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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. she was 19, i was 21, and i guess i was the first boy who treated her decently, allowed her to slap me in the face and stood like a copper statue before her... she wouldn't have made it at university among all the English yuppies, being pregnant... turns out, she might have opted for the Juno (the movie) route... all i know is that she graduated with a masters in anthropology... she was up in Edinburgh, i was back in London, roofing with my father doing the Scottish Widows HQ and then some other project, trying to weave myself into a managerial position in some roofing company... but then? the psychosis spiral... oddly enough - no hammers, no hearing voices wielding a hammer running down the street naked... contained... walked into a church near King's Cross st., lay on beside a the side altar, pulled the cloth from the altar, and wrapped myself in it... then heard singing, had my iPod with me... turned it off... turned it on again, turned it off... the singing still echoed the church... got up, put the cloth back onto the altar and started running around the church aisles... then a great wind dispersed the singing... what kept my sanity? well... given that i was smoking marijuana and fasting? one word... sátān... the whole 40 days in the desert? cut short... in a concrete desert... i phoned my then ex-girlfriend to meet me at this spot outside the church - right across from a royal mail HQ - and i remember the words: can you bring me bread, and water? nothing... on my own then... no... that sort of experience is no cause for jubilation, there is no ******* euphoria: you're talking about ******* it - in my case? thankfully that's only metaphorical... and i'm not buying the psychiatric *******, the easy way out answer: ooh... but youz ver in a church... what?! what the **** are these people talking about? sober people are allowed to have these experiences? well, really?! so why so many of them are negating or doubting intellectuals?! negation is the new doubt... somehow i managed to fend off the atypical munchies routine while smoking marijuana while walking in public... never bothered me... i was a reggae ***** at the time... notably Israel Vibration, Stephen Marley, Damian & Culture... & ***** and the Maytals... cliche, i know... but **** and rap?! seriously? gangster whatever the hell that means... i've just read an article about cultural appropriation... so what has the Jamaican Rastafarian culture have to do with Old Testament prophets?! JAH... they're always singing about JAH... it's a ******* yak! yah! a german YA! cultural appropriation my ***! it's Jamie Oliver's **** sauce! ****'s sake! yeah, right, Bambi on Jamaica smoking a silly one doing the reinvention of king David's psalms... no cultural appropriation there... nope... none... nothing... nothing wrong with Alpha Blondy singing about Yerushalem... nope... no cultural appropriation.... nope... none... nothing! i mentioned these bands to my Jamaican **** seller... big on the Illuminati conspiracy theories, i liked to listen to him ramble... hardly a Charlie Temple paranoid... loved his ox tail broth, his grandma made it for him... and a pretty daughter, but no mother... eh? his Thai ****? i'd prefer the shorter span of a tobacco high... where? near my old high school, Canon Palmer R.C. - now a ******* academy! whoop! whoop! sound the klaxon! you don't experience what i've experienced and start a cult with *** ****** in mind... like **** if you think you do... you... lay low... you puncture the existentialist exodus from Cartesian doubt - namely outright negation - and you wait for the revitalization of doubt, namely the pop culture variant of belief... doubt is, oddly enough, a variant of belief... and belief? be a leaf... just remember you were once attached to a branch of a tree.

yeah...

        a catholic school isn't
exactly a Jesuit school...

but being asked questions
about abortion
and euthanasia

   aged 15 or 16?

in real life?
  you short-circuit, glitch,
become ronin -

    the personal life, details?
too messy...
   she tells you she's taking
contraceptives,
   she's ends up self-harming...
she says she was abducted
and held for ransom,
she's a russian citizen,
her ex-boyfriend is still
hanging around,
  a son of some Russian oligarch...
you've only dated for a
bunch of months that do not
even make it half a year...
you don't mind condoms,
because... hell...
you'd love to see her wearing
latex...

     you know, the usual bits & bobs...

voodoo...
    for some strange reason i woke
up, and the ring finger blister
on my left hand, made by burning
out a cigarette on it
started bleeding:
  close to the bone -
and look! you get a slot motion
of your body recovering!
  no disclaimer concerning
the pros to what sharp objects
women do, by cutting...

but you know...
      asking a 15 / 16 year old
about his opinion
  about either abortion
or euthanasia?
  bad ******* move...
           at this point i'm thinking:
thank ****...

what does it even mean,
when a woman says it,
she's not exactly point-break
on Cartesian logic...

'matt, i think i'm pregnant'
'well, you know what you should
do, get an abortion.'

mind you... i am a citizen of a country
where abortion is legal...
hell, it might have worked,
*** was good, she could
reciprocate that sentiment...

oh, but if there is a kid at the end
of the tunnel?
i **** sure hope he doesn't
contact me, like a kid from
a ***** donor clinic...
      there's something malicious
waiting for him for me
to add about his mamma -

   aligned?
oh you know... *****, Henny,
  Diana and the Egyptian...
   go Charlie go!

                  please please keep
your name... we need a Charles trinity!

so yeah... Roman Catholic school...
****! oh right, outer east end of London...
Paddy central...
               i wonder...
                  but i'll never know...
the Polish Catholics are leaving...
               good on 'em...
          (yadda yadda, yeah yeah, for them)...

i'll never know...
   am i angry?
               i listen to Byzantine and Templar
chants and drink to a well earned
excess...
               sometimes the odd Bulgarian
******* to hug...
    
oh right... that one last time?
i didn't forget my genitals...
   i did an uncourteous lax of etiquette...
****!
           now it makes sense!
i forgot to trim my ***** hair!
(mumbling out) ******* eureka.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
an atypical journalistic interview sessions only lasts a few minutes: you know, you know, you knows... mostly arranged by eager liars and boxing-ring butchers of the chop & jabbed jobless... or as i like to call it to their faces when they recuperate at rock concerts with their slaughterhouse day-jobs: head-banging meat-heads; you know, one of the lads, yeah man, you know - can i start speaking sing-language from now on? i swear they're speaking sign-language already, i understand them in the boxing ring... outside of the boxing ring... huh?!

the same with modern music, it just loves
Bach or Chopin accents / diacritics / samples...
Salmonella Dub's song *problems
,
i don't know why it acquires the said critique,
moby's porcelain...
these are accents of once world know narratives,
the narratives are gone, but the
accents remain... once we had Chopin's piano,
now we have transition pieces
akin to Thomas Newman's 18 from the American
Beauty soundtrack... now the Emperors say:
too few notes... cos it's a real tear-jerking masterpiece...
finally people of all professional categorisation learned
punctuation and the assembling of data,
the point of shelving things... of
not keeping thought for the purpose of simplified
narration, but as a way to escape into idea identifying
post-narrative ensured dynamos...
what remains of classical music, is but
a sense of diacritical marks not applied to language,
what is left as a wasteland...
the modern version of classical music is but an accent
of what classical music used to be: the alphabet,
the narrative, the narrative arrangement...
we're left with accents... the piano is an accent...
something Mozart used to touch...
when Mozart wrote the a b c,
                   Thomas Newman just wrote the acute
                           above the c...
    because classical music is so scarce, so rare
that it requires an elephant and a poacher,
but hardly the egg...
                                       so when Mozart wrote
a b c... modern licks of the piano
                   wrote a jingle... licks...
              modern resurrection of the classical
narrative, when Mozart wrote his bit,
Charlie Harper wrote the acute sign above something
resembling a character named C to make him into
chimney, thus the scalpel ', yes, that's the linguistic
scalpel         '                      , which isn't a comma,
to dissect words...             play me a ******* Irish medley
you ****!                        
                           sophism says: all punctuation marks
              revolve around securing emphasis.
tell that to a twelve year old, and in telling them that:
how to create an ontology to differentiate them from
politicians and establishing them as
                                          eager hands that became
                 the roots of modern China, and the principle:
         family, root, family, root,
                             or your granny with far more to worried
about than you standing over her grave, meaning
she ******* herself in a care home and you were like:
     but my life!
                                  i moved my great-grandmother into
my grandmother's house... they sarcastically called me
a beneficiary at her funeral, you know how family is...
they're always ******* cannibal, they want you to have
three arms so they can chew one of them off
and instigate the lazy option: Satellite Plato TV in
their homes... to lazy to even have a decent thought:
forget thought leading to morality,
let's just keep it French enlightenment: thought
precipitating into existence... which is hardly any sort
of triangular or rhombus square definition of
behavioural patterns of macaques.
for ****'s sake: when Chopin wrote c, modern
music sampled the same piano as the acute sign above
c, i.e. ć, dissection: Moby's Porcelain is Chopin i.e. c,
the two together are ć... which is read
by dissecting the words itch cheese chi chee and
putting them back together like some sort of Frankenstein
in order to just get the acute sense of stressed c...
CTRL... C and P... then it's either just African drumming
as in excess rhythmic when it was once woodwind
sections... so Chopin without Moby's Porcelain would
just be c... with Porcelain we get ć... it's not a representation
of an itch, or a twitch... it's just ticklish, mind you,
the two are inseparable: and the rest i just like
to call ambience, or anything you could never claim to
make an onomatopoeia out of - if only it was
that simple: i'd call the practice of onomatopoeia the
craft of carpentry or stone-masonry -
knock on wood: get a whale's mating call in the deep blue...
******* magic in the desert of pampered journalism...
pampered journalism... i like that, i like it like
the idea of defending Saddam Hussein... pampered
journalism... here's a fake... oh, and another...
here's another fake... mascara drool here... and another
one here... **** me, a miniature golf course of ideas...
hard not to be pruning the delusional idea of
"this is Utopia" by western media's *******
into a handkerchief that's designed into fishnets of *****
than that of tearful sympathies with:
well the animal stories always sum things up, don't they?
queue
Michelle E Alba Mar 2019
True bliss comes
in reinvention of the self,
when zero
expectations are held.

Yet you still
have full faith
in the numerous
possibilities that await.
Aaron Kotz Feb 2014
Waking up.
Groggy, disoriented, slow
Grains of sand falling to the wind from their puffy bags of rest beneath the tear ducts.
The eight hour cave of warmth and hibernation is ripped away leaving a brisk breeze to overcome the heat that was known and loved.
Feeling uneasy and sick while standing, forcing a shuffle to the restroom fills the mind with yesterday's quarrels.
A look into the mirror shows the remaining anguish staring back at you, grinning wickedly from ear to ear.
A breath of courage is taken, the worst is over, the war was won.
Eyes lock on their reflection, filled with life, no longer empty shells.
Unused muscles become sore from smiling, an exhilarating euphoria taking hold.
Deep, cheerful bellows of wind escape the lungs in short high pitched bursts.
Laughter.
A familiarity long forgotten returning with a reinvention of what used to be well known.
The person in the mirror is unrecognizable.
Alive, excited, happy. Life is re-beginning.
The Noose Jan 2015
Some are born balanced
On a precipice and remain
Tethered for the rest of their days
Overlooking barely there
Mental images
Fragments of a lucid dream
Of a conjured up past life
Once etched on skin
But no longer there
They speak of
Violent reinvention
And escape
While the hollow speaks
And catapults into spaces
Better left unknown

Psyches wrapped in denial
Running the gamut of habitual sins
Perpetuating legacies of pain
With hands that carry
The burdens of forefathers
Tiptoeing
In the twilight of dreams
Willing for the heavens
To send a spring that blooms

Hearts whose pounding
Reverberates endlessly
inside of ears
Eyes that get darker as they close
Meet with ours
A look
A sigh
Ascertaining a mutual recognition
Of the familiar
Shadows that plague.
Here I sit in a shed,
fueled by an appetite un-fed.
Unfortunately not for a burger and curly fries
But a distinguishable visage who tells no lies.

