around...
check-mate move... since moving her
coupling her with a very astute young gent
ambitious... i had management come up to me
and tell me that the two of them were
doing a great job getting people to pitch-side...

now... i find this to be mediocre writing...
i appreciate the fact that this is mediocre writing...
there's no fictional escapism...
all these words like supervisor... steward...
crowd safety... but as i once suggested:
we're trying to prevent another Manchester Arena
Bombing... aren't we?
     writing this i'm trying to stress...
some of us have to be vigilant... it's not a terribly
technical job... dealing with people: with crowds...
i think it's a joke-job... compared to roofing
or compared to landscaping... working on the aesthetics
of the garden... i treat it as a joke-job...

sure... i stole once... or twice... the most memorable theft
was... a Queens of the Stone Age c.d. from
W. H. Smiths... Songs for the Deaf...
i just took out the c.d. casually... i wanted the thrill...
i just took out the c.d. out of the case
and stashed it in a book i was then reading...
walked out... burned it... oddly enough returned
it at some other W. H. Smiths outlet
at Liverpool St.

do i think of myself as a good person?
   oh no, no no... i rather start with: i'm vile...
then work my way up...
                  i like the idea that i'm short-tempered
and that i need to keep that in check...
i might be 6ft2... but my temper is a midge-***
i let ride my shoulders coming in at 4ft1...
it's almost like... i age... but having a memory of myself
as a child... i'm dragging the me as a child
to the grave with me...
i'm only 36 now... at the zenith...
it's going to become ugly from now...

hence the memory-cinema i'm re-watching...
perhaps my life has become more interesting for any need
for movies... movies have started to bore me...
music is being stretched...
it's still my "protein"... but...
the search results are coming back blank...
i.e. i've heard this song before...

i tried to stop myself going crazy over this one
mixed-race girl... pristine... pale tinged by brown
skin... but... CURLY... CURLES of hair like
waves of an ocean of twists and turns of a river...
doe: pale brown eyes...
            young... oh... much younger than me...
again: once fed... very much content...
                                              which made my life all
the more easier...

II.

there are moments like this, they're hard to find...
but they're there...
i sometimes abhor man's pretenses for hoarding
past artifacts... but... sometimes i have to praise them...
what? the artifacts or the tactic of being so mortally
dead that one requires elements from the past
to be shoved into the immortal future?!
probably both...

an amalgamation of poem 10 from Ovid's book I
of the ****** poems... smoking... drinking...
while listening to KORTEZ's stare drzewa
   (old trees)...
                           some people have children and create
families and have beautiful moments...
as families...
  some people...
i thought about it... perhaps India is the Mecca
of cooking... with all her spices...
but... what are the pillars of the culinary endeavour?

fire...
            water...
                        ­      salt...
                                           hmm...
                                                          time..­.
yeast?! no really...
   you can make flat breads...

fire: water: salt: time: there must be something else
that's essential to cook food...
i need a refill... i'll take a 10 minute break and think
about it...

sooner than that!
   i just walked down the stairs to refill my cup with
ice-cubes... blitzkrieg!
breaking away from English looking for
a word in my mother's tongue:

tɫuszcz!  tɫuщ!   fat!
        tɫo! (canvas)

what are the culinary pillars?!
fire, water, salt, time & fat!

ogień, woda, sól, czas i tɫuszcz

doesn't it take 5 minutes to boil an egg for a soft-boil?!
you need water... to boil it... ergo... you need fire...
to boil it...
you want to fry an egg? you need fire...
and fat... to fry it in... since... you can't fry an egg
in water...
and with salt? osmosis... you want excess water
to be drawn out of foods that have no sweet juices
to be drawn out for a concentrate of taste
to be leftover... you don't put salt on fruits...
because... they are juicy...
but you put salt on vegetables because...
they are without juice...
but adding salt to them tenders their flesh...
so that they... become sweeter...
               i'm not a scientist... i was born yesterday...
i don't need arithmetically correct explanations
when i'm digging for awe...

but these are the five pillars of the art of cooking:
water, fire, salt, time & fat...

