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Nat Lipstadt Jun 2017
A Hebrew Prayer from the Sabbath Morning Service



THESE ARE THINGS that are limitless,
of which a person enjoys the fruit of the world,
while the principal remains in the world to come.

They are:

honoring one’s father and mother,
engaging in deeds of compassion,
arriving early for study, morning and evening,
dealing graciously with guests,                                                       
visiting the sick,                                                            ­                  
providing for the wedding couple,
accompanying the dead for burial,
being devoted in prayer,
and making peace among people.

But the study of Torah^ encompasses them all.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I briefly considered editing, adding to, rephrasing this translation.
But reconsidered almost immediately, and instead wrote this down.
*Among the things that are limitless perfect is this prayer.
^ the study of Torah (meaning here,  the totality of Jewish teaching, culture and practice)  offers the knowledge of what is right and how to live justly. Jewish study includes the expectation that the lessons will be applied to life.

San Francisco
Rae Monroe Mar 2013
On a cold November morning
She awakens
Her eyes
Sunken and unaware
Of the beauty
That lies ahead

All she sees
Are the fears
The weights,
Dragging
Pulling
Gnawing away
At her frail, fragile bones

She is lost
She is broken
She is gone

Sitting
In a ***** room
Picking up a pen
And trying
Desperate and futile
To take back
What she believes has died

She stops
The naked scars taunting
Watching from her forearms
She grins
In that eternal moment
She is perfection

Her scars smudge
Her flesh smooth
Those vicious weights
Nowhere to be found

She is free
Untouchable
She is the words
That she has written down
She is the future
Which she had feared

She is the reality
**Which she can believe in
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.
Cheyenne Nov 2017
I can't shake it--think I've been
Lost in translation.

Words aren't enough right now
Maybe they never were.

I go and try to put it down--to speak out loud--
Something's being left out.

All this rephrasing
It is so caging
That's not what I meant
You're getting in my head

I can't speak.
Stumbling over my words

Can't think.

And then they don't understand--
and that hurts

This can't be it--that's not it
The words--the terms--nothing fits.

It makes more sense when I'm silent.
Filmore Townsend Feb 2014
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
          empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Floor Nov 2019
o talkative listener
what do you do
always rephrasing sins on your skin
you are a devil in disguise
and I love you for that
you are ragged edged with a hint of silver
wanting to make gold with stones
you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders
and walk like it's your last time to shine
o talkative listener
what do you do
always marking your words with a metal edge
you are a devil in disguise
and I love you for that
Star Gazer Sep 2016
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive
until everything faded, just darkness
because your words
will only ever remain the harshest
and I'm forever reminded of you...
how you made me skip school
because I could tolerate dodgeballs
and projectile rocks...
...After all they are merely skin deep bruises
And the hatred produces
nothing but swelled bones and broken muscles
till everything was a struggle
But they are merely skin deep bruises...
It was not the dodgeballs that sent me crying
it was not the rock hurling that sent me home early
it was the poisonous ravenous tongue
that slithered on lies like it was at a skateboard rink
trying to drink the life and soul out of anything alive.
So you sent your fake condolences, your pity parties
made something 'arty' pretending that you were a friend
yet a fiend coated in a cloak of condescension
you've mentioned death by my ears enticing my every step
hoping that I fall to wreck and fail to ever stand tall, *****,
to be a pawn in your hands, your master plan
just holding back the tears as my palms push away
all your damaging words pretending that they never hurt.
I spent years and years rephrasing, repeating, remembering
'talk to the hand because the man isn't listening'
but the tears glisten in my eye sockets and though I
can convince myself I wasn't listening, I guess
I couldn't convince myself just enough...

You tore at me till there was nothing to tear at,
you prayed and preyed that I bit the dust,
hoping that there was nothing of me left,
and so...
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive...
because in that brief moment the only way to escape
was to remind you that 'there's nothing left,
you can't **** me today, or tomorrow,
because I have been nothing but dead'.

I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive...
Turns out I did survive
And as I finish up this write,
I'd like to remind you
that you are all beautiful,
that you can survive
in the ways that I have
because the gentle touch of a rain
never cleanses the wounds
nor numbs the aching pain,
it merely reminds you
that there's another sunny day.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i studied chemistry, i'm not going to write you poetry like someone who graduated university with a degree in creative writing or English literature, i told you, time and again... philosophers have a strain on them to become scientists, but scientists have a strain on them to become humanists... philosophy is the only medium that chemists, biologists or physicists can become remotely humanistic in expression... and even if they do! humanists don't like it! it's just the same repeat of: et tu, Brute?! no one wins... not if you want to escape this Tartarus and gain some respect for the universality of man in hell taking tea with Mussolini and pass from their realm... not otherwise you won't; and i'm way past Dada.

writing Brexit Smokescreen / Cromwell and the Parliamentarians
i just had a few equations in mind -
at bit like mathematics - only slyly different,
slyly i mean - not really sly -
self-evident from lack of encouraging it:
predating the instigators of existentialism we have Descartes,
and that predates Kant's influence,
in simple geometric rubric, invoking = meaning therefore,
but not necessarily continuing from - to sequence,
more as pinpointing a a chiral symbiosis overcome -
ending with Sartre - the concept of bad faith and
the prime negation, meaning the lost utility of thinking,
a lax, preserved organically with a demented expression -
so:

i think = i doubt                  thinking does not precipitate
                                                  into existence

since many who exist do not necessarily question / think
out their existence - they do not equate the mere act
of thought as the prior expression of existing -
and that's egotistical - many say necessary, i agree -

i doubt = i'll attempt denial* - which turns all cognitive aspects
of my being in unreasonable examples lessened,
less mind more heart -
which is a precursor of something greater in the diminished
sense of responsibility to come undervalued -
the constraint without a straitjacket -
and so after attempting denial away from doubting i
can't exactly think, since my heart is no longer wavering,
hence my mind can't be either - i am bound
by the omni pre: precursor, predestined,
given a script before acting etc. -

i deny = i'm not thinking - and so much is true,
instead of saying that denial = not thinking, it also means
i'm left with apologies, i'm therefore not a thinker
but an apologist - notably C.S. Lewis - meaning i
have a script readied - so that i fake not having a conscience -
me? i wants to sees a striptease dances of politicians
and silver-back ancient gorillas shaving -

then where's China when i start digging from
the point of i think? well, it remains in i think,
one cubic of atmosphere experiences a butterfly flap somewhere,
while one cubic of atmosphere experiences a hurricane,
or the quantum theory exclusively partaking electrons
solely - meaning i think doesn't exactly equate to
a proof of existence per se, well, it does, i think
is a proof of i am per se, given the two are acquainted
with solipsism and mundane question
of being serf-conscious: cartesian solipsism is i think = i am,
but at the same time i = thought ≠ being -
the unwritten bestseller, the uncontested 100 metre sprint
to be challenged, e.g. - but this is carstesian solipsism,
this like a deviation in religion is not an orthodoxy -
based on a presupposition that Descartes wouldn't have
minded the addition (of solipsism to explain) -
what's more pronounced is bound to the explanatory
pivot-reflection ipso facto rather than per se, minding
that we have i think to take care of - and that's one
of the two units of solipsism - the other being i am,
ipso facto or simply alter ergo - rephrasing in the
superimposable Chiral, unlike simple Nietzsche's sum ergo cogito:
but as in sum ipso infacto - cogitatio -