But then again if I continue to wait,
everything will be simultaneously late.
So I guess it's time to get off,
of an image more fictitious then something by Boris Karloff.

Just a Frankenstein of my own creation,
seeking some known relation.
While inhaling more than air.
Taking an unformulated dare.
Lexander J Oct 2015
From a room empty it shines
surrounded by impermanence and deceit
for my mind is blank and empty
and without poetry I am incomplete

my writing has grown old
the grotesque horror genre stale -
the ideas I once relied on
now cease to all but fail

I can't think of anything to write
I guess I'll be this way for a while
but like music's greatest chameleon
I'll burn it all and crank up the style

[say goodbye to the Beautiful People
say goodbye to all the horror and gore,
I'm completely shedding this harsh skin
because I want to be that flat writer no more]

yes big changes are happening
oh changes are taking place
anticipation runs through my mind
as total reinvention I've finally come to face

so forgive me if I bore you
forgive my absent presence,

for when I finally return
I'll have something extraordinary to present.
Cat Marshall Aug 2017
turned self hatred to ego death
order out of chaotic mess
I have sinned, I must confess
from denying that I am blessed

for I’m a vessel for the power
big and bright, to which I cower
self-protecting, sad wallflower
procrastinate my finest hour

my heart expired, my talents latent
the Universe frowns at complacence
signalled for change in ways so blatant
uncovered what was truly fated

so “no more!”, I said aloud
in a tone uncanny and proud
gathered the few truths I found
stood for justice, stood my ground

wielded tools for reinvention
based on only good intention
so whilst my past begs for a mention
I’m better pressed to break convention

break myself and forge another
birth my own daughter and mother
court my own subconscious lover
love yourself, then love each other

because life’s too short to **** yourself
it’s got that sorted, watch your health
harness your power, know your wealth
you’ll gather dust sat on that shelf
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
Jazmine Moore Aug 2014
They're never as pretty as you.
Never as passionate as you.
& they sure won't be as understanding as you.
But, it's easier with her.
So, instead of wondering why..move on.
Let him be with her.
Cut your hair.
Reinvent yourself.
Pick up a new hobby.
Read.
Write.
Live.
This poem was written as I discovered my heart was finally healed.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
it's understandable, they confused by complex bilingualism as schizophrenia; oh sorry, it's not actually a scary word, before people start to theorise the mono-lingual pre-maturity of a condition that affects older people, they should seriously begin to listen to what a person is saying; there are tales of surgeons leaving surgical equipment in bodies during surgery... well... at least the physicality of such blunders is more pronounced than leaving regression variations of negated ease (disease) in man... (uncouple that compound and you'll find the subtler alternative)... when psychiatrists make mistakes it's not a heart surgeon making a mistake, the mistakes psychiatrists make are far more profound, given the nature of the mistake being seemingly trivial in comparison... yet these mistakes make our mental life worse by disrupting the narrative, psychiatry, being a science, primarily disrupts the (cognitive) narrative; it's hard enough to find yourself in your mind, let alone a worthy narrative that you encompass... it's hard to reemerge with a good enough narrative when you're branded like an ox, a ******* during the height of Christianity, or registering a car for road tax... it's ****** hard.

so they (i've lost the paranoia additive of this pronoun
a long time ago) thought my bilingualism
was worthy the label of schizophrenia...
well... d'uh, isn't bilingualism a split-mind scenario
in itself?
                    bilingualism is more complex than you think,
it reaches to the depths of each language,
it's not a multilingual acquisition, a polymath hooray!
it's bone deep,
                        bone deep, it goes as far into identity
as all conceivable points of psychological architecture;
which is why my bilingualism was so well
established that i became a bit difficult to society:
my upbringing was to match the difficulty -
i was never supposed to utter a single intellectual
disparity, given my stature i was supposed to be
a manual labourer - a position i'd have gladly undertaken
but (see my earlier entries), but...
                                i never really felt a need for
an animosity toward the English -
                                           i loved everything about England
(or at least London) -
                                                 i left my native country
early enough to sponge-up the new culture,
                   but of course when our family was applying
for citizenship we were the obscure minority,
                 after the floodgates opened and the less
creme of the crop entered these shores,
       i was forced into a spiral reinvention, i was no
longer was the British termed "exotic"...
exotica, hmm, funny how i imagine things exotic as
things in sunny places, slaves in the Caribbean,
the platitudes of certain African Savannahs...
something Voltaire might find befitting to write about
like he did in Candide - there's this neurotic passage in there...
                the passage to India... a book i'll
never read: why? can't be bothered, the t.v. series *Indian Summers

does it for me;
                                  plus i do like cooking curry,
so there's the f                        u                            to take-away
curry...           i have an arsenal of spices and i bomb Kashmir
with whiffs of the stuff...
                                    that part of my is what the intended cultural
assimilation was intended for: the rest? n'ah ah.
                               what spurred me to write this poem?
Heidegger's concept of someone moving and integrating
into a different culture: to be honest, the country i was born
in was uniquely pressed to turn its habitants into nomads -
      it was a town primarily based on the steel industry -
now it's a town of pensioners - the steel industry fell to ruin
and people had either the choice of: elsewhere in Poland,
or abroad.
                                    still, things were much nicer
   when the barrier was up... selfishly said? i agree, but then
i had enough air to breathe as a sole artefact of the ethnicity,
and a good enough reputation as a person needing to
persistently learn... had i been a crook? well, now i find
my ethnic background elsewhere, in a near mythical place
in Scandinavia - not that i want to, but i don't actually
have an atypical (a typical) physiognomy of a Slav -
so that's a plus...
                                     but what really spurred me on
was what Heidegger describes as the threshold and indeed
the essence of integration: to learn the language,
to use the language, nothing but language in terms of
being considered a certain noun - in this case, British;
so this is a German perspective from the 20th century...
the British perspective in the 21st century?
                         kinda like **** Germany...
language? forget it... you can speak with a ****** accent
and even ******* grammar... what's at work here
is ethnic cleansing, on a spiritual side of things -
language can rot in hell for the English, what they want
new citizens is to: a. eat fish 'n' chips
                                  b. talk ***** when *******
                         c. lick the **** of Americans
          d. have a sense of moral superiority because of
                    that poncy accent that's becoming a dodo
       e1. forget their mother tongue
         e2. only speak English in private
                            f. respect the Muslim attire but
        to never respect fellow European's concerned
                           about many other things
      g. amongst other things...
so it's not enough to learn the ******* language, that i have to
become a ******* serf? oh wait, i have some spare change
in my pocket (puts hand in a trouser pocket and takes out):
the *******!
                                  or how you find yourself
in an imploded British Empire, go beyond London and you
enter something less resembling a global community
and more a national socialist set of self-evident dicta
wrecking havoc to your senses.
                              and all this from a humble background?
well: freaks and mutations sometimes happen...
                    being born near to the date of Chernobyl doesn't
really help to counter the argument:
           yes, even in Poland, the effects were felt,
my great-grandmother remembers streaks of radiated trees
and un-radiated trees in the park -
        the radiated trees were born... a strange kind of rainbow...
and yes, i do take the **** out of **** Germany
while talking about it and Jewish mysticism -
                                Malachi the arch-heretic (who introduced
a polytheistic concept that does not fit in with monotheism:
reincarnation) -
                            oh look:      something came out of this
conviction that told me to duly apologise to the concept
of the two late monotheistic religions:
                             on your own, can't be bothered -
Christianity was always going to be more image orientated
(after all, the crucifixion is a good enough image)
   and Islam was always going to be more word orientated
(something to shout about, actually, to just shout it) -
the Judaism i found?
                              not being circumcised and what not,
not adhering to the religion as such?
  the lord of the rings and harry potter...
simple... how?
                               please make oaths, swear, use profane
language... maybe that will make your actions less profane
and this isn't 19th century Victorian society event where
people talk polite but play ***** according to the escapades
of Dorian Gray...
                              i'm still adamant that auto-censorship
of a name (the name, i.e. ha-shem) does wonders for your
vocabulary - oath, **** **** ****, words are actually:
                or conjunctions, and this means you can use them
to destroy the barricades of fluidity -
                                 do we really need to say certain names?
Islam says the name all the ****** time,
        Christianity doesn't even know the name of the father:
Jules?                      Jason?                Jeremiah?
                                           can't be Yves...
                   and did 1st century fishermen write?
wasn't that a rebellion against the literate Pharisees etc.?
             so it's pretty much like the harry potter / lord of the rings
rule: Sauron
                       designates the tetragrammaton
   and the necromancer designates ha-shem...
                                                or...
         Voldemort designates (as above)
              and tom-riddle                   blah blah...
oh i have actually washed my hands clean of two most
populous religions in the world -
                            i can't believe that so many people can be
right about something,
                                    would i desire to argue to this
to the grave? not really, i prefer to look at it as a chance fancy,
my real concerns are based upon the question:
   why would bilingualism, ever, be treated as a case
of schizophrenia?
                                           perhaps the language is too
difficult to follow, perhaps i'm reciting a poem by
                           half caste by john agard -
but this **** isn't skin deep, i can't blow the sax in a liberating
transcendence of slavery, or do that other form of
rebellion -
                    &nb
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
Business the Guinness
of records
Of the
Drunkin drivers
The presidential
audience all
together

We love one
white or dark lie
conifers thinking like
the Beatle song
I'm a loser
having respect for
yourself be the defeated
M-L-M morons, losers,
So nice you are linked
into my millionaires
The marketing scam
You will be broke
Those 69 lovers to
be ******
off shorter life
just smoke  PM
ATM money goes
pop the weasel
painting it dark
drunk
wearing your
heart out on the easel

Not for sale dancers
need exotic drink taking off
their Drunk Zen shirts
Chirp that Chippendale
dance her out
Until she is drunk
Drunk Zen Rocker
of punk

So ***** light thinker side
Phone drinker fantasize
about the trip
Link me on my
mountaintop- stamp
collection glue-stick
philatelic reinvention

Doing my exercise why so
Absentminded
Wow such beauty Judy
sunrise recent
memory-guided
What meeting my heart all
depends to remember
September but October
November Drunk Zen
Thanksgiving food
with crying pillows
Quite the Yam and
marshmallows
before I was drunk

The new navy blouse said
I'm not drunk abbreviated
Inebriated linked-in
private club
Like an initiation or
Sorority only drunk
I'm not sorry invitation