III.

and do think... the Roman equivalent of 3 (III)
is oh so similar to the Cyrillic Ш
either an "W" or a lying, lazy E....
while the shch (szcz) Щ is only a -sh-
  with an addition of a comma...
as a diacritical detail Щ = Ш + ,
   (makeshift Hebrew Yod)...
pause or interruption?!
                                 but "my" people don't say
SHA... they just utter -SH-...
               i wish i could ask St. Cyril and St. Methodius
about the "other" Щ -
the common excavated -ść
via examples like: dość (enough!)
świt: sunrise...
                    words escape me...
          in my mind:
they're escaping my mind like birds:
like sparrows in their highest flight...

     kość - bone...

hmm... there was something here i was
supposed to excavate... not this... this is but a side-note...
let me unravel my "thinking"...
this spaghetti entanglement...
ah! now i know... i need to keep it fresh
in my mind... sometimes it happens...
a poems lies dormant for centuries...
then a reader happens to read the poem while
listening to some piece of music...
and his life... coincides with the poem...
and the music gives up its double emphasis...
hey presto! a perfect storm...

what am i talking about?
poem X from Ovid's book I of the ****** poems...
mixed with KORTEZ; stare drzewa... old trees...
i will not recite the entire poem...
i don't want to...
as i'm drinking i'm not even bound
to an anchor of wallowing...
some people have these beautiful moments
having had children...
i too have "children"... moments like these...

but i'm seemingly unburdened by having any
"responsibility"...
just these artistic details to mind...
the song is playing... while i'm rereading...
you'll hardly hear anything verbatim...
just what i will ease my heart to pick and choose...

i too have my biases...
having broken the chains of love with
the simplicity on the altar of prostitution...

let's recite...

     i had all the parallels for you...
                 the cause of war...
                      i got nervous at bulls and eagles...
your profile leaves me cold...
because you keep nagging for presents...
that's what turns me off...
                 at first your were guileless...
  but now now this inner's flaw's eclipsed your looks...
neither mother nor son are military experts...
soldiers' pay: is not for unwarlike gods..
            
tonight's not the night to finish this musing
off of on some "briefly"... "some other night"...
this life is too spectacular to begin with...
     hungry-man thinks nothing else
beside thinking about food...
                         there's this cheese on toast...
and some marmite...
what am i thinking?!
          
it's being asked i detest...
                    quit wanting: and i'll give...
            close encounters...
what's supposed and what's inhibited...
these third encounters of a morally reprehensible:
nudge... some of the details of "thought"...
counter to... thought is no wedding with
nakedness.... you can't...
attire yourself with thoughts...

with the death of the governing body:
i subject myself: subdue with a wilt... the hiding
of a garden or roses...
and rosemary.. thyme...
          and all the celestial scents
so bothersome...
   to make monks arrogant...
                        i clasp my hands together:
whisper for sparrows...
and the morning sun for song...
and wait...
               for someone to speak
Deutsche...
                                    me: sooner...
                               you: the latter source...
jetzt! lassen uns tanz!
            tanz! tanz! mutterfucker!
tanz!
                     sie besser tanz: ficker...
tanz: vor ich trimmen ihre
     waffen und beine aus...
                                            von dein karosserie!
under Lex Cincia...
              
III.

oh man oh boy oh god oh perhaps woman...
how i'm trying to find yesterday:
in relation to not having finished the poem -
by "chapter" three i'm walking through an abandoned
house... my self has split into multiple selves
as squat-ers...

    i'm trying to relive that special moment in time
when i read 1.10 from Ovid's ****** poems
(book one. poem ten)
   and found a suitable song to go along with it...
KORTEZ's stare drzewa... old trees...
but the moment is gone...
         i wish i had finished and fallen asleep happily...

today i was painting the fence with obstructions
from within myself... because watching the tennis
became more important...
          
i'm trying to get back into some sort of mood...
switching between Natalie Merchant... song?
Carnival from the album Tigerlily...
                i'm mixing that with Tales under the Oak -
the Toad King...
          Dungeon Synth?! seriously?! well... only from
Germany... that must be said...

after my bicycle accident i took to the road once more...
i have to admit... i felt shaky...
a headache came back... i could feel all the once
apparent wounds not almost fully healed
re-bruise my body... but i cycled on...
i was never going to give up my first love...
i sometimes wish swimming was my first love...

but no...
cycling is my first love...
    walking my second
  and swimming my third...
   i never cared much for running: because it was usually
running for a bus or a train...
and i will never own a driving license...
never... i like buses... i don't like cars...
the best i could do is own a motorcycle...
and given my bicycle accident...
swerve: pothole... get nudged by a car...
oh man... that falling across my handlebars
must have looked impressive...
like when Walter Sickert influenced Francis Bacon...
my face scraping the tarmac...
i was slightly tipsy... though...
so... first lesson: is usually the last lesson...
never attempt to cycle tipsy...

