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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound
soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art
.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop
? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.
Invocation Jul 2014
Falseness becomes you, little plastic angel
marble eyes roll, liquid sky drops of ***** coolness
never-changing
hair so fine, my heart wants to glide along your ribbons and silk like
figureskating
welts glow red on my skin as your bronzed alabaster shimmers respectably
kiss me once more; i want to taste the diamond on your lips
glitter glitter glitter
until it's time to tear away the mask
and then what are you?
she's so cute
i've never really thought highly of makeup
painted faces bore me
but hers <3 <3 <3
N'Dea Crenshaw Sep 2014
Ebony.
Skin smooth as silk.
A yellow tint or cocoa hue.
You do not experience what we do.
Being viewed as the enemy is imminent.
And it's evident, that the color ebony's negative connotation is remnant.
Of a past connection to Nubian kings & queens--
Stripped of their crowns.
A piece seen, in my name.
No...it is not fabricated, but actually holds meaning.
It's the closest thing I got to my slave ancestors.
Stop trying to degrade me...
And chain me, with your everyday preconceptions.
The concept that I'm beneath you, when the foundation of this nation and slave bones lie beneath you.
Looking out your peripheral, unspoken prejudice fabricated.
Wondering how I'm dressed respectably, like "That's an expensive fabric, ain't it?"
Cause the last time it caught your eye, my ancestors were picking it.
When you see me hold my head high, you feel the right to question it.
But I already told you, it's a new day
Don't saturate this generation with racism
Like you did civil rights marchers with hoses.
We've come a long way, but I still have a question for you... 
If God holds all humans in the same regard,
Then why is accepting the color ebony so hard?
I love that your
So polite and
Old fashioned
Always asking
Before you
Touch
From the start
Having respect
For my body
And even when
Its obvious I want you
You ask
The first time comicality
Surrounded by the beginning
Of true passion
Can I touch those?
As though
They were mutants
But that's how the
First touch goes
I love it when you ask
Because each time you do
I know I was suppose to be with you.
NEITHER rose leaves gathered in a jar-respectably in Boston-these-nor drops of Christ blood for a chalice-decently in Philadelphia or Baltimore.
  
Cinders-these-hissing in a marl and lime of Chicago-also these-the howling of northwest winds across North and South Dakota-or the spatter of winter spray on sea rocks of Kamchatka.
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
lovely, banal, *******,
she smilingly slides the
respectably slip transparent
around the resistant
pleasurable hips
thighs riotous pulsing
cleaved calves clever
neatly witha3inchheel
                                       sli n  g   s
it into the hamper
clicks her sway into
the bathroom,
plum-ripe lips juicy) saying
(i'll be out in a jif, hon
cummings just knocked on the door...saying, i wish truly) that (you would not do ;)
3-2-2011  JMF
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
 
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
 
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
 
The book encouraged me to
‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’

 
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
 
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
 
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
 
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
 
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
 
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
 
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
 
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
 
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.
The book On Poetry is by Glyn Maxwell published in 2012 by Oberon Masters.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
looks like someone's dancing in their underwear...
touché - looks like someone's buying pints
of milk in their pyjamas.