Drunk Club Zen
adventurous men
The hair club Oh! no
shipwrecked
He got her by her
drunk-in neck

The Mediterranean
Going French Canne
Itsy bitsy tipsy bikini
The monk was like
the morning hot flame
Glitch or twitch of the nose
Jeannie
What a Red-Robin Rooster
making

Kevin Bacon lovers
Melted cheese and him
couldn't hold his sneeze
The Bed and breakfast
This wasn't Hamlet
or Camelot just
drunken Dunkin donut
drive-in
For God's sake
(O) outstanding omelet
 drunken sea of eleven
Steven Universe
Glick Pearl chick
Email one universe click
Linked deep-sea hoarder
of junk
At her summer house
Strawberry wild hair he was
drunk forever Irish lad
Like the pub in
London Abby lane

Nancy Drew mystery
tour Zen men pour
In Georgia stays in her
mind what would it be
without nature, we need
air the water the sound

The trees grow in Brooklyn
Robin me birds spoke in
Those hubs on the go
In there Mercedes
having yogurt? Their drunk__

Drunk Zen be brave not
to be hurt his head cocked
A million in none
cars parked
The cheer was in beer the
lover of darkness
sky malt drunk
They were bushy eyed
with a  drunken masseuse
Drunk Zen was having sweet
tooth French kiss mouse  

Hands numb she is falling
over her  tweets of words
So jibberish dumb what
******* but silence
That number lottery Freddy
Halloween what Diva Queen
13 shots
High school drop out

Guilty ever Greek
to ever think cop out
Spiritual caller like the
winding road babes of pigs
in a blanket the helicopter
Head spinner Eifel Tower
Frenc kiss got plugged
drunk never a hug

Hangover flower mugs
The Drunk-Apple* of his eye
computer the Zen dogs'
Alaskan Husky Buddhism
Shiba Uni from Japan
They got the realism

Heavy rain tents you walk
out on me
Woodstock Jefferson Airplane
Or those Cocker Spaniels
Elton John with Daniel

The adoption they were crazed
with high tech gadgets
The adopters named Danny boy
Zoolander commander was drunk
I wasn't really drinking you have
a brain of a sieve

Man, water, the green earth just live
Like the four-leaf clover hey
this isn't over
(The Planet) or her
drunken eyes who wins
I could see a glimpse of
garnet Oh! **** it like
a dragnet or the Zen
The Roobus tea faraway
thought
In Ireland hilly garden

Men with ladies cat milk
purr Kate Perry
Linked into the
materialistic Madonna
lady of silk he's the
hangover she
gave him her soy milk
what a guy
The pry coexisting to
ever think to pray

The super lady drink
never thinking blue
that he ever existed
Not remembering who you're
with he was on the
wanted list
Linked In the army
green wearing
a tank top bullets firing
in his chapel getting
married in his tank
Blue uniform acting
drunk

Disguised as a cop
My acting role for
both like Darth
And hey we are
not drunk!!
In the name of a
drunken love
Before I was drunk

My higher flight parachute
twenty-two jump street right fit
yourself as oneself linked
onto the mountain
the Ancient spiritual awareness
Grecian  love fountain harness
Maybe a lonely shot
of darkness
Maybe a lovely shot
of wellness
Linked into so many things do you feel pressured or you have an acting role but you better be drunk Ay Vey just pray when you show up don't give up we are all friends in the same boat. Let us sail away or no let's show the world what we really need to say
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i tried to assimilate, oh wait, i did, and i speak better native sprechen than the actual natives, and for that? you get the boot, because some camel jockey egyptian mongrel mixed with iranian blood gets the better of you... i guess the "natives" were fans of the eastern european *******, but not the eastern european males, **** it, i'm coming for the ride; can just see the ****** shouting: ooh ooh! their male counterparts are a'coming! and next thing you know, i'll be asking you to play the ******* banjo, with a toothpick!*

and it was always going to be torrential rain,
suspended in a prelude crescendo
of soulfly's song prophecy...
oh all the hoes come from eastern europe,
just like all didlo moulds come from africa,
gotta perfect that "pleasing of the white
******* honey cougar in plastic too, yo, bro..."
black people don't speak the current
lexicon, they are hyper-evolutionary
with their slang impromptus,
gets annoying after a while,
when you stop keeping track of their
ghettosprechen...
      ******* could have said custard,
meant margarine, but i'd still think of
jungle...
                     ghetto *****, get-a-go!
next time you mention all women of
eastern europe as ******, i'll mention
you in my charcoal wish-yo-were-edible
roasts... **** me... i'd prefer eating a leg
of lamb than a ******; shank.
oh, the word offends you,
but doesn't offend you in a rap limerick?
i.e. ***** ***** bab bab *****?
black people invent too much slang,
too much degenerate use of language,
      i try to keep it straight and universal,
off the orangutans go, talking orange is
the new black...
           i still find it hard to fathom
darwinism, who would be mad to begin
in africa, and end up in the arctic circle,
and no china?! common origins *******...
  tried looking for an eskimo in china,
all i found was, a ******* icecube!
      post-existentialism does exists,
it exists in the form of anglo-existentialism,
i.e. a darwinistic blackmailing...
    21st century existentialism is blackmail,
plain dumb & simple...
   and yes, i have a girlfriend, i call her...
sophia...
       and nietzsche was right:
the ugliest of the ugliest? atheists,
intellectually speaking.
       and why would you ever consider
the pristine sophia / ****** mary if not considering
aspasia, phryne, rahab, theodora,
   to counter philosophy,
   why not craft a:
    philospasy, a philophryny,
       a philorahabu, a philothedorum?
guess what, of the most famous prostitutes,
the contestants are philorahabu,
                     and philothedorum,
and all are famous prostitutes;
then the pristine sophia, my "girlfriend";
philosophy has a deity, that although
deemed pristine, has been touched by
many hands, and many strangleholds of ego,
time to turn this princess into a *****;
and the ones that visited a *******,
will look at those that haven't with curious
eyes.
let's not forget the siamese twin prostitutes
safa & marwa, and the matriarch
and true founder of islam ha-gar -
      the concubine of abraham,
  that ******* mother of islam.... hagar...
you really think men invented the islamic
attire for women?
              who's at the chanel catwalk,
straight men, or gays and women?
       you blame anyone, you blame: hagar...
running between the mounts safa & marwa...
islam, that totalitarian reinvention of
"repentant" / "revised" mode of prostitution...
and as i once overheard an englishman speak,
the niqab? satan's postbox.
- the craft began with treating the world as
solely inanimate, to make it as inanimate as
possible, and interact in it,
   as the sole animate agent, obviously with
the obvious hurdles of animate expressions,
nonetheless, these expressions being
outside the vicinity of integrated animate
actors, working around in inanimate surroundings,
conclusively,
  the "supposed" animate expression regain
their inanimate stratum by a repeatedly
predictable observation of
a prior re similis ad infinitum
  (prior to, again, similar toward infinity).
the point was always to make the world
as inanimate as possible,
    collecting books is a starter,
  collecting cooking utensils another,
the point being, to surround yourself with as
much inanimate reality, as to prove yourself
the animate, the "actor"...
             or more expressively: the puppeteer...
it still bothers me, grinding two prefixes...
the penta-      vs.        the tetra-...
   why? well, we are embodied with five sense,
but there are only four elements...

    vision
audition
gustation                       yes, but there's only
  olfaction
     somatosensation

                    air, fire, earth, water...
      this is almost gagging a schematic,
  we can see fire, earth and water,
  we can hear fire, air, water and earth,
      we can taste...
      we can smell fire, air, water, earth,
we can touch fire, water, earth...

this, by the way is crude...
   and is limited by not adding particular
observations...
   but the ratio 5:4 is in place, akin to
the mad hatter's 10/6 = 0.666...
         and that missing one is: ad infinitum,
might as well call it the lazy eight with 4:5...
since the elements came prior to the senses.

i'm guessing the "fifth element" to compliment
the five senses is a far greater posit than
a sixth sense, in that, this "fifth element"
is a plagiarism of kierkegaard,
  i.e. the "changelessness of god",
namely the eternally immovable object,
an object of constantly perpetuated friction,
so stationary that it moves all things,
which also precipitates into an eternally
recurrent subject matter,
immovable, ergo, inexhaustible.

- and i will die believing that anglo-existentialism
is an argument from the perspective
of blackmail, esp. since it's overtly-repetitive
and unoriginal,
  and if the english found continental
existentialism boring, a continental european
like myself, will find some hidden interest
in this "boring" artefact of time,
   but nothing can redeem repetition,
not even a boring artefact of writing,
   since when reading a boring "effort" of
writing, you can actually wake up,
and yawn...
  but when the same "effort" is repetitive,
you never get a chance to yawn,
you're still asleep, "apparently" enthralled.

- and to give a conclusion...
if an irishman thinks you write akin to
the psychiatric slang of "word salad",
ask him if he has read any james joyce,
if the answer is no, and he replies that he prefers
video game narratives, and has ambitions of
writing a book citing the cliche moonlight sonata
of beethoven... it's one of those times
you can't even laugh, internally, or externally.

- eventuality vs. actuality -
whereby actuality is a reactionary stance
that drags past events into present and future
events...
   whereby eventuality is a liberal stance
that drags past events into a wall,
   the present into a status quo,
  and the future into a snooze button phase
of a clockwork orange.

- no, i don't like this darwinistic blackmail of
continental existentialism,
  this monochromatic monolith...

- better start calling philosophy by its proper name,
philorahabu / philothedorum
(were not underlined on the pixel canvas,
thereby bypassing the oxford dictionary panel
for nuo-verbum acceptance) -
      keep that ****** of yours sophia
in a cage, because your thinking,
like your body, will become contaminated;
but one thing is for sure,
that concubine hagar running between
safa & marwa looking for water...
    can't imagine any other grander matriarch...
a reformed *** slave, who gave birth
to the niqab...
            i really can't imagine jannah
that way... i think it looks like:
1 man + 72 prostitutes,
              and 1 woman + 3 holes stuffed.
Evie Hammond Jul 2015
Hunched, gorging on the pain of others
Innocents, betrayed by acts so like your own
For what? Some twisted pleasure?
Denial? Or simply masquerade?
Foul incubus, disguised by pilfered light
An electronic reinvention of your tale
Wallowing, greedily perusing torment caused by proxies
Judas! Betrayer of the Light!
You'll be unmasked
And truth laid bare for all to see
Trolls. Many kinds. Why do they do it? An age old problem. Nothing new. This focuses  on a certain kind of troll. The fake friend. The abuser who pretends to counsel the abused, the thief who pretends to be a benefactor. You know the sort.
judy smith Jul 2016
Valentino has its red, Versace its Medusa logo, Chanel the tweed that lines dresses and jackets and handbags each season. In the fashion world, these nuances of texture and color, in conjunction with shape, are what help define a brand's identity, what ultimately makes them feel familiar to consumers; they are fashion's version of DNA. Designers carving out their place within the industry will often land on their own set of signatures that are built upon with each new collection—but Patric DiCaprio, the 26-year-old designer of Vaquera, isn't interested in "buy-ability" or recognizable traits. "We are obsessed with keeping people guessing" he says. "We want that to be our thing."