(i am, by the fact
in-itself - thought - meaning i exist by a fact in-itself
compared with all other facts that are bundled up within
replicas / phenomena - the being thought, a factual
reference above: i brushed my teeth in the morning
two days ago - a as in a medium of what's being emphasised
on distractive enterprises, twins of atheism α- -θέ - as one points
as something, the other always points at itself without
the thing pointed at by the other, affirmative orientation
including nothing, or the grey multitude of the urban throng
and a self-worth - with a de-affirmative orientation
and a passerby, including self-perpetuation in the cartesian
cinema) -  
                       I TRUST THE RUSSIANS TO LOVE
                       READING...
                       NEVER TRUST THE ENGLISH
                       TO READ... THEY CAN'T READ,
                       BECAUSE THEY DON'T ENJOY IT!

the one abstract trans-grammatical
association, requisite of moral explanations and deviations
from the placebo of solipsism as being an utter
non-interactive entity - crudely as with cogito ergo sum:
sum ipso facto... now thought isn't allowed to finish
that equation - hence the perplexity at criminals -
i am by the fact itself - whereby guilt passes from the reins
of the perpetrator to the instigator - the crude: think,
therefore be - so many failed deviations from over-simplifying
this; i never write about philosophy as if i know -
i say: thought the precursor of knowledge,
given the benefit of doubt, meaning a heart,
not thinking being the precursor of ignorance,
given the benefit of denial, meaning the genitalia -
so many mistake their thinking as what others
define thought to not be -
and v. v. so many mistake their being as what others
define being to be - most notably
the contemporaries of prior Socrates were said
to be idiots - given Plato and Aristotle - only
later they regarded the pre-Socratics are equally footed
to be called philosophers as the un-adventurous academics
of Athens.
Murredith Mar 2015
Every time those three words left my mouth, I knew I'd hear them come straight back.
I liked the way those words sounded rolling off the tongues of others all so effortlessly.
I collected those words, said each time by new people, hoping someday maybe I could mean it but I never did.
Person after person, all I heard were those three words ringing through my mind.

The first time you said my name, I realized I could never let those words into my mind without a great deal of feelings behind them.
I thought about those three words millions of times, rephrasing them, placing them in different orders, hiding them between other words, but they never seemed to sound right to be said to you.
Suddenly those three meaningless words, didn't seem to cover all my feelings, though I still say them to you repeatedly, hoping maybe someday I will find stronger words to use, but for now,

I love you.
morseismyjam Dec 2019
My mind, it sings
my ears, they ring
and this is true
because of you.

No simple thing,
no mild fling
the times we spent;
I felt content.

These phrases set
lest you forget.
Here's some rephrasing:
you're amazing!


My only source of some disgust is,
the words I write don't do you justice!
I love my friends so much. So naturally, I have to write sappy poetry about them. An aroace has to squeeze in the love poems where they can get them.
vircapio gale Oct 2012
painful urge to write
spifflicates want of reading --
words rephrasing world
Bill murray Apr 2016
Rephrasing Ex President Ronald Reagan.
Mr. President, Barack Obama, TEAR DOWN
Your wall's of payola!
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
a great absurdity of life
     comes in no lesser
form than...
         as it comes...
             when using
a knife and fork...
to eat a chicken thigh...
or a chicken drum-stick...
without
the joy of using the hands...

of the two households...
where a chicken was eaten
with a knife and fork...
and where a chicken was
eaten with bare hands...
profanity: when enough
meat remains on the bone
that a dog will gladly bite...

otherwise a household...
where even the ends of the bones
are bitten off for the livery
marrow...
or that grand delicacy of
a chicken's neck: you cannot find
more tender meat anywhere:
even if it is poached...
               esp. if it is poached...

    and sometimes a noun
is used as a verb...
to chicken out...
                  
no alternatives:
but a rephrasing... of...
comfortably numb can
become: comforted by numbness -
comforted by a numbing...
          -ing: herr gerund!
                         alternatively:
the chicken story...

apathy: is it truly to be devoid
of all pathology?
or... quiet simply:
to sweep under the rug...
i.e. that there are too many
pathologies to mind...
that apathy is
              a σ of pathology?
"I don't have feelings"
He told me
Rephrasing what the doctors named his demons.

The shadows lurking behind every corner of our precious moments.
Lashing their whips to control this lion of a man.

"I'll be good"*
He tells me
Bending down to his knee as a sacrifice a soldier makes to protect his Lady.
I do not know of any woman less worthy than I
night unkind Jun 2020
a truism, an overused, abused entrée to the first poem of the day,
they always are night-born, from a slow passage of dark to a light-triggering recording event, a 6 hr. poem period, gestation, incantation

and a sort of relief, temporary

many the miles voyeured, a mentaller feasting sated,
simple rhymes to covet, rephrasing the complexities of
our other lives, where our sub-selfs exclaim, out loud!
this is me unchained, this is me chained, this is...someone


besotted by the rottenness of honesty, once air-exposed,
eyes fixed, no away-turntable, all that well hidden spoilage
in dreams reverent, forsaken, my ashamed-ness, is willing
taken to the scaffold, and by daylight first, perceived, conceived


we may examine the half of me, nay, the all of me, open-face
secrets secreted in my nighttime travelogue, of crimes, revelations,
insects, drownings, strawberry moons, all the fraying edges of a
linen covering, my cadaver pouch of well used words


inscribed thus:

”human born from a sac, and to earth returned, in sackcloth
Trefild Aug 1
I'm not I̲nto villains in the realness
but there are some ways
villainous jerks are preferred
by me; ones with thE̲Y̲ hands blood-stained
without excuse, like usurpers, deserve
to be, like it was with European nations once, plagued
by a big misfortune, for sure
[the "Black Death" plague pandemic regarded as a big misfortune for Europe]
[to avoid misunderstandings: I don't mean then Europe deserved the Plague]
[the "European nations" part is used only to have a simile]
but, like someone with an RH̲-like mind frame
[Jason Todd as Red Hood from the "DC" universe]
I wouldn't mind 'em mU̲rked, like some works
of mine made as if by someO̲ne cray; guess I ain't
really the type who becomes fazed by dark ways
like someone walking through nocturnal suburbs (dark ways)
wouldn't mind a torturer of a guiltless pers. to get forced
to intense tortures that hurt
so much he'd admit he's a horrible ****
unless that **** meets the fourth of those horsemen before
the admission of his ******* occurs
[the fourth horseman of the Apocalypse is death]
don't confuse it fO̲r someone's door
taken off by a spetsnaz force in the course
of a storm if my mind seems unhinged according to yours
like a perp with no other means of ge[ɪ]tting rI̲d of
a corpse than to undertake a burial o[ʌ]f
ones watching rainbows should be digging deeper
["undertaker"; by "watching rainbows", I mean something like]
["being distracted by something nice"]
on how much this world A̲I̲n't like fairytale stuff
it's corruption that is a base of evil (corruption)
sim. to the astounding peninsula compound linked
to that psychopathic ex-KGB̲ heel (base of evil)
["KGB heel" is supposed to be read/pronounced with the stress on "B"]
so the wicked aren't really bothered by morals
and stuff; then why should injustice- & evil-perpetrating people
with power be treated like sO̲meone who's normal? (***** 'em)
those means of dealing with issues that make us civil
[journalism, massive peaceful protests]
[the independent court system, fair & transparent elections, etc.]
shouldn't be disregarded, of cO̲U̲rse, al—
[shouldn't be disregarded in normal circumstances, but under autocracy]
[or when organized crime groups are as powerful as the state]
[civil means aren't effective to change the status quo]
—though, in my view, like I've cracked a sA̲febox brimful
with paper cu[ʌ]rrency rO̲lls, jewe[—]ls
["dough in my view"]
it's V-/Red-Hood-like a[ɛ]ntiheroes
who're required to fight O̲nes from the circle
of so-called depraved supremos
[powerful members of the underworld & agents of authoritarian regimes]
for if you think a state as corrupted & aw[ɔ]ful
as the North Korean one can be changed in legal
ways, it's pro[ɑ]b'ly white **̲rse y'all
are on, like a knight with his armor shining
sadly, such men o[ɑ]ftentI̲mes end
up a la Navalny (sadly)
rephrasing what I've tried to convey bY̲ the writing
if there's a large-scale fire po[ɑ]pping
I'd advise to deal with it by air water-bo[ɑ]mbing
"vigilante mind frame" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
Kurt Philip Behm Mar 2018
The ribbon is cut
The die is cast
The cement is dry
Yet nothing lasts
The brazen rewarded
The hero a fool
All reason outdated
New fury the tool

A journey presented
Your ship to go far
With doldrums eclipsed
By the light of new stars
The lands will seem foreign
The people most strange
But they’ll smile as you pass
And call you by name
You run and you run
And you run from it all
With no map to guide you
The albatross calls
And then sweet intention
Returns from respite
Rephrasing the unmentioned
Where maybe you might
In fear of the tonic
All healing disdained
Right, left-side disjointed
The cork from the drain
The covers pull back
Your bones are now bare
The tiller is slack
And there’s nobody there
So you take to the helm
Hands firmly in place
And you care not a whit
If it’s all empty space
As a raven is perched
On the yardarm so high
A land bird that lurches
Cawing all truth a lie
And you wonder then maybe
Have you wandered too far
As you ladle the future
From a long empty jar
The wind starts to move
A gift from the moon
What’s whole has been halved
And the sun almost noon
The rigging is creaking
The mast ever tall
The wind has died down
With no new ports of call
The feeling still burns
In the fire within
To find that one thing
That unfound—to you sings
The ocean is flat
The seas become calm
The seasons repeat
From reflection embalmed
The night sky is clearest
The darkest the days
The winds have escaped you
Adrift you now stay
But then just a wisp
Of a breeze on your cheek
Portends of a magic
And the vision you seek
It strengthens and gushes
Throughout all the night
As the red sky last evening
Had hinted it might
As the headsails go up
The big linen comes down
And you climb up the mast
Stepping over a frown
The creak of the lapstrake
Splashes over the bow
The present’s in sight
Incarnate right now
You look down on a lifetime
In this moment of joy
As the smell of the brine
Covers anything coy
And an Island approaches
From the mist up ahead
As the stillness reproaches
And retreats to its bed
The wonder returns
All speculation begins
Of the magic you’ll find
In this newness again
At the top of a mountain
Strange trees then appear
In a shape that’s uncertain
Neither familiar nor clear

The closer you get
The more they seem to move
As their shapes become giant
And your hopes then behoove
Now anchored offshore
With the dinghy in place
You can see them more clearly
Each shape and each face
Like monolithic Gods
They reign high on the hill
Looking down on who enter
With a warning that’s shrill
But where are the people
The Island is bare
Just giant stone carvings
That linger and stare
As you land on the beach
The ground starts to shake
And from deep in your heart
The primordial aches
The mountain then trembles
All paths become closed
With the thunder a warning
Any trespasser knows
As you run to the dinghy
Its been stolen and gone
And your ship is now missing
In its place just a song
Calling out in those words
That you already know….

“A price not paid dearly
     is only for show”

You turn back to the mountain
And in an explosion of light
You’re lifted up to the heavens
Spun around in a fright
Then shooting straight downward
Toward the mountain below
With force you are planted
Along monument row
And now that you’ve joined them
All questions abide
The distance and separation
In heaven collide….

“Can I leave, am I destined
   to be left here entombed ?”

And in language you recognize
You hear back so soon
From those pillars immortal
Voices start to be heard
Your welcome now total
Reborn in their words

“You can leave if you want to
  the choice is now yours
  but this mountain goes
  with you
  all places defer
  you’ve reached
  through the mystery
  you’ve passed your own test
  the tonic’s within you
   —the raven has fled”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2013)
the wallflower Mar 2018
A poetess sleep is non-existent without
Analyzing
                 Decoding
Rephrasing
      Ticking
My mind is poetically undisturbed
Until the morning dawn breaks the surface of a midnight blue
A pen turns into a harpoon
And a poem forms from the gloom
up like an insomniac
Kurt Philip Behm Jul 2017
The ribbon is cut
The die is cast
The cement is dry
Yet nothing lasts
The brazen rewarded
The hero a fool
All reason outdated
New fury the tool

A journey presented
Your ship to go far
With doldrums eclipsed
By the light of new stars
The lands will seem foreign
The people most strange
But they’ll smile as you pass
And call you by name
You run and you run
And you run from it all
With no map to guide you
The albatross calls
And then sweet intention
Returns from respite
Rephrasing the unmentioned
Where maybe you might
In fear of the tonic
All healing disdained
Right, left-side disjointed
The cork from the drain
The covers pull back
Your bones are now bare
The tiller is slack
And there’s nobody there
So you take to the helm
Hands firmly in place
And you care not a whit
If it’s all empty space
As a raven is perched
On the yardarm so high
A land bird that lurches
Cawing all truth a lie
And you wonder then maybe
Have you wandered too far
As you ladle the future
From a long empty jar
The wind starts to move
A gift from the moon
What’s whole has been halved
And the sun almost noon
The rigging is creaking
The mast ever tall
The wind has died down
With no new ports of call
The feeling still burns
In the fire within
To find that one thing
That unfound—to you sings
The ocean is flat
The seas become calm
The seasons repeat
From reflection embalmed
The night sky is clearest
The darkest the days
The winds have escaped you
Adrift you now stay
But then just a wisp
Of a breeze on your cheek
Portends of a magic
And the vision you seek
It strengthens and gushes
Throughout all the night
As the red sky last evening
Had hinted it might
As the headsails go up
The big linen comes down
And you climb up the mast
Stepping over a frown
The creak of the lapstrake
Splashes over the bow
The present’s in sight
Incarnate right now
You look down on a lifetime
In this moment of joy
As the smell of the brine
Covers anything coy
And an Island approaches
From the mist up ahead
As the stillness reproaches
And retreats to its bed
The wonder returns
All speculation begins
Of the magic you’ll find
In this newness again
At the top of a mountain
Strange trees then appear
In a shape that’s uncertain
Neither familiar nor clear
The closer you get
The more they seem to move
As their shapes become giant
And your hopes then behoove
Now anchored offshore
With the dinghy in place
You can see them more clearly
Each shape and each face
Like monolithic Gods
They reign high on the hill
Looking down on who enter
With a warning that’s shrill
But where are the people
The Island is bare
Just giant stone carvings
That linger and stare
As you land on the beach
The ground starts to shake
And from deep in your heart
The primordial aches
The mountain then trembles
All paths become closed
With the thunder a warning
Any trespasser knows
As you run to the dinghy
Its been stolen and gone
And your ship is now missing
In its place just a song
Calling out in those words
That you already know….