night privy, nocturnal India
i get to do the dance over your grave
while your relatives grieve a pointless
grief: just in the same way they grieved
a rotten chestnut, or egg....
maybe this sprout of anti-imagination
might be a floating limb of ambition
to being *simply
reattached -  the black keys'
                        lonely boy
-
spastic maestro number uno - chillies
and the Chilcot KKK inquiry -
got buff results with the whitey crew -
took out the trash, fed the gerbils,
saved a Latex ****** from the hood...
well... the Kentucky hooded brigade,
fully tent equipped parishioners -
                 and whenever you dress up as sheep
you better barbecue - c k q - what a long shopping list -
   *i've got a love that keeps me waiting!
  ooh oh oh oh!
            i've got a love that keeps me waiting;
                   i'm a lonely boy"
-      
                     to cue or to queue -
         a forever question unanswered -
of simply quit... they call it the lack of
solar tattoo pigmentation -
         i treat the argument for god
like i'd treat winning the jackpot in lottery,
    it just has the prefix existential- prior to what's
       being gambled: someone suggested respectability;
                     i guess that's fair enough - otherwise
i call it a fail with potatoes acting as bricks
in Northern Ireland... and a blatant lack
of back-up colonialism....
         that ****** better sprech Anglo
or he's toast.... then came the Voodoo Vindaloo -
screaming: churn out the chillies into chokes! aah!
oh oh or excessive umlaut agitation -
poor tool tummy - when have you experienced
the ****-up in surgical syllables taken
to the butchers for coarse timing
that never coerced?
i danced that dance, angry though,
when they played Pendulum's Tarantula
in a Basildon's night-club - you heard a roar
when spotted an "epileptic"
(both dittoing as said, and ambiguity) weaving a web of
personal space - truly and originally,
not your cup of tea - i'd ensure you as
              respectably assured -
mind the Sundays and the roast beef and
the home office and Yorkshire fundamentalism;
Newcastle? Newcastle is too hedonistic.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i can't say much about today, well, i probably will,
made a burger and did house chores with Steptoe,
and i know what you're thinking -
the common trend in western society, you actually
like familial interactions, you're not into
7 year itches, you're not inclined to conjure up
Norman Bates all of a sudden - you're content,
quiet respectably normal - and to be frank,
the following as happened to me: the psychoanalytic
technique of regression, i.e. planting false memories
when being psychoanalysed - page 25 of Friday
July the 8th 2016 the times newspaper - headline:
THERAPIST FACES CLAIM OF "BRAINWASHING"
GIRLS - she implanted in them a Freddy Krueger -
a reverse Friday the 13th scenario -
one psychiatrist tried it on me - he hushed the words:
'oh... he was abused as a child' - but the pronoun
usage was already wrong, or simply odd -
this sort of musing aloud got to me worked up,
i said nothing, i continued with an interview, i had a few,
don't you worry, they passed me around like hot charcoal,
they couldn't put a box on me, (bragging? on this subject,
just the reality of what happened) - they employed about
five psychiatrists and two students to decipher me,
i was holding the joker card every time -
they couldn't understand that a real physical ailment
could be translated into metaphysical ailments -
if you mean metaphysics turned into a lysergic acid-like
experience then i might as well have talked to the police -
five of them, none bothered to use the funding the
national health service gets to book an m.r.i. scan,
they prescribe psychiatric drugs assuming your brain
is a sponge that soaked up a chemical soup -
i'm talking natural sedatives, alcohol, not synthetic sedatives:
anti-psychotics. the structure of the family breaks down
in the west, but it's fine, we have legal partnerships
and gay marriage - i guess the latter is the only positive,
but like any married couple, the nagging will invariably
enter the scene, and given that heterosexual marriages break
down, i'm hardly going to bet on homosexual marriages
being the maiden voyage of Titanic without the iceberg.
so 5 of them, beaten to the core, but only this recent story
made me think of the inherent sadism in psychiatry,
regression "therapy" whereby i did for a moment play out
the trick and thought about what sort of abuse i might
have suffered as a child... oh, that time i taught myself
how to ******* aged 8? well, that's self-abuse -
and a pretty good one i might add, few people will *******
and feel ******* but not the end product, or maybe
just me - so Ms. A (as is noted in Poland when a criminal
is identified) did this regression tactic to break up families,
she might have failed hers, and strategically invoked the failures
into other people - we already know that psychiatrists are
very sick people, we just don't know how sadistic they can be
by being subtle in their methods... after all... thought
equated to the senses is 5 times more fragile, and more
sensual if you think about it - all the senses bundled up into
one function, and we don't necessarily know what that
function is taking away a Cartesian moment of realisation,
your daily chores, your professional web of utilities,
after all, what is thinking? fail-safety-mechanism in philosophy?
ask a question - the alternative of a ¶, a new paragraph.
so when a society shuns public intellectualism, philosophers
poets... who do you think will enter in their place in terms
of political dynamics? yep, the men in white coats with pills...
pills pills pills... nothing more, and bogus theories half
expanded and half shunned by a zoological treatment of
human beings - i know there are exceptions, a man last year
stabbed a pensioner 30 times over a minor traffic-accident,
he was labelled a paranoid schizophrenic... oddly enough
i too was labelled that... a 5 minute diagnostic session,
man comes in, i say - a woman across the street is walking
around naked, and so are her daughters... i'm getting this
****** fuelled fantasy working on me, can you tell her to
invest in curtains? i don't mind the naked bit,
but imagining doing a mother and two daughters is a bit
too much for my pigeon brain.
the stimuli ingested by the senses are nothing compared
to what stimuli thinking ingests -
it's less the sun the moon a summer breeze,
and more McDonald, Gucci: pseudo-capitalism with
your generic schizoid symptom - insinuations.
oh believe me, faking this condition out of personal-interest
was necessary - to fake it, to take an interest in it
to see what the other side was doing about it left me
with an inexhaustible source of resources: experience.
i think i'll end the intro and tell you something else.