In the three seasons since launching the New York-based brand, DiCaprio has infused Fashion Week with the sort of Dionysian energy once felt at early John Galliano shows. For his Summer/Spring 2016 show, staged at the Church of the Ascension in Greenwich Village, models walked the aisle to the Smashing Pumpkins in baptismal baby-doll dresses and ruffled bloomers, with DiCaprio's boyfriend closing the show in a wedding gown. In February, with new partners David Moses and Bryn Taubensee on board, a debaucherous cast of models dressed in Victorian-meets-club looks danced, lifted their skirts and put their cigarettes out in audience member's drinks at the China Chalet venue in the Financial District.

"Vaquera is about constant reinvention," DiCaprio says of his no-guts-no-glory ethos. "It's about the future; the future of style and clothes, but not in the cliche of futuristic spandex and metallics."

Much like his collections, the designer's path in fashion has been far from linear. Born and raised in Alabama, DiCaprio attended a private Christian school before studying photography at a public university in the South. An internship with DIS Magazine offered him a crash course in art direction and styling, and the opportunity to draw creative fuel from New York—a city that has very much proven to be his creative elixir.

"I felt like I had been underwhelmed for my whole life," says DiCaprio, who moved to the city five years ago and taught himself to sew through YouTube tutorials. "When I first came to New York it felt like I had finally gotten my head above the water and had oxygen for the first time. This place was overwhelming in the best way." DiCaprio spoke with PAPER about his creative approach, his unconventional path to fashion and his idolization of David Bowie.

What sparked your interest in fashion?

I think it's always been about clothes for me. When I was in middle school and high school I was always in bands. I was obsessed with Screamo and David Bowie—the groups that had such strong visual aspects to their work. But I think part of me always felt like I was doing that so I could assume the look. Screamo bands would let me wear the size zero, ultra-stretch white jean. With David Bowie, I wanted to wear the gold eyeshadow; it was always about the look.

How did studying photography lead you to fashion design?

My school was very focused on the craft—the dark room and perfect exposure—but I think I was on the opposite end, I was interested in what was happening in the photo. I left college to do an internship with DIS Magazine and because they're involved in so many creative avenues like photography and styling and art and video, I was able to get a realistic vision of things. The experience [with DIS] made me realize I was less interested in photography and more interested in creating these characters.

When school ended, I moved to New York and and worked with DIS again and then with VFiles in [the archives department]. I'd go through old issues of ID and Paper and Dazed and it taught me a lot about fashion history. I had been removed from all of that when I was growing up, there was no Chanel store in Alabama, there was no Dazed And Confused at the Barnes and Noble in Alabama. Coming to New York I was able to get my hands on the clothes and study these old magazines.

How did you get that initial internship though?

I'm obsessed with Tumblr. I got on it more than eight years ago, and it was a huge part of helping me reach out to people. People that I'm still friends with now—Hari Nef and Juliana Huxtable—I met through Tumblr; they moved to New York before me and motivated me to do the same. So I emailed the team at DIS, and asked if I could show them my photography portfolio—which sounds so funny to say now—and they offered to show me the ropes. They hooked me up with Avena Gallagher, who is an inspiration and has taught me everything I know about styling.

About two years ago I started working for her and became obsessed with styling. I styled Charli XCX for a year—and it was exciting, definitely closer to what I wanted to do but it wasn't exactly it. I wanted to pull specific things—1980's Issey Miyake, but there was no way a no-name stylist like me would be able to get my hands on it. So I bought a sewing machine and started sewing the things I wanted for photo shoots. Vaquera started as an art project that wasn't about wearing the clothes or making something for Opening Ceremony—it was about making clothes that I could then shoot. The final product was the look book.

What made you decide on the name Vaquera?

A few different reasons. I was reading a book by Tom Robbins called Even Cowgirls Get The Blues and it was really informative for me at the time. I was also working in a kitchen as an expediter with a bunch of Mexican line cooks and they had a lot of pet names for me, like "el pato" which is gay slang for f—got, and "little baby doll." They knew I was from the South so they'd call me "La Vaquera" because that's Spanish for cowgirl—even though cowgirls aren't Alabama, it's more of a Texas thing. So I just called the project Vaquera. It seems so arbitrary now, I'm stuck with it for better or worse.

What's been one of the challenges of keeping things future-focused?

I've had criticism from people that it's such a bad business model to reinvent yourself each season, that no one's going to know what to expect from you. Buyers are going to be confused, you're never going to make any money. And I've just been like, "Well, I think we don't have any interest in that." We are obsessed with keeping people guessing—we want that to be our thing. I try my best to keep it a secret until the day of the show and then just let loose.

So we're going to assume you won't be giving any clues about next season's show.

Oh my god, i don't want to give it away! I think people want to see billowy-sleeves but that's out the door. We're doing something completely different. Romantic but a whole different definition of romance.

How has working with David and Bryne changed things for you and the brand?

Last season it was like a whole new brand. We came together through Avena and it feels like we're progressing, which is exciting. I got sick of doing everything alone. For the Spring show I sewed everything, produced it myself, got the location, cast it myself.

And did you collapse after the show ended?

It was a serious problem, it became impossible. I realized I was either going to have to plateau so I could get my life together or I was going to have to find a way to expand the vision. I trust Bryne and David with my life and they understand my vision but have their own ideas. It was a necessary change.

So many designers have expressed concern about the relentless pace of the industry recently.

All these different seasons—pre-fall, couture, designers showing things that are going to be available for purchase the day after the show. That's so scary for people like us who are on our hands and knees in the living room cutting the clothes and can barely get them made in time for the show.

Do you want to stay independent? What are the benefits and detriments, in your opinion?

I think we want to stay independent. I want to make money but I don't want to feel pressure to do certain things. I'm already so sick of that show we just did—already on to the next one. It's like with Demna Gvasalia getting the Balenciaga job: I was so disappointed to see him doing the same thing he did at Vetements at Balenciaga, but then I realized, with all the money that's involved and when you're working with these huge offers, there's contracts. Money complicates things in a way that I think can hurt people's creativity. Maybe you'll make a lot of money for a few years, but you might forget how to make exciting things because you're stuck with the designs that worked well one time. I want to make money, but we want to find different ways of doing it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Cyrus Gold May 2016
Feelin’ like a new model keepin’ thoughts in a safe
Nothin’ but new beginnings while maintainin’ the faith
Of better days ahead, walkin’ away instead
The world on my shoulders while walkin’ on eggshells

Difficult steps lead to redemption, no need for attention
Dowsin’ my sorrows in drinks with a fear of reinvention
Weakened souls lackin’ ambition – ones that we attend to
Distracted by the means to makin’ profit

Pharaohs and kings reach Ozymandias
Castle of the manliest reduced to rubble
Inspiration's a privilege, the uninitiated struggle
Lookin’ to the stars closer to Mercury

Celebrating longer than a single anniversary
Build the padlocked building blocks of the brain, preventin’ burglary
Intellect protection needs remedial advancement
Followin' the lessons and morals of real testaments

Crimson waters divided by Moses, halving the sea
Aidin’ people across, the shepherd leadin’ the sheep
Heated cycle of violence by disciples
De-escalated by the sacred teachings of the bible

Able to color-code their understandin’ with a cipher
Gifted in nature, minus robotics turnin’ sentient

WE MARCH!
Hand-in-hand in unison! A unit full of sin
But we protect the world from Judases,
Our doubts are in the wind

A state of peace we feel the crew is in
The rest will follow soon,
Our inner voice of hate is ludicrous
It sings a hollow tune.

Leavin' this place without askin' just where the exit is,
Keep a steady pace as we're headin' right into exodus.


Lessons are taught to help you rise from the fall,
Nirvana awaitin' – you better answer the call.
One of my personal favorites. Written at a time when I needed divine inspiration.
Julian Jul 2020
A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor
seems i have reinvented

everything quieter than before.

wet autumn days or is it winter,

the change comes

gradually.

i dreamed a cloud of

falling leaves, awake to find it is so.

it is so very quiet here today.

sbm.
Delta Swingline Apr 2017
Sidenote: I highly recommend listening to these songs/watching the musical, it is amazing.

Example:
Song title: Lyrics *My thoughts/feelings


Anybody Have A Map?:

Anybody maybe happen to know how the hell to do this?*  
I'm in this confusion so deep that I can't find a way out.
I'm flying blind, and I'm making this up as I go.
Ha. Me too.

Waving Through a Window:

Step out, step out of the sun if you keep getting burned.
I've been burning forever.
Waving through a window!
Put your soul into this song.

For Forever:

We share.
Together.
All we see is sky for forever.
An ecstasy I do not know.
All we see is light, 'cause the sun burns bright!
Shouting hallelujah from here.
Life will be alright for forever this way.
I hope so.

Sincerely, Me:

All that it takes is a little reinvention!
I need that.
All you gotta do, is just believe you can be who you wanna be.
Just believing right?
Sincerely, ME!
Yep.

Requiem:

I will sing no requiem.
Neither will I.
I gave you the world, you threw it away. Leaving these broken pieces behind you.
I know.
Everything wasted, nothing to say.
I know.
Within these words I finally find you.
The words are not mine.
Now that I know that you are still here.
I am?

If I Could Tell Her:

But he kept it all inside his head, what he saw, he left unsaid.
Secrets work wonders do they not?
If I could tell her, tell her everything I see. If I could tell her how she's everything to me. But we're a million worlds apart... And I don't know how I would even start.
How do we begin to say the words?...

Disappear:

No one deserves to be forgotten. No one deserves to fade away.
Nobody.
No one should come and go, and have no one know he was ever even here.
I'll make sure of it.

You Will Be Found:

Well, let that lonely feeling... wash away.
I should let the weight drop from my shoulders.

To Break In A Glove:

And a little uphill climb.
Just more work.
For a kid who's lost control.
I'm just trying to make sense of it all.

Only Us:

Try to quiet the noises in your head. We can't compete with all that.
No we can't. But we try.

Good For You:

And you say what you need to say, so that you get to walk away.
Everyday.
I hope that it's all that you want and more.
I'm not proud.
And you play who you need to play.
I did.
JUST LET ME OUT!
I am not okay.

Words Fail:

I never thought that it would go this far.
I really didn't.
So I just stand here sorry. Searching for something to say.
I am still searching.
There's nothing I can say.
There really isn't.
Words fail.
They do.
That's a worthy explanation, I know. Nothing can make sense of all these things I've done.
I wish I could make it up to you.
So how do I step in...

Step into the sun?

I wish I knew how...

So Big/So Small:

And I knew I'd come up short a million different ways.
And I did.
And I do.
And I will.
And I will... I already have...

Finale:

Today is going to be a good day, and here's why:
Because today, at least you're you and that's enough...
That's enough.

All I see is sky for forever...