“A price not paid dearly
     is only for show”

You turn back to the mountain
And in an explosion of light
You’re lifted up to the heavens
Spun around in a fright
Then shooting straight downward
Toward the mountain below
With force you are planted
Along monument row
And now that you’ve joined them
All questions abide
The distance and separation
In heaven collide….

“Can I leave, am I destined
   to be left here entombed ?”

And in language you recognize
You hear back so soon
From those pillars immortal
Voices start to be heard
Your welcome now total
Reborn in their words

“You can leave if you want to
  the choice is now yours
  but this mountain goes
  with you
  all places defer
  you’ve reached
  through the mystery
  you’ve passed your own test
  the tonic’s within you
   —the raven has fled”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2013)
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
you know, two doors down,
a bunch of youthful sikhs are having
a weener get together party,
sounds like friday at the mosque:
no women allowed;
and they're standing there in
the garden, smoking joints,
laughing & trivialising,
**** on the read: i call them.

and there's me, little ol' me,
solving a sudoku puzzle and drinking
some *** on the side, while listening
to the ultimate template for "m.g.t.o.w.",
and thinking, am i part of this movement,
to be the reversal cartesian dynamic
that hasn't kicked in?

vocals on gorgorath,
and the story behind it...
i see hell as silence,
mainly? no throne of god,
nor hallelujah angels...
i have to make this pig latin...

ego videre infernum qua silentium

  and i do... see hell as silence:

   videre infernum qua silentium...

heaven?

      rephrasing: audio... for pedantic
***** involved.

so i have thus: sikh party two doors
down,
i don't mind them...
    i'm sure as ****, the fan gets involved,
i start to gurgle the brew,
i tilt my head back, with a neck still
intact..
  and gurgle the brew...
        mind you, these neighbours killed
my cat...
               i'm not begging, i'm not asking
for a response, i'm just saying...
  what happened, happened,
    i have the north winds to attest to...
no sikh is going into my house
and say: make us a kuppah...
no, *******, turn your turban cloth into
a napkin, and have
your jimmy-jimmy daal....
you ******* idiot... oh? it didn't translate?
how about i voodoo my cat's remains
in a woogie-boogie promise
of: the haunted house?

     i **** as hell digged up a grave,
you "think" i'm about to joke?
let me fiddle with my nose for a bit...
you know how disrespect for humans
is born? when the "idiot" disrespects
the non-edible, petted forms of animal...

you make grievances with
non-edible pieces of meat
that men are associated with...
you're asking for the name of the seasons,
plus a choir of angels to untie you;
boo-shakalak-kee-sha!
  what did i find?
these turban brigadiers, these
blue indian, these pakis...
they have only one motto:
strength in numbers...
    but when they hear a white boy,
gurgling alcohol out of the window,
as if imitating drowning,
tilting his head back giving the perfect:
macaw signing in the sea...
these olive skinned virgins either play
*****, or call for backup "plans"...

*** yer plantain, but not yer bananas:
sure short, a ******* wake
across the whole of the caribbean...
called the havana autumn:
lost leaves, dry dung,
    monkey 'ave a throw's worth
of a bullet 'andy.

what? you gunn'ah **** on the pineapples
any'who? ******* will,
i'll be right there,
shitstorming your *** whether
there's an irma or her **** jose -
***** i'll witch-broom your ***
right off with a woop, telling my
neighbours: i've done so;

and yes, the internet is not a cul de sac,
you don't get to play
radio 4's the archers here...
sorry, i was wishful thinking for a sitcom
too... turns out...
    the phonebook is exponential in size,
but also too erratic in terms of
fluidity / fluctuation of capitalised on
use.
Yours: were those repetitions of actions; underneath the comment of
her starry eyes, waiting to add an explanation of my place as her caption.
We both explore the aftereffects of years of catching onto one another—as the successful hunt shows pleasant results; while the longer course of it comes with many love scars… but along the way, I heard the spinning tales of your story by the roundabouts. All the places you had been, shouldn’t have been, and a lot of questions about your whereabouts. Whereas the hoodlums turf their side from the thugs, and I make a territory between us, to avoid long hugs- a criminal kind of love

We both know the boys who keep a contact list of girls to pick out from, as like commodities well kept: she knows a message well sent, as the night gives the best of time for us to act like our true selves

Let’s not jump into so many conclusions as if leaping into big decisions; as our memories are well kept in sky, but at times we seem confined by these crying ceilings. For a worthwhile love, we live to find a means of making a quick buck, copying that success and sitting back while the currency prints- there’s nothing wrong with such money-making schemes; unless it gives others the idea of buying into dreams. And unfortunately, we both quietly know what that means



Sort of met by carnivorous eyes- feeding desires
into one another; a few lives cut short to the unsettling sound
by an incomplete strung of a chord. Rebellious young ones
sneaking out to the clubs, later on tamed at home; there’s
such a thirst for our wrongs when we’re perfectly alone—
but as you miss someone as much as a faithful faster
misses lunch, even a clone of them wouldn’t do you much…

Breakups do cause ill actions; “you said you’re not sick
of me,” but I subtly taste a bit of ***** in these latter kisses
—let’s talk to unlock our deepest feelings; dialogue is
key.
The end of her blush is the brightest of spots, but is
a sign to end a conversation with an abrupt full stop
“Fool, stop,” her forced smile must annoyingly be saying

Those face masquerades must be working hard today;
without sounds of cries- pretending we enjoy telling
each other, “yeah, we’re fine,” or was it the rephrasing of it,
to admit to ourselves that this love has always felt like a fine
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
isn't the negation of global warming, a falscination of the principle of causality? what a stupid question... that would be impossible, and no one could be fooled by denying newtonian laws of motion (history is also a motion, akin to heraclitus' river / flux)... n'ah... impossible! no one could actually believe the falsification of the third law... denying that global warming exists outside the realm of causality, or that causality is a farce... n'ah! impossible! difference though: negation with its existential brute force, suggested by the existentialists as leading toward extinction, within the framework of the "i" dodo-project of the illusionary self, "self"; are these the times when the anglophone word is really reduced to competing objective-vs.-subjective attitudes? of "being" conscious? in terms of being, the western world is but "being" conscious: while in fact non-being... stunted... i swear to god... some metrosexual spider, some viral meme has infected and stunted the western minds... i've been living in a groundhog day for the past ten years, and each day, the "smart" peoples are turning into lunatics, walking around with wrong-think lasers, and turning the fetish for zombie movies, with their group-think; sceptic? is that what "philosophers" would call zombies, in serious literature?