two books on my lap, Jung's *answer to Job

and the long hard road out of hell - a semi-autobiographic
by Marilyn Manson and neil strauß -
so before you think i write about religious matters
like some cuckoo evangelist having a library of
only one book and a lot to talk about, i don't -
but we live in times where everyone imitated someone,
that someone is already obvious -
funny though, the Greeks invented the concept
of Antichrist... without knowing that the concept
of anti-matter would pop up about 2000 years later -
a coincidence you say? not given the Atomists
Leucippus and Democritus - the theory of anti-matter,
but in a religious person?! travesty you scream!
john of πατμoς - he had the anticipation of anti-matter
like the Atomists cited (obviously there were some
in the east - the Jain Genies - modern day scenes
from Tokyo and Beijing - wouldn't eat a ladybird
or sniff up an airborne microbe) - but hell, if Johnny
~anticipated anti-matter, but really didn't, why
was the anti person invoked? it took all the dereliction
of religion to provide the basis for anti-matter,
and that's no surprise, it makes it easier to think of
another world, no scientist would come up with it,
because only a religious person would somehow conjure
up a mechanism whereby what was once matter turned
into anti-matter, or a version of Christ that reads,
writes, and doesn't give sermons... well, why not?
let's go crrrrazy. yet the main point of this entry is, well,
the profanity Christianity took to when learning about
the tetragrammaton, there's much beauty in it, and yet
for Christianity a crucifix is somehow an improvement...
benedictio fontis (blessing of the fountain), the sign
of the cross is made - Catholics make it on themselves:
forehead, left right, stab at the heart and then
romeo:
if i profane with my unworthiest hand
this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
to smooth that rough toush with a tender kiss.
juliet:
good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much
                                                  (you **** a lot),
which mannerly devotion shows is this;
for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm in holy palmers' kiss;
Orthodox Greek and Russian: forehead, right left,
stab at the heart - hey, why not put a few together,
you know, those gesticulations -
(index, thumb and ******* - the "holy trinity"
in Braille) forehead, left right right left (****,
where's a traffic warden when you need one),
and then hand clenched into a fist... smack... a mea culpa
straight away - honestly, god to a Polish Catholic mass...
go to one... you'll end hearing a Satanic murmur
roaming through the crowd, esp. as the creed of faith
being said... shivers down the spine.
but that's what's written in Jung - from the eloquence
of yhwh to † - in effect a bit more than Christian sign language,
more like the acronym n.e.w.s. - north east west south -
and when he said kneel, he replied don't tempt me,
and when he said kneel and all the kingdoms will be yours,
someone ordered chicken chow mein in defiance
to the moment, and China remained with Confucius,
predictably confused when the one-child state policy came
into effect - ever wonder why they play that pebble
game at the Hajj? you think they're throwing a pebble
at a raw Rodin block of stone before the chisel was aimed
thinking they'll throw a pebble and get two pebbles back?
The sun sits high now, and I am but a man.
Though as time passes, the sun sinks and
my silver moon surfaces,
I become a hunter.

As the bartender splashes cheap liquor into spotted glasses,
I stalk quietly in the corner as a lesser man’s prey stumbles
drunkenly, clumsily across the sticky floor.

My eyes glide smoothly over the room,
evaluating my most promising prospects.

My eyes settle on one;
she sits proudly and respectably, and I watch my plan
unfold in my mind.

I will be charming, and convincing;
modest and self-depricating.

She will resist, at first, as they always do,
but the sincere look in my eyes will persuade her that
I am not “every other guy.”

She will fall head first into my pool of lies,
and tonight she will be mine.
And tomorrow,

she will mean nothing.
S Smoothie Dec 2013
This strange kind of numb has chased away the desolating pain
there seems nothing in the part where love grows
not in the heart or mind or soul
Is this what death feels like?
Every shred of decency you stole in that **** weak moment of betrayal
you shook the hand of the beast that gave the burden
the thief of my dignity
it was an inncent action between men who respect each other
you had had no right to placee all my shreds of respectably in his palms
to anialate me without provacation
to give me up to avoid confronting the truth
you let my pride die a silent death
the humiliation.
the state of shock
and constant scraping up my self off the floor
it was because you found it easier to forgive, than fight for me
so I died A million painful deaths in that moment
like the love that swore it would die a thousand more
it vanished emphasising the nothing that I am
and you didn't even blink an eye.
I shuffle my "socked" feet to the window to see the blue and red lights flashing brightly.