Curtains close.

I'm going home.

Yeah... I'm going home.
This constant playlist.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
a google-whack for the ultimate news reel: #jigo'hudami.

and not another Shakespeare to come, #blues,
and not another Milton to come, #blues,
and not another Beckett to come, #blues,
an not another unforced Bukowski to come, #blues,
and not another papa Ginsberg to come, #blues,
and not another fusion of poetry and jazz, #blues -
not another, the lost interest in jazz,
the it's been done, and only in America, #blues -
and not another Dostoyevsky to come, #blues,
and no one is digging digital trenches like at Ypres
             capitalising on the gambling of
giving it all, even if it means giving it for nothing
imagining daymares of homelessness, #blues -
and no more fusion worked from the stale juggernauts
of voice in the wilderness, or voice among aghast silence -
and no one is writing intoxicated odes in a Dionysian
woodland shade naked or at least half naked - #blues,
and no one new knows how having voyeuristic eyes
not looking at your poetry on the internet feels like,
before the broadband hyper super hyper mega tron
optic wires before the ancient tee p p **** dial to
connect - rotary dial telephones and aesthetic patience -
dial-a-meaning now, collect, appropriate, discard -
super-communicative efficiency like the Chinese
but in lesser number - lesser number - a moment to
unwind - choose a graphic for the front-cover -
Dali? really? quote: morbid and dark and a surrealist?
surrealists wrote their poetry at the beginning of the
20th century - again, what a treat, cook up a 21st century
manifesto - overshoot the mark - the macabre non-Gothic,
and so no angel with a sword near the chapel entrance
but a gargoyle - a gargantuan bore - agreed...
and not another william blake to come, #blues,
and not another richard brautigan to come, #blues,
dual citizen of the world - from one underworld to another,
Morse code typescript, or telegram poetry -
poetry telegramic - the reinvention of the cut-up technique,
but less paper clippings of single words shoved in
a hat like someone about to wear latex gloves and write
a ransom letter - telegramic poetry - the cut up is more
linear, less word from newspapers cut and then picked
at random, hoping for the big winner - conscious of
the river course - telegram! - opening page from
l'Étranger (e.g.):
mother died - - - - - - - telegram - - - - - - - at Marengo - - -
2 days leave - - - - - absurd already, apologies for death -
- - - - - (yes, a reader, not the narrator, and not - - - - - - - -
explicitly like a telegram) - - - - (self-explanatory auto-) -
- exactly, at every turn some excuse, but what a grand
excuse, god's turn, excuses after the fashionable 15 minutes -
nothing prior - - - - lunch at Céleste’s restaurant - - - - -
starting to look anti-autobigraphical (i.e. written much too
late, not day-by-day, *Kronos
Witold Gombrowicz) - - -
calls Emmanuel to be lent a black tie - - - joke, karate - -
not so funny - - - d'uh, belt - - - mourning band - - - - - - -
with a white ******* rotated 45° from that famous
re-interpretation - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - good something -
running for the bus - - - soldier's shoulder, sleep - - - - -
warden absent, waiting with a chatty doorman - - - - - - - -.
well it could work -this telegram style, it's the easiest style
to read, the Nova Express proves it, the Soft Machine
proves it, Naked Lunch proves it - the incoherent distraction,
well, coherently incoherent - sometimes you want to
see a tornado rather than an open stretch of road in a desert -
a ****** tornado - whirling and whirling with Loki
playing a flute - and something about the great milkman
being choked by a marshmallow monster in the sky -
or, of course, with the sensible people - an Ikea assembly
manual for a chair - with one but the most crucial ***** missing:
metaphor for the 10% books, that's 10% in, 20% up on sales
of audiobooks - hyper-readers, ages: 18-24 - 24-35 (21%) -
and then thick mud ahead, an opera of yawns and a gym
membership one tier above the no-fun zone of sometimes
an index wet and a judo flick of the page - or any other
comparison - but on the plus - and not another Walt Whitman
to come - #bangersandmash, and not another Pound
to come - #blues - in with the pretentious you say out
with the feral? maybe... maybe not - but all of this for only
one sentence: to be nervous over ethnicity and vocabulary -
shouldn't exist - to pursue active censorship of a person's
vocabulary is to undermine them completely -
when corporations copyright words because they're logos
i can understand - but people copyright words something's
obviously wrong, somehow i imagine corporate influence
at having taught this lesson - it should exist - or... in what tone?
but already, people what inoffensive and frail - they
want cushions but don't want stones - and it's every single
time - where once words flowed freely no words stumble
against everyone being politicised - it's hard to do your job
these days, whatever it might be - some would say once
the figurehead a throng of courtesans and you knew of importance,
you were so far away from the seat of power you enjoyed
one sq. mile rather than daydreaming about if you ruled
the world - cost-effective inefficiency of politics -
life? unaffected - and it's not even some glorious technique
behind it - the same children that lied have simply
learned to evolve lying into negation - ah, whatever, #blues,
#Rakı.
K Balachandran Apr 2017
You are cyclic like
the change of seasons
in your reinvention;
robust is your passion,
a mountain brook
that embraces hills
plains, fields and ravines
without any restriction.

Instantly you would imbibe
any message, air, wind or water
sends through flashes of intimations,
nature's child you are, a woman
in sync with the moon in your veins
and the sun that seeks you from my *****.

I only follow the music your heart strings play
that in my psyche resonates, every moment,
it makes easy navigation in this planet my right.

You and I  move through the waves rowing
shoulder to shoulder, singing spiritedly barcaroles.
The feminine in me is under your tender care,
I let my masculine self be in communion with yours,
all merging in harmoniously, resulting in  only ONE.
To the Half man-half woman  in you, with love..
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
.and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...


high-brow my ***...
         because iron maiden's phantom
of the opera... did... does... predate...
andrew webber's stab...
                 hard rock 'ammer...
       as in... a paul di'anno bitchboy
                 scant-gimpwhore fan... etc.
the castrato operatics... later...
n'ah...               but that's oh so much
an origins story...
                    and hardly the evolution...

- that the phantom of the opera stands on
a skeleton of three songs...
revised...                morphing...

perhaps not, not that they are songs...
i'd have to sharpen my scalpel for
attempting the smithy deeds on words...

a skeleton of three themes...
       thus noted:

               "angel of music"
            "phantom of the opera"
    and... last but not least:
                     "masquerade"...

what a day... or what wasn't expected...
no one ever told me that:
a musical per se... differs so much from
a musical: for the stage...

by musical...
                 i'd be shaking to conjure up...
the screen musicals of a west side story...
etc. -

            and one can easily so tire of
this trap...

  and what of the internal jokes?
jokes at the expense of the opera...
              - poor fool, he makes me laugh
       - hannibal...
quite the jokes...
   having to draw the blood from
the mundane talk elevated to an operatic
context of song...

that a musical is... somehow...
when opera can be reduced to talk...
and can be thus reduced to:
the joker in a hand of poker...
   a whimsical little card...

the 25th anniversery of the phantom
at the royal opera house...
one can somehow forgive the electronic
attaches of the overture...
whether the electric guitar of the drum
machine...

   like one can forgive:
                 nirvana's unplugged...
at the end though...
   even andrew webber looks perplexed /
nervous... how did we get away with this?
i don't know:
the only style of genre that...
actually requires a stage and props...
and ample volume of space!
a theatre: since otherwise...
opera: pure technique...
                and prop minimalism...

and...

because can a musical: not require a stage?
does it indeed feed too many images
that need to be attired with quacks...
with feathers... with leather boots and chandeliers?!

now i'll toast! i'll toast to a new reason
to go down the alleys of ah bit tipsy:
itsy bitsy sniffing a bottle neck...
bloated from a champagne cork pop!

truly... if only the stage...
   that allowance to perform a performance
a need to perfect: always never:
the editor in charge...
   all those out-takes left to what life is
left behind the curtain...

     the musical of the movies of h'america...
whatever they might be...
to name but a few would be best...
           and if i didn't first see the phatom
on a television screen...
but in its natural environment:
with the volume of required air...
     i wouldn't have been able to choke
my tears...

and i have seen the theatre
and i have seen the opera
and the ballet...
                            i sometimes...
"sometimes": wearisome...
try to forget the maggot pit of phelgm,
sweat and ***** of a rock concert...
        of all the mediums...
         this jumbled up swedish table platter...
what a cocktail of a rollercoaster!

i could forever take off my garments
of jealousy: of which there's that pitiable
affair of a beard-envy...
                well...
                           well well...

how pristine: they even had a music-box!
in that crude relief of finding
"revisions" and alt. interpretations
of... perhaps it's only a matter of
two themes and that overture?

             and if it's song and dance...
       it's not a candy-smiles and tap-dancing buffet...
it's opera and ballet...
because... it's opera:
                 ha! empty these cupboards!
no one needs to attend an opera
like a foreign language movie:
with subtitles running on a FTSE100
reel above the stage...

                      the musical: is the reinvention
of the opera... a musical is an opera...
with mild added animation of theatre...
and there's a pinch of ballet!

          this will most certainly not translate
into me liking cats... or les misérables...
       this will do...
                   sing-along / sing-through?
and everyone is, suddenly... equipped with
a deciphering ear to translate the over-infuated
vowels of an operatic breath?!

- and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

- but if someone would tell you...
a musical... west side story? yes?
     i'm pretty sure it would be all about:
singin' in the rain... fair enough...
             but all for that popcorn entertainment...
and the tap-dancing...
and chewing-gum advert smiles...
and all that technicolour dabbling...
and all those heavily bothersome editing
processes... like... the plumbers
most associated with veins and arteries?
sorry: the romanians are picking the fruit
and veg for the next: x-factor star...
the next youtube vlogger breakthrough chart
topper...

blunt and ******* obvious...
      and how has english changed since Dickens?
i made a note of...
because i will not make notes
of what's already passed...
a direct etymological association with a loan,
word...
  not from dutch, german or french...

       SA-LU-BRI-OUS
            (healthy...)

                   PER-EM-PTO-RILY...
         (not being permitted a denial)

that 19th century victorian english that...
just had to loan words directly from
latin... this much of reading Dickens remains
in me... after having just experienced
a blitzkrieg of a musical: proper...

there are still the same old nooks 'n' crannies
for me to find shadows and moths
in...

    because: i am most certainly the one
about to cite: they took away my circuses!
and m'ah bread!
there's no football! well... no football?
goodness me! what are, what are...
the alternatives?!

         opera you can... disregard...
theatre if... movies are your...
ahem... sartre's curiosity with the keyhole...
voyeurism: to exist is to be seen...
but only through a keyhole...
                     which movies aren't, of course!
the editor comes in...
even in the golden age of cinema...
the panoramic view... resembled a stage...
and in the old movies you could
time... the editor taking charge...
and how long it would take for
the actors to forget their lines...

            not that that matters... given...
there's no stage... but the red carpet
of postures and toothpaste adverts...
and paparazzi *** epilepsy from the strobe
glitter ball of the leeches congregating!
not even vultures make such a spectacle!
i saw the same...
then the concrete was layered with enough
frost at night...
the crevices would become impregnated
with diamonds of ice...
every twist of the head would
agitate these sparkles toward imitation
of a flash!

there's a "musical": in the advent of the h'american
sense... and there's: a musical...