would it ever be a justified arrival
to do with theology once and for all?
to say that theology can
have a historogical dimension based
on, say:
*deus ex machina
-
      that, which is the past,
which morphs into
               **** ex machina -
               i.e., that, which is the future;
well? apparently not.
            it's one thing to glorify the past:
the whole enlightenment epoch -
but it's one thing to see the "light",
and another thing to grasp it...
seems almost melancholic to take to
citing prometheus:
guy guys! i brought you... fire!
yeah! fire!
         i bring you fire!
       fire!                 oh yeah:
   the latter part of the 20th century was
akin to the renaissance...
                      better die young than
to fade away...
                 renaissance no. 2 -
but the current pandering and brown-nosing
of the original enlightenment?
fizzled out...
                    so there was prometheus
was like: fire! i bring you fire!
  but the people?
                  n'ah... we prefer bear furr,
and camel fat to keep warm...
      it's one thing to see the light,
      yet another to capture it,
and subsequently use it!
                        didn't the 1984
wrong-think, turn into today's group-think?
hardly an individual in china...
   china per se is an individual in its
rigid cohesion...
                   china isn't a society:
                 it's a socio-military complex -
or the classical rephrasing of it,
    in the western word the military-industrial
complex is actually a misnomer...
        with military precision everything has
received a subtitle: made in china...
     me? i wish i were alive in the days when
the arabs run out of oil.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
honest to god or no god... this was supposed to be merely about a comparison of two bicycles... a road-bike viking... bought for £125 years ago... the chain was all rusty... the wheels were deflated... and a trek marlin 5... bought for £495... which... comes to think of it... only just now... seems like a waste of money... tired rubber... 3 punctures of the wheels... and it only took me 3 months of testing it... for the tyres to be: worth jack-****... double-sure on the condoms should the Irish come knocking

perhaps w. h. auden was right when saying that:
all the Hitlers of the world write at night...
i like writing at night... i like the fascination
with being up while in the vicinity everyone's
is off to the land of Nod...
perhaps w. h. auden was right:
perhaps all the dejected pederasts write
while basking in the sun... cowering into
shadows... i know a little about w. h. auden...
it only took me the time to read
harold norse's memoir: " of a ******* angel...
a dejected old queen...
oh... but between w. h. auden... pretty rhymes...
i still don't know what's keeping
walt whitman afloat...
well... since so few women write books
worth reading: perhaps they write the most
honest poems...
it's not out of some misogyny that i don't read
literature by women...
i'm a massive fan of Pashtun poetry:
Afghan women and their landays:
their little horror debacle...
but no woman is going to write herself into:
naked... revealing... child-like...
she has too much mystique to sacrifice:
to give up...
she's not going to write from anywhere
other than the posit of the ideal:
whether it's the ideal of who she thinks she is:
or the ideal she's looking for...
two made it... Bukowski made the money...
i know... he wasn't a woman...
and Sylvia Plath... perhaps that Sexton Lady...
it's not even cute: it's exasperating...
it's a drowning man searching for a razor blade's
edge to save himself from drowning...
even i: given enough time...
am... bothersome... meeting up with...
the Titans translated into:
pillars or... hardly salt... just the pedagogic
blockade... it would be easier to revise
perspectives with a Copernican:
he moved the earth while stopping the sun...
that would be easier... than to shift: Shake-a-Pear
into a heap of recyclables..
- i hate myself when i start borrowing
either katakana or Hangul...
how i admire these writing systems...
vowels disappear... integrated into consonants
that have no leg to stand on... beside the N...
how two consonants: lost in phonetics...
but necessarily distinguished in writing
are so hard to find...
B'AH C'AH... vowel catcher hatch: indicator for:
B'AH: not Bay...
              self-evident truth from where i'm
originally from... no! b'ah!
irksome throughout the day:
a second time i'm quitting smoking...
i'm not going to quit it...
a cigarette at the end of the day...
some wine...
i wish i could still play video-games...
no... wait... i don't...
the solitary bat flying around my eucalyptus tree
chasing moths and other lesser creatures...
me strapped to the moment
watching the win caress the eucalyptus tree:
it's almost as if someone let me off my leash
from a monastery...
like acid poured into my ears:
flaky high-follower count debates...
i don't think the sort of people clued into reading
a book... detached from a comment section:
sure... well-read... well-read people...
eclectic minds... regurgitating journalistic endeavours...
since journalists are paid
and poets aren't: you don't rhyme... ******!
don't expect payment when not boxed: with rhyme...
last time i heard... Horace didn't bother either:
authentically: if i'm not going to have a conversation...
poetic soliloquy...

my soliloquy... someone else's voyeurism...
dad rock... budka suflera - noc...
robert plant - morning dew... darkness darkness....

well of course i will read ****-****** literature:
i'm not a big fan of nuns...
women and their curtain dressing...
i want to love them as much as i don't
want to understand... keep me as target of my
own demise in a man orientated world...

- the beauty of a machine that works well...
i'm still flabbergasted... i just saw a gingerbread
cookie of a man run into a cave,
shout... and leave no traces of an echo...
ooh! the sort of face most associated
with Kenyan macaques...
who... project a ****** expression of fear
onto that, which... gives them fear...

Kenya... i was there for the ivory beauties...
the adventure of finding shade...
the cheap brandy... and feeding the macaque
monkeys some sugar sachets...
while entertaining myself on the balcony
with: inanimate things...
twitchy eye: tree! i saw you move!

it's a bicycle it's not a road-taxed mechanisation:
i very much like things i can use
to their full potential: whereby i invest in
creating my own momentum...
slim: slimmer... slimmest...
now that i have a clenched chest
of pirate rage having done some press-ups
in awkward positions: more yoga
than... not as many stomach crunches...
i like the idea of a tender stomach...
all the limbs can be orchestrated to:
well oiled... best of the best juiced...
but the stomach... area...
i like it tender...
to imitate the whole of woman... sketched
in braille...
cat grooming... which originally prompted me
when she stuck up her *** into my face
and i started whizz-kid searching
for an outlet...
i promised myself i'd be back
on scout's honour: prompt...
looks like i haven't been so honest
with either her or myself...
my moustache has grown to the point
where my lips are hiding... tender: slim...
my neck has disappeared...
i've started to drink and become pensive
and therefore: started to imitated playing
a violin while fiddling with a beard...

but i did trim my ***** so they might appear...
like a laurel bush...
or a lemon tree...
maybe i'll get my libido spontaneity back
when i have to tend to grooming the cats...
it's the closest prospect of "translation"
i'll arrive at... since: with cats...
no muzzle... not leash... no kink...
no latex... come to "think" of it...
thank god i don't get enough of "it"...
give me a spectacle of one: done proper...
every half-a-decade...
i couldn't stomach it everyday...
it's enough that i have everyday for
the joys of... taking a ****... drinking some milk...
debating corn....

it's not corn is: or was... ever to be debated...
seriously... perhaps corn-meal:
not corn-flour that's readily available for
a thickening "enzyme"...
that **** the h'americans eat...
yellow-bread... Hans and Saucer...