A few minutes ago, sirens blaring loudly.

Now there's two police cars running idly.

Frantically a woman scans the vicinity.

A officer questions the woman both carefully and calmly.

I watch carefully from my five story apartment.

Its an eerie feeling, watching the police stand as idly as their vehicles in the night.

As if they wish they could've dealt with something more interesting than a domestic fight between man and wife.

One of the officers come out of the building with a respectably tall man.

His hands clasped together as his wrists were bound by cuffs.

I wasn't surprised to see that his demeanor was resonating a sense of, "I don't give a ****!"

The woman locked eyes with the guy and immediately began foaming at the mouth with anger, pain, contempt, and disdain because of beatings and bruises that she has obtained.

From Him.

He was calm, cool, and collected.
From what it seemed, nothing he regretted.

Unaffected.

Before his head disappeared within the police vehicle, I could've sworn i saw him smile.

The dispatch scratched through the car.

Complex codes and orders resonated from afar, as the cruiser quietly accelerated, then the siren blared through the cold brittle midnight air.

Quietly i stood there and stared and stared until the both the sound and sight of the vehicle was no more.

I shuffled my "socked" feet back to my bed.
Back to sleep.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
in ref. to the supposed "unholy" trinity -
i can only clearly identify one member,
antonym of the holy spirit (alias of
a community, rather than a person,
as stated by Žižek - in his words, should
it be different, it would be a profanity) -
if that is the case, then the variation
of holy spirit is ascribed the title zeitgeist -
or: the spirit of the times - the 20th century's
example is filled with zeitgeists -
communist, nazis, hippies, punks, goths,
beats, squares, or 21st century's militant atheists
and Jihadists, Blairites...
as is evident, the zeitgeist is short lived -
it's naive in being easily influenced - but because
of its gullibility it's also brutal in not being
influenced for worth of establishing a religion -
it's "unholiness" is precisely the reason why
it's poly-adaptable - multi-faceted - unruly -
it changes very quickly and is never rock-like -
but because of its gullibility it's also brutal in
not being influenced to the point of permanence -
the fluctuations are numerous, and democratically so,
many people can attach themselves to the "unholy
spirit" at any time they want, without knowing
they're actually part of a congregation - and as soon
as a congregation is established, the zeitgeist
implodes and disappears - the congregation breaks up -
soon overpowered by the forces of imitation -
ah - now the second person of the "unholy" trinity -
the Imitator - the flawed first entry post-zeitgeist -
never reaching the zeitgeist's potential, this tsunami
wave lasts longer than the actual zeitgeist - it's
a variation of nostalgia - not a nostalgia of thinking back
but a nostalgia of trying to revive - resuscitate -
the assortment of vanity projects; now i'm either too
hangover or just know what i have to do today
before the Royal Opera House and Verdi's Nabucco -
a peasant is heading into town, peasant better iron
his shirt and trousers and look respectably urban.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
funny how they write in their spare time poetry, or that they
write poetry in their spare time as art's necessity:
the fifth minding the four are lacking in functioning
accountability - never necessary, but always there.
poetry akin to such past-times as gluing together
model aeroplanes - what a shame for the art
that no longer attracts the upper-muddle class
to "excess" themselves as if salvaging something
worth a brief encounter with the Antiques' Roadshow.
the love i loved since the Renaissance was
extinguished ever since we've been left with
part-time art, artists on the sly -
more than impotent popes -
i mean impotent popes, impotent popes -
old men knowing as much of art
as the art of decoration - floral canapes
and wallpaper scraps? that'll do.
royal highness, hmm, whatnot?
crimson is synonymous with cherry on paper -
but in an artwork totally antonymous,
the peculiarity of shades necessary - old stink
of unpolished mahogany of Burgundy, the deep red
almost brown - settling into respectably dated bottles.
i guess democracy is short-lived,
we're all uneducated illiterate X on the ballot papers -