- and if you happen to hear a subtle joke
by evelyn waugh in the meantime:
at the better for you...
              what is an encyclopedic "ogling"
within the confines of scrutiny:
that man may forever be attired...
and the genitals just dangling like
champagne flutes without any,
any sort of, scrutiny of...
not having to play the Oedipus!

               here's a fork... here's a donkey...
here's a spoon... here's the Schleswig-Holstein
and its siege of Westerplatte!
here!
   the Schleswig-Holstein tenor of
                           the opera: Westerplatte...
oh joy: a "my" in a "history"...
and none of it an affair that might...
disturb the peaceful lives
of those lived: under the splendour
of a charles II and a handel firework's music
to have to somehow: "put out"!

clearly: i'll be dying from the ******
of all the collective forces of the universe
and gambling and... oopsies...
i am here... and it's not that sort of grey...
pistons assured!
- had i the face of beauty...
beside starring as a tadpole of potential...
a voice with a stage to make outlet with...

- what could ever become of this...
jigsaw puzzling overdue do...
                         the narrative in the classical sense:
hardly what, and what not:
this vector and the in-between
from some mythical (a) toward a journalism,
and weekend opinion pieces...
and all that insomnia riddled "journalism"
of the current year of crux denoted with
a (b)...

               all true: from darwin and the "big bang"...
and of course... time shrinking...
in between... beside carbon dating...
and let us not hear of things speak
for themselves: but ourselves!
untrue! hercules!
untrue! prometheus!
untrue untrue untrue!
but darwin and the ape: nod! gentlemen!
we have proof!
myth or no myth: but a journalistic integrity!
that's enough proof! for today and tomorrow!
and... what's not the fiction that's already
memory?

and what is... this imagination that's...
not a single street witnessed of Paris
in the circa of the year that was... 2004...
or 2006 or 2007...
                      
for the art... and this detail of science that
once upon a time shocked...
now... only comes... burdensome...
a ballet on ice... a shaking of hands with
a shadow... something beside this:
base revision of culture and civilization:
this bogus lopsided quest for:
re-inventing... nothing more... than a zoo!

so little must have happened in the case
of english history...
this hannibal and the mountains...
but what curtain: the great wall of china:
built among the mountains...
ingenious: doubling-up?
  xerxes whipping the waves of the aegean...
the great wall of *****-chewing-wall'ah...
i dare become the new albino...
i dare... and i the next japanese porcelain
frailty...
               many thanks: for the <caugh caugh>...
hooray!

              oh my mother:
the cindarella of nations of europe...
         i seriously can't do much worse than
that cocktail and carboot sale of tchaikovsky's
1812 overture...
   it's an overture!
              
really? the phantom of the opera is because...
of the overture?
last time i heard... prokofiev's lieutenant kijé
(kij - stick... kije... sticks)...
romance... was all a rave! "rave"...
              a nibbling at a crescendo...
    but hardly: then again: a nomad chorus...
a reminiscence... a memory lost: yet foretold...

and if... the anonymous provider...
of the full extent of the carmina burana...
      what if?
        i play... this cliche... this... my most
democratic oath: for the bettering of the voice
that could allow the congregation of
the many! my democratic oath: my quasi:
civic duty... me joining the club of the most
sober bottom's-up! pick'ld-week!

                 such are the affairs... hardly a worthiness
of a frenchman of pander...
or of being so blessed by an island...
when being neighbour of europe...
and easily bound to be found because:
france never too interest in the robot antics
of the scandinavians or what
was ever to be assured by iceland!

thus came the crude: skeleton waiting
to be refined... a peter schteele interlude of:
fancying a giant to a tumble...
i will not satisfy myself with a biography
outside of the realm of immediacy...
how do people write a biography without
the peacock of whim and of what's readily
available? a biography with a past...
automated: futurism... n'est ce pas?

         - i escape for the transcendental relief in
beauty... my own lack...
therefore better neglected: rather than denied...
it's my own that Belzeebub should
****** with maggots and acne synonyms onto
my face...

          i escape for beauty... not... sorry...
pardon my fwench: a ******* conversation
of the paupering sociopathic sort of
a job trotter sordid kin'!
                  if only crocodiles could cry...
they'd be warm-blooded...
and i would be year after year
an oscar nominee for a toast
of best actor at the oscars!

          pity... pity and the subsequent
dumbdrum!
                no! i do not want to guillotine this
affair with the autobiographic as long
as i am drinking and not any champagne
in sight... or... schnapps...
              
i best be off... this is enough frivolity
of the heart for a day's worth!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
back when people worked Saturdays,
and there was a Jewish aroma in the air,
where people had only one day
to recuperate, just before the office jobs,
and the mundane trollop of
Saturdays free, Sundays free -
you'd never believe the things that went
on under the iron curtain: later known
as the iron skirt: oh boy, those girls flew
the nest and established a well-knit
web of deceit and lies, but they were
happy housewives in the end...
the men? if not strong enough: expendable;
i'll see in 2 hours, when you finally decide
that theology is half as harsh as Darwinism,
first you want to hear the rational, rude
and crude, then you defend Disney...
make your mind up!
you wouldn't believe what went on under
that iron skirt... they lived their lives glorifying
the Sabbath... because they knew:
if i have two days off, i'll grow lazy,
and the Chinese will sniff out my laziness
and say: **** yeah! bring in the jobs!
and boy! ye-ha! they managed to bank on a swarm
of herring then the west lost its plot
figuring out history with nostalgia,
or the reinvention of the wheel...
dizzy, yuck: *****... repeat, repeat, repeat...
have you noticed how grey-haired western
leaders become in the anglophile sphere?
give them four years, and after that you can call them
grand daddy'oh...  the Soviets? well, i'm like
one of those Napoleonic fetishists,
i care to mind the whip and the guillotine,
why? because some people are so stupid that
it's complimented in their unruliness -
it does't exactly spell out H A R E M...
it usually spells out G Y M...
there's weightlifting with that plump one over here,
oh yeah, she's the late comer, i guess that's
the rowing machine... etc. etc.,
you jealous? i feel like strangling my cat for excesses
in meows - but do you you really think you'll
converse with a communist party member,
apart from reading Trotsky or Marx and simply
daydreaming? you probably will,
i have a contact, i have heard the reality,
i see it too: he's in his seventies and comfortable
with a pension... the state actually exists in his
comfort zone... most of the pensioners in the west
can start their denial of whether or not the state
exists... well... we know McDonald's exists...
but the state, i.e. England, America? i'd put my bets
on Nike first... the state doesn't actually exist for them...
just recently B.H.S. shut down
and the pensions went down the drain...
i wish i was spreading propaganda on purpose,
as if it was my job... i'm just digesting the facts...
you will never become Red when you haven't spoken
to an old-school Red... no point reading Trotsky and
thinking big when ******... sure... pout and pose
your little socialist escapade, turnip shoved up
a badger's ****... that's how it looks to me...
so you really want to be a communist? you know what
that actually means? i know what it means:
a comfortable retired engineer of a steel industry,
i never chose to be a poet, i was expecting chemist,
but i live in a country hell-bent to create as many
entertainers as possible, i don't mean circus antics,
i mean: bore me to death with karaoke -
they'll get one single out after being the village bicycle,
then they'll write a book, and then the n.h.s. will
collapses: what ever happened to the joys of physical
labour? i knew it once, fair game my health sorta
deteriorated without my wanting it to spiral into writing...
but what i was given i exploited...
and the pitched maxim describing the times we live in?
oddly enough from Charles Manson:
everyone's mad these days...
                            the quarter synagogue...
excuse me while i talk to the secular priest (a psychiatrist)...
weaving the trigonometric snail trail of
doubt, deny, doubt, deny, doubt, deny...
                              and that pretty much sums it up -
oh right, only now you hear the truths...
yeah, in the Soviet era people worked Saturdays,
being an atheistic model, in managed to incorporate
all the good bits of Christianity, Judaism, Islam...
the one day's rest fed it, primarily,
because it secured the fact that people could enjoy life
as plumbers, electricians, etc.,
in the west, the extra day means everyone wants or dreams
to be an artist - i think a falling leaf in autumn is
more entertaining than Liberace on steroids
milking the old ladies while hiding his homosexuality...
but that's me... sure, go ahead, go to your little
therapy sessions in protest on Wall St.,
but don't expect me to be there... you all end up
desecrating the statue of liberty: gagged and showcasing
a ***** rather than a torch...
freedom only goes a certain distance: before it just becomes
someone's bling raging exfoliating plight into extortion
and exploitation...
               so, you think you can be a communist?
looks to me that the Chinese are doing alright -
                             i doubt there's a Mongolian sentiment in
them - mind you, the first Communist society,
as canvas for later implementations of the theory?
Mongolia... that's where it started, Mongolia was
the testing ground... and i do love the fact that Islam
doesn't play along to having interest rates...
                 0% APR and other such jingles...
Communism was only "wrong" undermined because
people mentioned Marx was a Jew...
the western powers at be actually preserved Zionism
and kept Zionism and establishing Israel when,
at the same time, undermining Marxism -
no one really mentions that antisemitism: primarily
because the Egyptians think they're Semites...
i think the Egyptians are the greatest plotters known to
man... it was bad enough giving them Christianity
that emerged as Coptic, it's even worse giving them
Islam... someone should have just given them
Pythagoras or something to dwarf the pyramids in terms
of real-estate know-how... a pyramid, but at the centre
a semi-detached English abode / "castle"...
who the **** would ever stress a need for a brotherhood
or man?! i feel no inclination to eat a meal
with those camel jockeys... real person ****, real personal...
and here they come: the grand defenders of
all of mankind... picking cherries of opinion,
choosing what's to be said, what't to not be said,
subsequently what's to be thought, and what's not
to be thought... and if ever a man from the east
was to be convinced about the superiority of western
values... well, it would have to be via a woman...
but since there aren't any about... he's not convinced at all...
and if an opportunity came that a woman would
come about to teach him the superiority of western
values... he'd simply turn around and say: it's too late.
outside, my
professor lights a pipe beside the daffodils,
and we make small talk about the cigarette butts in the dirt
and the history of natural science.

He travelled south in a small blue wagon,
for no particular reason
except the summers are dry
and the air is silent,

….



inside mould grows on glass
windows, wood rotting damp
dissipates the rain through its splinters
cracked rooms containing muses, alight
with the glow of creation, reinvention

I am taught to eat with chopsticks at a fast food restaurant
each Friday night; I learn
to break them in two before I eat,
dissect myself in certain manners of precision
indulge in cakes with sprinkles
spires
lining streets
the lamps in the evening
dull for flashes of traffic
souls in sachets about to be added
in a hot drink, or instant frappe
we dissolve



into particles
about
the place in
certain manners of precision
break in two before
we indulge
impart
chromosomes collaborate

in the rooms,
in the mage’s quarters
dollar bills are sniffed and sorted
LSD and Ecstasy crossed, contorted
butterflies have patterns in conversations
on their wings, in teacups, sipping Spanish ***

drag my son up a hill to **** him,
in the ash tree foliage, faces in the sky
and ask of grace
deliver me to the divine class of men
what am I if only captive to contagion?