   2nd lesson: overcome fear by cycling tipsy...
as i was today... a few beers in...
but i thought: wow... not this bicycle is truly mine...
it's truly mine because i just had an accident on it...
i own this bicycle... we're entwined...
i even left several signatures of blood on it...
but... i'll wash the off tomorrow:
i need to finish painting the fence...
the artificial grass is almost done...
the slabbing completed...
   i need to change the handlebar tape and change
the breaks... i seriously managed to erode so much
rubber that no wonder i feel the need to squeeze
harder... eh... London traffic, what do you expect?!

also? a rat infestation... because?
my new Nigerian neighbours... well... just the old guy...
thought it was a good idea to leave
bread and trimmings in the garden
for his "beloved" pigeons... ******* beloved pigeons...
no rats in Africa?!
the kitchen is a mess... but i have one...
scuttling... rats are not mice...
                they're ingenious buggers...
the cheese is gone... the mouse-trap snapped...
i hate those things... i once had a mice problem
in the attic... bad timing... the poor thing died
from a broken jaw... it bled out like...
that Ukrainian butcher of Rostov...
                                       through the a shot in the head...
it must have taken about two weeks
for him to die when he was dragged into a cell
and shot in the back of the head...
same with this mouse... death by a broken jaw...
horrible stuff...

i mean: i had a mouse problem once when in Ediniburgh,
if you could get hold of Ilona...
she would tell you... the pretty defenceless thing
hid in my wardrobe...
i created this maze... with a trap at the end...
caught it... trapped it... held it up by its tail...
Ilona was all giggly...
       i went out with it to the tenement landing...
let it loose onto the stairs...
memories of childhood...
   what memories? i once had a hamster...
took it outside... this sadistic boy encouraged me
to drop my hamster down the stairs:
saying: it would survive the fall...
so i dropped my hamster...
it fell and its nose starting bleeding...
i took it home crying...
  parachute! there was supposed to be a parachute!
right... but with this mouse?
full circle... i atoned for my naiveness...
i placed the mouse on the landing...
the mouse jumped one stair down... and then?!
a... a... *******: LEAP OF FAITH...

well... that was much easier...
i walked back into the bedroom and Ilona asked:
what did you do with the mouse?!
oh... it committed suicide...
that's revenge for that ******* who said my hamster
would survive the fall...
children should not own critters...
animals smaller than them...
dogs?! cats?! fine... but hamsters... rabbits?!
no no no...definitely not hamsters!
some ******* Jeffrey Dahmer types might just be
spawning... i remember that kid...
thick glasses... freckles...
i'd love to castrate him: right now...
curly hair... hell... forget castrating him...
i'd love to head-**** him and break his nose...
in such a way that he might lose his sense of smell...

that's when i realised... when that mouse i wanted
to let go decided to jump off...
i was atoning... i made a full circle
with a past grief... that's when i became a father
unto myself... of course i still had a father
to dictate rules to me concerning a work ethic
and ambition... but that was the moment
i became a father to the child of memory i once was...
no silly idiot was whispering in my ear
about how a hamster could survive a fall...
from the time i "purposively" dropped it...
i just let the mouse go... and it decided....
suicide was the better option: the only option...

i only feel relief from both memories...
15 years down the line...
how? i'm not going to use the standard mouse-trap
procedure... not after seeing this one
mouse i found in the attic bleeding
to death from a broken jaw...
       it broke my heart...
               and... hardly being in love...
         there's no other option: i wouldn't mind
if a cat killed it... at least there would be a hierarchy...
of consequences...
i wouldn't mind if the rat was simply nibbling
on dry lasagne sheets...
but when it comes to biting into plastic...
and cables... i don't want to replace my dishwasher
or my washing machine...
the next best option? poison... like sugar for humans...
i don't need to see another rodent dead
from crushed teeth... it's snout mutilated...
give me a clean ****...

i think Ilona sensed something was changing
in me... when i casually said: oh, it committed, suicide...
it was casual then:
but given enough time: there was nothing
casual about it...

IV.

i believe it's not patois if i insert some Cyrillic into
the Latin script of the Western Slavic zunge of
******:
              щur!       too many consonants, no?
i.e. szczur... i.e. rat?! ergo? щur!
we're still communication on an even level playing
field...
what was i listening to and what was i reading
that made me feel so... "nostalgic"?
i need to sample some snippets of Ovid...

1. because you keep nagging for presents...
2. that's what turns me off...
3. what's 3?

    i can't over-quote him... people need to forrage
themselves... i'm not going to be either lasso
or gatekeeper...
          
some "questioning" about the pocketing
of bribes...
    so "here", or "there"... or "other"...
                toward the "Arctic" one in spun
in some petty defiance...
this sinking ship of this last thought...
this one last gasp of air
before the final tombstone riddle of
a breath that drons the lungs
with salty waters..

             i will not cite any more Ovid:
i'll keep him to myself...
not as a gatekeeper... more akin to:
if you were to love him as much as i do...
you'd follow your sorry-*** to engage
with his outpourings than simply sit
idle assed: not asked: never asked!

V.

the moon started blinking through his crescent
spetacle...
i almost felt to be in love in love..
****... i can't be any longer...
burn the ribbons, the tiers....
the ribbons and the kites...
             burn all things hybrid into the fuckinng
ground;
yes... this is enough.

— The End —