strict regulations of language formality...
debatable speak...
wait... from began with Horace
and ends with giuseppe belli sonnets:

a le madre, se sa, li strilli e 'r piaggne
je pareno ronno dde tordinone.
le madre ar monno so ttutte compaggne...

       to mum, the gruntings of this ***-mad ******
surpass the sweet songs of a west end name...
the mothers of this world are all the same.

it's a dialectical approach concerning two bicycles...
one... a cheap road bicycle viking: vibrant green...
sturdy frame: no need for...
lost the word... rephrasing...
what's the word... not punctures...
giddy-giddy...up... down?
RESORY...

unlike a wide-girth of the mountain bike's
handlebars...
the road-cycle narrows around me exfoliating my
back muscles...
sure... the front brakes are a bit squeaky...
but... unlike the £495 pristine: sold for a....
the wider trim of wheels....
i have never ridden a better bicycle worth
only £125... this viking contra the trek marlin 5...

get used to the idea of THONG...
of the wheel...
the frame is much smaller... "slim"...
but i still encourage myself as riding faster...
bicycles and prostitutes...
i don't care much for...
paying too much...
last time i heard: there's not "cheaper"
as there's no "dearest"... when it comes to coughing up
for ***...
the supposedly cheapest will showcase
her tongue... she's motivate you...
provided you're sober...
giddy-up showcase girl...

after having skimmed some Rousseau...
i thought Kierkegaard was good:
indolent i...
there's no cat sleeping in my bed:
thank god... i'm not feeling having a bed-fellow...
to suckle me into: oyster-mush...
floral patterns...

also... thank god for the olympics:
the plethora of bodies...
the swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters...
lacerated lungs...
not the heavyweight lifters:
******* Turkish dwarfs from the nether kingdom
of the Caucasian: procrastinating
crustaceans....

        look at them!
see any ***-side-aside... keep up with
the Springboks? Aqua-****-with:
mensch... oh the "cardinal" is real...
the Isrealis should know..
not much room for intellect
when the body is concerned...
FAIL... double... FAIL: thrice...
there's not THRICE when filing is mentioned...

a £125 worth of a VIKING road-bike...
is worth more than a £495 Trek marlin 5 mountain bike...
how? the product wasn't made
at a time where... NOT MADE IN CHINA
was a thing...
perhaps the Chinese teamed up with project:
SLACK...

but there's this "debate":
i'd rather.... not listen to music...
hence... listen... to the bicycle not giving me grief...
streaking a palette of irksome sounds...
glitches... chasers...
creases in the otherwise well-oiled-up...
rubric of cogs and: generalised machinery...
i "forgot" to become a self-made d.j.
riding this glorious machinery...
why? it's so silent....
it works so well...
so much for advertising hell:

when a machine works so... pristinely...
that... you: can sacrifice listening to music...
as a way to digest the mundane...
passing of traffic...
so well oiled... of sure... the front breaks
squeak a little...
but you can refrain from auxiliary help
of the time: occupied by cycling:
because there's a solid frame....
and the classic handlebars allow your
hands the sort of "yoga" not associated
with the timidity of mountain-bike heirs: HIRSCH...

when you want to appreciate a well-crafted bicycle...
you want to listen to the traffic...
you can't hear your bicycle...
you're dying to **** a Turkish *******...

when journalism dies...
oh i'm pretty sure... no man alone...
the Phoenicians invented what the Canaanites
suggested: the humble patriarch Abraham...
Carmenta...
              St. Cyril...
SEJONG...
it wasn't sr. isaac pitman...
last time i heard it was... Marcus Tiro:
of the Cicero household...

*** & bicycles... it's one thing...
altogether another...
alpha + beta orbiters...
journalists get paid for being...
restaurant critics...
poets get paid for... load of *******:
and half the expected rhyme...
i like what i'm supposed to pay for...
Turkish prostitutes...
like Turkish barbers...
i get the best trim of ***** refocusing on my face...
i get the best blowback...

the English girls: all nuns!
all nuns! just prior to...
Pakistani paedophiles making them...
"available": no... rotten fruit at this point...
my life's complicated enough...
aim small: miss small...
heart's a pebble...

in the guise of: walking abortion:
walking around with a scrutiny of:
the eunuchs of king solomon's harem:
daddy: issues...
all those maxims... all those maxims::
but no foreseeable light of a
king david's psalms...

any man can claim wisdom:
when he has all the world is to arrive at....
no wonder that...
Solomon felt this sort of "grief"...
from David unto Solomon:
this tender prayer...

there's no need to avert the freedom
granted unto women:
i must allow myself
to love what i better not understand....
grow a beard: fiddle with it
pretending it to be a violin...
crease the concerns for traffic...
if it's not a horse: treat it as a bicycle...

i have a heart: enough of a heart:
to... drown a stone...
if not a stone then i'll suffocate
a mountain... however peacocking worded:
i'll drown a ******* mountain
in a puddle! then... i'll call it...
a lob-sided phenomenon of...
"ugly" tarmac!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2023
sensitivity: or the bearing of (a) soul...
i am almost tempted - no, i was:
almost tempted to omit the indefinite article
in that sentence,
it almost "almost" sounds better...
hence a "rephrasing":

    sensitivity: or the bearing of soul...

because it's not unlike the soul is something
either definite or indefinite that requires
some grammatical forensic articulation

say, unlike the Freudian trinity ego egg and ****
that schematic monstrosity of
19th century (late 19th century)
bourgeoise neurotic-sensibilities
fetishised by people with enough
luxury: time, money to evaluate ciphers
in dreams...

no no, oh no... none of that...

i've come to a parallel vision,
by now there have been two focal women in my life:

my life is a tragic echo-chamber realism,
it's like i'm utterly attached to reality
albeit - not however - consummating olden
wordings... hmm... a hmm for every hunchback
ghost-limb scratch...

zahnschleifenliebe:
apostrophes the raised commas...

i've come to a parallel vision,
the women per se but more to the point:
how these women sheltered me from media ingestion,
so much so that i can positively make

Russia and Kauai (Hawaii) synonyms in terms
of how little exposure i had to
the brainwashing fabric / fabrication of
they grey man of reaction - the mob facet, pivot...

a month in Russia (with the language barrier)
and a month on Kauai...
because there's no IN relating to Hawaii...
in Russia implies: a land-locked geography,
you can never be IN Hawaii,
you are always somehow ON Hawaii...
a ship or something, most certainly an island:
and spin-spin-go-go going nowhere...
no one says (i think, therefore probably n00b)
i'm in... no wait...

doesn't matter...
leading articles in the Saturday Times
november 18 2023... the editorial section...
what's not to like?
i.e. defenders of the apostrophe are right
to admire this versatile linguistic device...

elses' sloppy...

         residents of Twyford, Hampshire,
dispossessed by the council's adoption
(i was almost fine with the spelling adoptation,
until i realised... porridge partridge
creases in white shirts, ****)