After all, I spread across windows
like mould each hour multiplying
to become sporadic, spatial,
discovering the heart’s variation

insofar as we are variable
asking Sophie, my daughter, to empty
the dishwasher, I pray she wonders
why we have cups
of coins in our pockets
why we ache

atoms
about
the place in
certain manners of precision
break in two before
we indulge
impart
chromosomes collaborate
judy smith Apr 2015
If there was an award for the oddest pairing in fashion, it would go to Jonathan Anderson and Spanish house Loewe. More than a few eyebrows were raised when the designer, who is better known for his conceptual unisex collections and dressing men in cropped tops, was handed the reins to the heritage brand that is all about "luxe" (in other words: conservative) leather goods.

In person, Anderson looks more like an extra from a Saint Laurent runway show than creative director of one of Spain's most treasured possessions. He's dressed in a typical model uniform of white tee and jeans, complete with dark sunglasses and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. A mop of tousled, highlighted blond hair adds to his boyish charm, although he is quick to assert that looks can be deceiving.

"Fashion ultimately imitates life and in life things don't always look good together from the outset," he says. "I know a certain style is good when I feel uncomfortable with it - those looks turn out to be the best. You have to challenge yourself with things you don't like or don't know."

Taking on a brand reinvention is probably one of the biggest challenges the 30-year-old Irish designer has faced in his short but successful career. A former Prada window dresser, he studied menswear at London College of Fashion and launched his eponymous line in 2008 to critical acclaim. He's been nominated for many awards and even collaborated with the likes of Versus.

In 2013 everything changed when LVMH took a minority stake in his label and offered him the role of creative director at Loewe in the hope that he could transform the dormant house into a modern success story along the lines of Givenchy and Céline. The Loewe gig wasn't originally part of the deal but that changed quickly following a covert visit to the Loewe factory.

"Truth is I just fell in love with the people," he says. "I met the master modeller and leather developer, and I thought this brand can be huge. Loewe was never on my radar, but when I went there I could not understand why it had never been articulated in a way that it wasn't global. I questioned if I wanted to do this, but once I started creating a book of ideas, I couldn't stop."

Although Loewe has a network of stores around the world, it was not a brand that many people took notice of (a fact not helped by its unpronounceable name, which for the record is pronounced Lo-Wev-Eh).

So Anderson decided to adopt a more controversial approach to the rebranding. Much like Hedi Slimane at Saint Laurent, he unveiled a fresh new identity, including a sleek new logo designed by graphic duo M/M (Paris) and an eye-catching campaign featuring a selection of vintage Steven Meisel images.

"I did a year of research before I started and realised we had to remove the date and city location from the logo. One of my skills is that I am very marketing directed," he says.

While many creative directors use runway shows as a platform to showcase their vision, Anderson focused first on the fundamentals of the brand and what it does best: leather goods. Soon Loewe's iconic buttery soft leather was transformed into covetable designs such as the best-selling Puzzle Bag, the Colourblock Flamenco Crossbody and a range of minimalist clutches and totes embossed with the discreet new logo.

"There are not many brands in the world that are built up in that way. We have such incredible leather knowledge in hand at Loewe and I had to use that," he says.

Next on his list was adding a more personal element to the brand in the form of culture. Along came various projects, including working with renowned Japanese ceramicist Tomoo Hamada on two exclusive pieces for the Tokyo store, inspired by the brand's DNA. His most recent project, which was unveiled in Hong Kong last week, features prints by British textile artist John Allen, which have appeared on a range of summer essentials, from bags to towels.

"When I was looking at what other brands were offering, none of them really dealt with this culture idea," Anderson says.

That's not to say that ready-to-wear takes a back seat at Loewe. This is an area where Anderson has been most prolific, producing both ready-to-wear and pre-collections for men and women which are shown in Paris.

"Marc Jacobs fundamentally opened up the idea that clothing was needed to articulate leather goods. It came from a moment in the 1990s where he changed our thinking on old houses. I've learned through my lifetime that you need a character to tell a story - a bag cannot be isolated. People need something tangible to hold onto and ready-to-wear creates newness," he says.

There's no doubt that his clothing brings a fresh perspective to the brand. His menswear collections feature everything from slouchy raw-silk tunic and turned-up jeans to knitted palazzo pants, each imbued with his signature androgynous touches. His woman is powerful and dressed boldly in blouson blouses made from patchwork leather and wide-legged trousers.

While many critics have embraced the new Loewe look wholeheartedly, others have not been complimentary, saying that Anderson's work is derivative. Not that Anderson is letting it get to him.

"I had to stop reading what people write. I have to be me. I want the brand to be big, and will do everything to make it happen, but I don't want to change who I fundamentally am. You either like what I say or don't," he says.

"I am bored of the days where we are obsessed with the idea that certain designers owned things. You own nothing. Fashion is not about that. It's about reappropriating things, it's how you edit it."

Like most 21st century designers, Anderson is obsessed with the future and creating a brand that is truly of the moment: he has lofty goals to bring Loewe to the next generation of consumers.

"The idea of relevance is the idea that you can be rejected tomorrow. We live in a culture that moves very fast, so that relevance is short-lived. My biggest goal in the next five years is to get to the point where we will do a show and, the day after, the collection is in store. It means we are designing for the moment that it is going out. That's my dream."Read more here:marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
Pearl Harbour was a righteous act of war... an army attacking an army lazying about like its current affairs program: how to, burn off fat of our "starving" citizens! it, was, a, righteous, act, of, war! what the Americans replied with? equal to the Holocaust... an army so incompetent in warfare it had to attack citizens... because it was so gluttonous when having to consider the man who lost it all and would have nothing to lose when fighting... Kamikaze motto: and from my decapitated head, a blazing serpent of transformed entrails! entwining! entwining! after all: isn't the white man a blank canvas, and in his blank canvas fetish: always choosing what to incorporate and what to plagiarise... white man is but the shadow of the olive skinned ones... or the blemish of coco... well... isn't that what the white girls prescribed with their many voodoo words of feminism, but hardly any care to engaged in household chores? ahoy! hey! ahoy! *****! hit the pulpit! and don't come back! i'm hitting the transgender movement... hard.

the first rule you learn at the Forest Gump club?
                                                     RUN A MILE!
what's the second rule you
learn at the Forest Gump club?
                                                       RUN A MILE!
what's the third rule you
learn at the Forest Gump club?
RUNE A MILE THAT'S THE BREADTH
OF KENTUCKY!
CLUCK-CLUCK-CHEQUERED-CHICK-PEAS!
                   *meow
.
now, i do feel god awful for these
people...
                 but they never felt
sorry for me:
which is why i have the better
joke... and they recite poetry
that simply sounds like: choke choke choke
               and i have a magpie's cackle.
only foxes build up on that...
ginger wolf over...
               ginger wolf! over!
         i could have been paid
my life's service as a marine...
       serving Vietnam singing the song
about Trident submarines:
do you ever feel you're a yellow submarine,
    a yellow submarine,
                a yellow submarine with a nuke
            signed: why not, Jude?
                           they did the French kiss
with the original nuke being air-borne
and the cold war reinvention: keep it under
     ye'er may'tees! ****! starboard!
i say detonating the nuke is en-masse
x-ray...
                                when bone turned into shadow...
no wonder the motto stood:
            they learned to leisurely take the Swiss acid,
they'll gobble the psychiatric rainbow
to keep them in check like they might
gobble down news and vitamins.
           as long as the blond-quiff-ferret wins;
i'm happy... oh look at that...
                       the Peruvian Putin had a twinkle
in his eye:
                       Comrade Pablo, no, the other
Picasso... the Escobar... oh sure, sure,
he did cubism... cubic ounces of *******
  and twice the red period fascination...
                great, when you consider
the autobiography of god, and humanity
                 as sole Pilate of its macabre reasoning:
           let god write the biography: we're clean!
                clean as **** in a diaper
or ***** in a ******... both mention the cul...
   de... sac
                      did i mention
the tourists... i have a great stage presence:
i get to thespian manic episodes of people who
hide them...
                      but wouldn't setting off a nuke
do that to you, ad your future generations?
                 ****** got gassed...
what American or any other human being
experienced such flash of insubordinate genius?
                            h'alo! vel-kom
to zee only nicht of the worthy Oscar beifall!
        kappa'h ah Hiro
                                  ****-tee-m'oh
                ­                kappa'h ha Naga
                                         saké-on-the-rocks!
                the greatest travesty is mentioning
Auschwitz... but not the Godzilla twins!
no!               no!                    no!
               you deal with the need for paediatricians
when you prescribe them other "things"...
                   you keep that bagel in the oven long enough
we'll just assure ourselves all the Jews were
born on flights: inter-continental...
                                      they never say:
  Polish Jews... they just say Jews...
                                   it's almost like the host nation
didn't matter...
               as a Pole... living in England?
the host nation, doesn't, matter!
    aye Scot?!         aye!
         aye Cymru?!             aye!
       aye Shamrock Limerick?! aye!
aye Brutus... aye aye aye
                              i'm just asking
to post one hallucinogenic postcard...
                                  to his mother.
or.. let's us say i do cut-up as i go along:
much to the awe of some remote republic
                          engulfed in the federal judiciary
               system... very much monotheistic:
all hail! the one!
                             in quick-hand atheistic:
all hail! not one!
                             well: no one would mean
nothing... and if that be the case...
then... this is... evidently... a very... painful... dream /
              luxury...
                                 protesting the rights of
the aborted (from a man's perspective):
teenage girl, a thrill was but a thrill,
don't condemn me to the priestly orthodoxy!
but i will!
                     Joseph Andromeda took
the circumstance of sacredness of Abraham's *****...
                  while Muhammad rationalised
a pubescent's girl with an older man
like that pornographic elder teen with
a man and a really ****** movie script: in out,
as fast as you can!
Mitch Prax May 2019
These last few months,
I have been learning how to
separate myself from my past,
my mistakes,
and all the heartbreak
and mind ache
that I have endured.
It's easier said than done,
but I do believe we have
the ability to reinvent ourselves
and love others unlike the way
they used to 'love' me
onlylovepoetry Nov 2016
(I) Love Thy Neighbor As Thy
self