         St. Mary's Terrace a St. Marys Terrace...
apostrophe as indicator of 's: possessive article
since... the plural article is simple s
and the possessive plural article is s'

      and no S'S... schultzschnoofstafforshire!
brr... coldness of memory reaching as far back
as the finest army uniforms ever on show:
that Hugo Boss brigade: because what good
is the Holy Scripture without the Holy Evil
of the Nazis... admiration...
can't compare: since it's so easily revised and
thrown at opposition by the left... oids...
lefty politics is better than religion in terms
of it being a neo-******...
it's what gets my heart in a flutter
   whenever i feel apathetic...
   can't beat a mythological case for pure evil...

ah... me off on a tangent...
two months in my life i was sheltered from being
influenced by media... all done by women
with the Edenic rapture of ***...
once at 21 with a 19 year old
and once at 37 with a 55 year old...
as a ****** i covered the whole Cold War
dynamic, ****** for both sides
and ****** both sides
and thus still strapped to the Mniema...
Niemy - dumbfounded Germanic
sieve...          third cousin from Saxon
through Dutch to English... wasps...

            so it's almost ridiculous how i made
English a language of choice of how to express
while those sorry sods write about
identity politics and immigration mentality...
i'm just bothered that i can't be exactly
Essex accented because my standard cosmopolitan
London 'ing-leash is just so...
    
oh i got drunk last night... i had to...
never in all the shifts i worked at Wembley
did i manage to get home so quickly...
waited 0.5sec for the Metropolitan line at
Wembley park station,
then waited 2min at Finchley road for the jubilee
line... 4 stops to Bond street
and "waited" / utilised the time to walk
the entire platform for the Elizabeth line...
then 3min waiting for the 499 bus
so i had time to buy myself a bottle of cider
get off the bus and drink it at a bus stop...
pre-drinking... marvelous pouring rain...
like... shattering of a mirror...
a shattering of a mirror into a nth term
eye mandala of Jung... or Tool...

shift finished early by 10:30pm
and i was happily in my garden drinking at 11:50pm
the harder liquor...

but on the train...
hmm... wooden ring deterrent...
so could have thought, but no...
she spotted me coming in at Tottenham Court Rd
stood in the aisle... played with her hair...
fiddled with it at first then pretended to
put it in a bun...
admired herself in the glass...
well... i wasn't having much fun listening
to Wardruna's Fehu or Helvegen...
so by the time she sat down across me
and phoned a friend i had already muted the music
and started listening...

bad date... no... a funny date...
oh jeez the complications... a shorter guy...
same matted hair...
easy conversation and no... over dinner...
no drinking...
but all this flirting...
standing on my feet for 12 hours straight
started to massage my legs...
what the hell does she do?
exposes her knees...
                                     subtle clues and cues...
this whole bonanza of a woman playing
with her hair...
in close proximity...
i know the psychological mantra spewed
into making our behaviours predictably constipated
like we've lost our own mystery...
like philosophy reached a cul de sac
when psychology became mainstream...
i don't want to hear it...
i still want to be mesmerised by...
an ontological perfume... a trace of being:
not a full-blown existential schematic
of / for automatons / zombies...

rule of thumb regurgitation (of) reincarnations,
perhaps it was the age-power dynamic
of i'm older she's younger
i have signs of grey implying wizened
where my beard begins and no sideburns "exist"
and yes: she didn't have a chance to show-off her
dress... and yes... i did notice she had
furry eyebrows or at least she fashioned
them like so...
        by now i'm rekindling the strange commute
because i played along
with the subtleties of flirt
   implying that i was covertly replying to her
almost subliminal messaging tactic...
hell: come to think it... this wasn't subliminal!

next thing i'll hear another doppelganger comparison
that i've stolen the shadow of Brad Pitt
or Chris Hemsworth... pity i have a ******
looking surname like ****** or Stalin...
but i will not be called Matt when i stress to be called
by my name proper...
someone at work once said:
only my mother gets to call me Matthew...
well in my case i'm Mateo... so... debunking Italian
in the Dąbrowski March...

oh yeah... there are only one or two maybe three
decent national anthems...
the French the Polish and the Russians
have the most appealing national anthems...
just like there's a genius to Abba
but hardly any in the Beatles... period...

so much for music:

gladius Rōmae imperī sum,
ubi’st nostrum imperium?
nē plōrā, mater Rōma,
dēnuō flōrēbis

Βελισάριος Βελισάριος - Oₕ        Aₕ
                                                  ₑₔₑₙ'ₛ

                            Eden's Siamese chim'pan'zees...

U turn into (∇) the nebula of Nabla:

(ego): Σ of being....

      Σsum =  fractus + fractus
1/2 + 2/1
ergo              Σsum = -1/2 always...

the half that's constantly missing you...
the power of *** and the dangers of ***...
i should have learned it at the brothel...
but it was all oh so casual like treating meat
in cuts before ensuring that the *******
were saved for the main course on a different
day and the rest of the chicken was used
to make a clear chicken soup
with carrots, leeks, parsley roots, celery,
celeriac...
this emotional investment is...
   a liberation and a project of self-awareness:

how will i try to sound less synthetic less
robotic?

i'm not even trying to be cryptic but my heart
is complicating what i want to say
and i don't want to say what it feels
with my cognitive wants,
notably utilising noun or verb crutches...

which is why i want to conjure "lesser" historical
figures... not that Philip Augustus of France
is a "lesser" figure... not when coupled
to the dynamic of Henry II, John and Richard I...
while Charlemagne stands alone...

by now this piece of writing has become music...
there is no investment in plot...
language can become just that... music or painting...
there's no conveying of direction,
there's no wisdom, wisdom as direction...
to hell with Levant wisdom...
i'll be the last man of the north
to listen to the "wisdom" of the desert...
i will dearly cut off this influence from my psyche...
gladly crucified the ****** and so be done with it:

to the point where, professionally:
we tried to stamp out racism with anti-racism:
i can't be an anti-racist...
i find racists a rather funny breed of people...
racism expressed unintentionally is
so rewarding... because it follows from
the basic principle of colour as meaning:
traffic... red is stop, amber is be ready
and green is flow... even though blue is more associated
with flow... then again... most rivers look green...
well... beside the Thames sun and concrete starved...

not since Ginsberg's poem i heard the word
***** hair coming from... well...
some sort of Arab, given his name was Fawad...
so some ****** version of piglet-pink
not marred by the cold of the north of Europe...
oh hell... we're in this together somehow...
no impeding Mongolian horde yet still
the best horror story i ever heard came
from my father:

i had a childhood friend once...
he committed suicide...
why? he was seeing this girl...
then the girl started to **** my father's friend's father...
epic horror story...
which is sort of me... right now...
i can conjure up this insecurity in
my current relationship...
she could easily take to my father
and usher out my mother into the street...
i like this fetish-fear...
it's a phobia-philia...
    anti-Oedipal and more: Kronos affirming...
just like i like the idea of the ancient Roman
practice of fostering children...
because i have no gene-incentive to speak of
because genes are fractions while
ideas are whole numbers... fetishist par excellence:

fluid French thinking, if thinking is French or was...
oh but it sort of it... since pragmatism is English
and thinking for thinking's sake is
not really pragmatic it therefore must be French
and if anything is to be resolved it has to be resolved
on Greenwich Mean Time terms... blah blah...