~

how I would
honor this with
joy effervescent,
this simplest of methodologies

if only I,
could permission myself
to love myself

if only I,
knew
how to love


~~

(II) redemption: the city of man reinventing himself

busting bursting, this city,
ceaseless change,
old discardation,
how blind am I,
skyscrapers built in a day
how have I failed to notice

the estate changes
a master plan unknown,
the reasoned limits ever stretched.
in defiance of taste and sense,
obedient to Babel tower's net-result,
the miscegenation of language

but this is a ruse issue,
an example of me/man,
this new born spawn,
a wagging tail of

a man I know,
a failed inventor,
nary a patent
to his name

years on years
he patiently awaits
for one true inspiration
a redefinition, a redemption,
a reinvention, a new cornerstone
to lay upon it a new foundation

just a clue, a single block,
he can clean erase
start over, inaugurate
a recommencement celebration
to  begin the same mistakes

here be the rub,
the irritation,
the seed comes implanted
and then
wind spread
can be only repaired, replaced
when cross pollinated

with the love of a foreign body
and his only crime, love poetry,
his crime alone, for unopened
it, and he, both-awaiting the time
when others come impatient

to bulldoze him aside

~~~

(III) Three

three

an oddity
an uneven symmetrical imagery


"only love poetry"

a three sum,
- three legged stool-

there is nothing new under the sun,
whispers the Psalmist


this I whisper
only, alone, one,
be no such!



only love poetry
until


~~~~


postscript

*if only I,
knew
how to love
Lucy Tonic Nov 2012
Bio
Where are all the gods
Of reinvention
I need to be washed
Of all this fear
Still don’t know
If moon is friendly
Or is the reason
For all my tears

A heart does miracles
But I’m stuck
Inside of mirrors
Made out of his luck
I need thunder
To signal lightning
I need it badly
Electric shock

Everything sparkles
Without the panic
When can I be there
Alive not manic
Assured by the world
That my ancestors
Assured my fate
Through DNA

This is the advent
Of the anniversary
The coming out of
My adversary
Some say he’s horned
Some say her nails scratch
Some say the world was
Not made but hatched

Are you still listening?
Are you still listening?
Are you still listening?
I beg you, listen
Martin Rombach Aug 2013
Strange that something so accepted should still cause self consciousness before I approach it honestly
The relative anonymity this site gives me is for some reason still not enough to stop that pressure in the back of my mind
Here's me standing between that I guess, a self evaluative expression that deep down I'm okay with who I am

I'm lucky I know that much, living in a social culture of indifference from friends and family
My heart goes out to those prisoners behind abstract bars, walls constructed by opinions, traditions, religions
Who find someone with their own body shape attractive, a subtle reinvention of their minds and eyes
A smile that is just that little bit more reassuring thanks to a comfort in the air you can't quite put into a definitive shape
After one abusive encounter that still makes me ******* teeth biting angry well, I can't imagine that towering over me every day
I've said it before, I'll say it again, I've got a lot to be grateful for

Me well.. people joke that I'm one of the greedy ones, that I can't make my mind up one way or the other
There's a certain truth to it I must admit
The day dream of another as sub consciousness fades in similarity, that person staring back at me with a sheet covering up to a profile
Either seems attractive in that figurative make believe image, something concluded in the struggles of psychology
But forgive me if a certain pessimism surfaces from the prospect of earning that image, showing real social certainty towards whoever it is I'm curious of
But that's beside the point, a daunting prospect for anyone who stares silently into a crowd with a drink in their hand
Those comfortable with it getting a silent smiling ******* for their confidence

Despite all the usual traps and speed bumps, there is a certain ease to it all though
Whoever is eating that pizza with me, on the phone to me, sharing a shower with me
I'm at that point as an adult with a clear mirror
That I know its what I want, I know its okay to want it
And if there is anyone out there, with whatever representation of reality that perceives a problem with it
The ****** can **** my ****
name Jun 2015
A constant reinvention where the outlier becomes the mainstream and circulates back to the outlying regions. Beautiful layers on a bed of kindness and understanding.. compassion mixed with passion and hot tempered moments of reality checking in-your-face murals along the textured walls..seen through crisp, foggy mornings.
I looked into the mirror
I saw my true face for the first time.
For the distortion of "should be's" definitions...
"What I need to be's" definitions...
They were erased from my planning board.
Of my reinvention...
Television stars are "everybody's fools.."
As I listen to Amy Lee sing..
"People's entertainment" that my mind tricked me into having to imitate. Inadequate tools.
In my "wrecked toolbox" that I thought that I need to bring.
As I started to look at those "real" stars around me... Ones who selfeshly started to reeducate..
My mind to restock the tools in my once "wrecked" toolbox...
I saw what my face truly reflected..
A beautiful man mislead by needing to be "seen" as someone... A shining "star.'
I once shined just as bright until my insanity wrecked it.
Now that I've rebuild what I have destroyed...
I'm the new "man In the mirror.."
As I hear Michael Jackson sing "making the world very clearer."
Looking back at what things that I truly have achieved... I see a clearer image of my reflection in the mirror...
Images that are the "truer Me" and such are much more clearer.
Jose Remillan Sep 2013
Jarring heartbeats disturb the
Infinite flow of ecstasy. It has
Nothing to do with the immanent
Kaleidoscope of life or love. It is a
Yearning of spirit blighted by wounds.

This day marks a beginning of
Ultimate reinvention of a heart
Birthing anew---leaving the old;
A dawn transmogrified into purpose; a
Lingering thought of living
In search for my being,
Not for the sake of having, but
Against the conventional meaning of
Love, this day marks the beginning.
For Jinky Tubalinal.
Quezon City, Philippines
September 17, 2013
Tim Isabella Oct 2015
Panic ridden mind stricken by this manic state of own biological rediscovery. Sickening self reinvention to endure retentive attention seeking habits. No longer recognizing myself or the difference between empathy and affection. I always wanted to be better for you rather than be better for me, and I ran that tank until it was on E. 'Cause when you decided to leave, when you failed to find reasons to stay and you finally went through with it, I became nothing. Redeeming qualities deemed ineffective and vanished with you. So, little demons crawled to me in my sleep and chewed small hollow holes from that hole that would once hold my soul and tainted it, forcing me to relive this cursed role.
I can't think of a reason why you should've stay, I just wish it didn't hurt so much. It was never about you being there for me, it was about you having the decency enough to tell me why you weren't, but, I guess I lost that, now, but it's okay, because these demons never leave my side and even worse, they've become my best friends. We're even on a first name basis. Their names are Apathy, Depression, Self Loathing, and Panic, and they are absolutely everything to me. Like any truly symbiotic relationship, we all need each other to survive, and I'm doing just fine, thank you.
Duplicating split personalities muiltiply until I can't even fathom the idea of feeling alone. Fractions of me split off and bolt for the corners and I feel like I'm stuck in a constant game of 52 pick up. Each time they're reglued, they're slightly less than they were. A conscientious objection to the dedication embedded deep withing lifes finest lies, why lie and say life's worth it? 'Cause sometimes I'm certain that this life is just worthless.
But isn't that the point to it all? To find meaning in the nothing? To make symphonies out of pure static, white noise? To sort through the distorted rumors and false claims and find real happiness? To smile in the rain, and frown in the sunshine! To turn left instead of right, to pick day instead of night. To make yourself alright. To breathe when our demons constrict our throats, and to hold our breath when we're excited. To live like we're at a party but we didn't get invited. To open your eyes in the dark and close them in the light. To breathe in life. To exhale strife. To brag about all our tragedies like "Look at me, look at what I've been through to bring you this message today! I'M ALIVE! I SURVIVED! I MADE IT! I'M HERE!"
Inspired by the writing styling of Cameron Smith of Hotel Books
fluorescent Jan 2017
my skin feels tight
my eyes not my own
familiarity is a distant memory
I cannot remember when my body was content with belonging to me
I run my numb fingertips through my unwashed hair, searching for any type of reassurance
my room is cluttered and my body unclean
nothing here is mine
if identity is supposed to evolve, and change as you do,
then why did I wake up this morning in someone else's skin?
today, I would rather diminish completely then continue in a body reinvented
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
reinvention of the jazzy period? 1920s, don't tell me!
1930s ****** and Capone and the Pacinos - chi:
   or cha cha: capuχino - hence the missing c -
   truant Capote wrote a bestseller meanwhile -
grizzly ra - and some bling to boot: always a favour;
oh i don't mind - it minds itself:
philosophers are removal van people:
boxes wherever you look: per se a,
per se b, per se c, per se d. i grew a beard because
i thought: might as well fiddle with it, get itchy
with pretending violin playing - always better than
counting money - grew one to counter the fiddler on the roof:
meaning? fiddle of the chin - you lucky people are so funny,
i got university education and can't laugh -
it's hilarity multiplied by Clinton: sure, the rich can do
anything... but nothing publicly - attention span of goldfish,
keeping an image or brushing your teeth to a routine:
hello dentistry, o'la chemists with toothpastes!
plus the deficit, plus Gorbachev and a hungover.
well, you do look like the generation that spawned
the first world war - cocktails and chandelier champagne
popsy-turvy - hunched burp - ****** warfare;
jazz poker or jazzy blackjack? you look so ******* familiar
that it isn't even funny... the populists are goose-marching
but you still need a partying excuse
to **** at a reed to breath under the blood-bath
waters of minimal exertion -
       Fritz Ferdinand also said:
                      fry 'em up, the young will
become un-bored - savages of the dance-floor
will need but one excuse: the airy-fairy one...
then the Zeppelins and the donnerkrieg -
or the thundering prior - rather than pre-,
  tropismuskrieg - alternative the compass read alter
N - north - the revisionist segment that's
a compass to mind: the equivalent of north
in human dynamism: K - krieg - war...
somehow potassium too -
                                 war
  
         peace                                  modernity

               ­               antiquity

           the model moral movement: krieg -

                                       krieg (K)

         frieden (F)                                        zeitnah (Z)

                                      antike (A)        

the fakz - the facts - and nothing else - sure
i was limiting myself to a skew, or a rhombus -
not exactly what you were thinking of:
chaka demus & pliers - tease me tease me tease
                                         got a spare cup of sugar
                   and a screwdriver? oh no... till i lose
   my t.v. license and my zombie soul;
are these the same ******* that got shifted to America?
don't blame me for what the ****** royal did
  to the ****** pauper - you have a basketball team,
and a dozen rappers - what's the... ahem... problem?
jo spencer Sep 2013
The montage of faces
from all corners of the globe,
new tounges, thoughtful eyes.
A generation safe from past
strains of inhumanity.
There's no hobsons choice
only permanent reinvention.
The glory to be who you wish
the edifying  gift bestowed
from England the hub of the free
reinvented....time and time again until it lost its sanctity
just like saying the word- love- broken from overuse by lesser men
keeping composure in the worst and losing it in the best
you asked for this side of the fence
you chose it
you love it in a sick way
it is now time to reinvent the reinvention
and instead of trying your very hardest, weak one
you will become
all the poems you draw your power from
all the strange daydreams that championed your thoughts until they were melted in the forge of complacency
as a reinvented man cowardice has no place
in any form
self control is most painful when you cant see why you are controlling yourself.
but you shall
and you know why
and you will never ever forget.
and then when you find for yourself the answer to why you act this way
you will have the peace of mind enough to communicate with others about it wont you?
don't forget

— The End —