for now, just that... an exercise in writing.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2020
to write and autobiography:
   better to write an autobiographical sketch,
like this one, for example,
a very same-same / mediocre /
uneventful / predictable /
     it only matters that i have
bothered to look at the clock and the date:
9:50am / ten to ten a.m.
    6th of december two-thousand-and-twenty
(6/12/20) -
because otherwise than that...
it's a "make-me-believe-otherwise"
sort of a sunday...
as such... yes... an autobiographical
sketch...
         if nothing happens by a standard
definition of what does happen
when autobiographies are written...
then at least: this happens...
language happens /
    my use of the english language
happens... out of nonchalance...
        or good humour...
             or a must celebration of
soberness -
               since, well... since at some
point weeks / perhaps months ago...
a saturation point was reached
and... drinking and staying up into
the night and scribbling became...
pickled in... monotony...
          to have drunk so much as
to be bored of it...
       or rather: to have drunk and
as a consequence... sat and then shat
on one's laurels - for lack of a better
expression... i.e. written ****-all!
or written something, which was...
substandard... which is worse than
having written: zilch! nada (ナダ)!
if Charles Olson can be a self-described
'archeologist of the morning...'
(i am deliberating whether
to spend £40+ on the i maximus,
gloucester poems - hardcover -
please... any cheaper?!)
   then i can be an autobiographical
sketcher...
exhibit (a)...
                 otherwise it only insinuated
itself yesterday, it being a ghost
of an idea that probably haunted
by mind for periodical bouts of
dangling etc.
             some better wording (rephrasing
necessary - but not here
or now)...
   the term "****" doesn't really
do it justice... but it's most certainly
a variation of archeology -
   notably / concerning what?
how the moon looks from beneath
a tree...
    in winter... when the tree is all
but the bare branches -
           like a splintering bone of sorts
like something akin
to the alveoli in lungs...
     but obviously less cauliflowers
and less pride of a full crop of hair...
/ no crown of leaves...
but it's how the moon looks from
behind those twigs...
     arrested and devilishly motionless...
add to this image the odd
cough-up of a murk / a murkiness
of a tease that might be
a freezing of candy floss...
that is a cloud...
    and... how nature abhors a vacuum...
and i guess i am simply
standing in someone else's place
just prior...
if it wasn't written down...
   it is now... but it probably was...
but not in this way...
and since man is the antithesis
of nature as such that
nature doesn't hoard and man
tends to - notably time and time
wasted...
   but how rooted into the earth
one can                                                 be
to stand before this archeological
find...
which probably isn't to be treated
as something archeological...
but peering at the moon
in said way.. with added derivatives
of elevated sensation...
and i am, most probably...
that same-same variation of
primordial man...
               perhaps not him:
perhaps with a syllabary or perhaps
with a D'OH     R'EH
       ド       レ       ミ           ファ(fa)
            ソ (so')                        チ          
                   (la la la la la,
la la la la la, la la la la la ' la la, la, l'ah...)
to sing a little...
               10:17...
                   and that's that;
i suppose i now have enough justification
for the day to begin, proper.
Michael Marchese Feb 2023
First it must break
Like a heart
Through a stake
Then partake
In the making
Of others relate
To creating,
Rephrasing
Our own contemplate
And pervading us
Phasing through
Matters
Too great
To control,
Or predict
To behold The Great Rift
And then swiftly
Through history’s
Rivers we sift
Joseph Molobi Feb 2020
Since I've seen the sins of the hypocrites that seem to stare at the sea of purification but never want to purify their sins. Fornication should be sanctified inside the well - well the satisfaction of the heat hit the surface ready to surf that ace? Out from the vacation of comfort zone as we zone in the vexation of undesirable thoughts that stumble our vision less in the minute size of a bacteria unseen with a naked eye. Furthermore the vision clear as the crystal night, hence a mission is now persuaded. Rephrasing these verses in a method of paraphrasing to bless the land with the verses of scriptures. Here's the scrolls with me prints in it, history has been made with his story
Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2020
The ribbon is cut
The die is cast
The cement is dry
Yet nothing lasts
The brazen rewarded
The hero a fool
All reason outdated
New fury the tool

A journey presented
Your ship to go far
With doldrums eclipsed
By the light of new stars
The lands will seem foreign
The people most strange
But they’ll smile as you pass
And call you by name

You run and you run
And you run from it all
With no map to guide you
The albatross calls
And then sweet intention
Returns from respite
Rephrasing the unmentioned
Where maybe you might
In fear of the tonic
All healing disdained
Right, left-side disjointed
The cork from the drain

The covers pull back
Your bones are now bare
The tiller is slack
And there’s nobody there
So you take to the helm
Hands firmly in place
And you care not a whit
If it’s all empty space
As a raven is perched
On the yardarm so high
A land bird that lurches
Cawing all truth a lie

And you wonder then maybe
Have you wandered too far
As you ladle the future
From a long empty jar
The wind starts to move
A gift from the moon
What’s whole has been halved
And the sun almost noon
The rigging is creaking
The mast ever tall
The wind has died down
With no new ports of call

The feeling still burns
In the fire within
To find that one thing
That unfound—to you sings
The ocean is flat
The seas become calm
The seasons repeat
From reflection embalmed
The night sky is clearest
The darkest the days
The winds have escaped you
Adrift you now stay

But then just a wisp
Of a breeze on your cheek
Portends of a magic
And the vision you seek
It strengthens and gushes
Throughout all the night
As the red sky last evening
Had hinted it might
As the headsails go up
The big linen comes down
And you climb up the mast
Stepping over a frown
The creak of the lapstrake
Splashes over the bow
The present’s in sight
Incarnate right now

You look down on a lifetime
In this moment of joy
As the smell of the brine
Covers anything coy
And an Island approaches
From the mist up ahead
As the stillness reproaches
And retreats to its bed
The wonder returns
All speculation begins
Of the magic you’ll find
In this newness again
At the top of a mountain
Strange trees then appear
In a shape that’s uncertain
Neither familiar nor clear

The closer you get
The more they seem to move
As their shapes become giant
And your hopes then behoove
Now anchored offshore
With the dinghy in place
You can see them more clearly
Each shape and each face
Like monolithic Gods
They reign high on the hill
Looking down on who enter
With a warning that’s shrill

But where are the people
The Island is bare
Just giant stone carvings
That linger and stare
As you land on the beach
The ground starts to shake
And from deep in your heart
The primordial aches
The mountain then trembles
All paths become closed
With the thunder a warning
Any trespasser knows
As you run to the dinghy
Its been stolen and gone
And your ship is now missing
In its place just a song
Calling out in those words
That you already know….

“A price not paid dearly
is only for show”

You turn back to the mountain
And in an explosion of light
You’re lifted up to the heavens
Spun around in a fright
Then shooting straight downward
Toward the mountain below
With force you are planted
Along monument row
And now that you’ve joined them
All questions abide
The distance and separation
In heaven collide….

“Can I leave, am I destined
to be left here entombed ?”

And in language you recognize
You hear back so soon
From those pillars immortal
Voices start to be heard
Your welcome now total
Reborn in their words

“You can leave if you want to
the choice is now yours
but this mountain goes
with you
all places defer
you’ve reached
through the mystery
you’ve passed your own test
the tonic’s within you
—the raven has fled”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2013)

— The End —