sign your name with X -
but they educated us and robbed us at the same time -
all you have left concerning a *** life is
consolidation in ******* -
a cocktail shaker ******* to mind
along with the guillotine - chopped off, not stirred.
well, i'm sure they care, care as much
for their children's teddy bear - ooh smooch coma
self-abuse - the revealing part is st. Paul's cathedral -
as once it stood in zeppelin shadow,
so too it stood in the Focke-Wulf Ta 154 Moskito's shadow:
biblical reminiscence of the lord of mosquitoes
rather than Beelzebub - and a McDonald's takeaway;
western society is so ******* keen on utilising
respected sadism - so keen that it doesn't bother to read
books - the paranoid me says to the un-paranoid me?
why would these people once salon bound
educate us for the purpose of reading by making reading
non-vogue - if they themselves have not found
reading a part based on a stiffening? but i hardly think
a book is worth a pyramid of human sweat - less brow
and more armpit sweat - i still find it frightening that they
seemed to educate us in order to read book reviews
and become informed via that than the actual books themselves -
meanwhile the Chinese are laughing with "menial" labour
kindred of the unconscious prescribe of the drum-kit of the heart,
via being existentially less demanding -
via a respect for family - what with the sadist nurses
and aged soiled great-grandparents in fly-saliva-spas
on the quick to comment on your professionalism and keen
career making.... well, urbanity served us well,
until the times of: not so well.
oh sure, my vocabulary can sometimes become a
chewing gum simulation - elsewhere it's considered pure fibre:
means you eat less than you **** out.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
unlike painters, poetic sketches
are rarely written down,
they're spoken,
it's not necessarily a psychiatric
worthy evaluation of a lack of health,
poets levy all the possibilities
of anti-matter (the compromise)
to sketch - you can spot them
incur constant defeat, writing on
a sheath with their inky sword,
on a colour of defeat, warring with
the word, but to no avail,
yet still ram-persistent-ignorance
remaining to be utilised;
learning the english language
from the age of 8,
i meet a Cypriot in a pub in the
irish "quarter" of greater london,
and he tells me i'm posh -
self-taught elocution that
allows me to slur posh when drinking,
i had it coming, learn from scratch,
scratch your way in to the aristocratic
heights, but have a stiff-left **** cheek
and the whole cheek affair will
bubble-foam through;
aspiring Sadduccee said:
'but not because of the babylonians
or the egyptians had we such
a massive influx of religious debate
and religious intellectualism,
as under the romans...
their image-engraving system
serves the polity, they ignore
the engravings, but do so nonetheless
for some odd principle,
there's the point of gesticulation
amiss, only the ****** females
gesticulate with incense and ****** -
none dare cross the threshold of
argument, unless they head to the
undiscovered lands of the north,
by such distance allowed to be crossed,
a crucifixion would seem but a torturous
tickle, compared to the blood eagle execution.'
indeed the northern numbness of the heart,
lest anything else prevail, this alone will...
but the larger the society, the less chance
of tribalism and justice eager to sentence
culprits... more thieves and cowards...
a thief will not steal your arm or leg,
but the by-product of your arm's or leg's labour,
cowards and thieves rampant.
so indeed, the poet sketches, but sketches
with his mouth, onto the canvas of clouded
skies, bird cries and howling foxes,
he sketches like a painter might,
although respectably announcing the numbers;
a Pharisee said:
'we invented this mode of communication,
these letters these numbers for only
one monumental reason, stationed
in the Bastille, envisioned our fate we did,
we crafted this little abstracts into
as many units as there are,
for the sole reason as to complicate
our imagining of things...
strain the mind to read, un-strain it to
imagine a higher reality of a child's impromptu -
for we crafted these symbols of curbed sound
to craft incision upon incision
and create the only anatomy of the mouth:
one H fills the vowels, one H to hollow them out,
and there you have a W like a crimean tatar piñata,
god's fat **** sitting on a naked alphabet
reveals diacritical geometrics ascribed to
the four letters.... the Y?
that's a bit like:

          scythe                     cyst



                       cauldron

it's technically chiral, s, k, c....
but then they interchange like some quantum
physics explanation, the odd affair.'
indeed socrates or jesus couldn't show you that,
they only wrote an ancient form of signature
of being present (X), and with their death a full-stop...
but in times when only a minority where literate
it was rather becoming, rather expected:
to shout into the tier of the literate ones,
a message, so profound, it would take
enforced suicide or torture to get something across...
but now we're all literate... i guess the only way
to shout a message is to shut up...
a glorious time to think, by my standard of interpretation.
so in terms of sketching poetically,
leave the would-be haiku-upon-haiku aside...
europeans can't write a haiku,
they don't write them drunk...
you get a chinese drunk on your dosage of whiskey
by the first round... he'll write you a depth
of philosophy parallel to the oddity of
spring blossoms blooming throughout winter
on the border between a home county (essex)
and east anglia (capital norwich);
glutton glob gob tearing in argument,
which is a heated discussion;
so when you see a "madman" talking,
he's not addressing his self (himself),
you obviously only read in the enclosure of fiction,
so you divide it into a third party associate (the narrator)
and imaginary friends of the narrator (characters,
first person heroes, second person: people
speaking about the heroes)... and by that definition
you haven't touched a single philosophical novel...
yes, those books... written by pedants wondering
how best to syllable a little pause...
how to stress, de-stress, including over provisions
of optics.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2022
a farewell to quills / qwerty: alternative title to -new year's resolution and breaking thresholds of my mental stamina

rereading some works of Frank O'Hara thinking:
i wish a naive 20 year old once more,
just for as little as an hour - curse this aging and
getting predictable in one's assurance
    and disappointments -

i'm crushed today, absolutely crushed...
last night i managed to "****" the madam of the brothel...
that's the thing... i was coming back from
work, i drank one bottle of cider and a little
bit of whiskey, but i must have walked
around the brothel roughly 3 miles
in endless bouts of despair and excitement...

vomiting what little i ate that day...
thinking i'm constipated with an unfinished
little nugget of **** lodged up my *******...
queasy, excited, lost.... child-like...

like i said: "****"... she's a big woman...
i'm guessing in her 50s... definitely late 40s...
it's rather intimidating... and i'm like 5 months
shy from being 37 myself!
plump... but given her age that looks great on a woman
and... my god... the greatest pair of *******
i have ever seen... absolutely...
    a *****-**** where your actual **** disappears
completely?
                    it was just too intimidating...

whenever she let into the brothel for a £10
sat me down and inquired whether i'd like something
refreshing to drink... or she would let be choose
what music i'd like to listen to if all the girls were
busy...

******* no. 1 - lasted me for about 5 minutes...
flop... i finally broke my mental threshold when it comes
to casual ***... casually authentically transactional ***...
no games... not dating games...
no "relationships" / hook-ups...
me, going to the butchers - laying down £10 on
the table the butcher giving me a lump of beef...
that's it... no not me being older and dating 20 year
old women and beating them at the game
just by being older...

                                     the complete ******* opposite...
i don't know what her prostitutes told her
and why she suddenly made herself available!
(oh ****... i'm going to be sick... right this minute...)

.....................................................­.....................
...........................................­.................................
...............................­...........................................
.....................­......................................................
..........­................................................. (10 minutes
spent in the toilet puking, later).......................

unlike with Isabella - from Grenoble -
who i lost my virginity to -
i was a fresh 18 year old who already had
some experience with kissing and hand-jobs
while she was 21 and already with experience...
she just implored me to put on a ******
while speaking half-drunk half-passionately
(strange combination, i know)...
                  
older women... the gap gets even worse when
you get to the age of 36 and the woman is
in her late 40s or in her early 50s...
                                the allure is staggering...
a Grand Canyon of experiences -
                                      i am not ashamed that
i tried to get a ******* twice and twice failed...
as we were talking she didn't cut any corners:
it's not strong enough...
   oh **** me... for the 5 minutes it was hard
the way she just slapped in on her tongue...
but as the limo kicked in i just brushed it aside...
like dirt under a rug... not really taking myself
seriously - the situation was serious enough...
                          of course i didn't blame her...
                           and of course she knew that i couldn't
for the first time in my life i mentioned ******...
my head was aching with this notion...
but not too much: back in high school i already knew
guys in their tender age of 17 and 18 who had
early success with girls who were already
popping ******...
                                             but i know my bouts
of impotence... there's a word in Polish that perfectly
describes it: TREMA...
             which doesn't mean trauma...
                                the jitters... stage-fright...

oddly enough with her prostitutes hardly any problems...
but most of them are younger...
    with her prostitutes it's usually the opposite...
there's the hard-on but a mental constraint of being
unable to finish, to ******...
this was a completely opposite problem...

i dreamt of **** that size ever since i learned to *******
aged 8... and now having finally arrived at
my Mecca of fantasies and "expectations"...
******... the jitters...
                          which i could understand if i was
20 and she was 28... but not with my experiences...
not nearing 37... well...
                                   but she's nearing 50... ergo?
the canyon of expectations grows exponentially...
why? because... technically... i bought into
some Oedipal... she could technically be my mother...
not quiet... and on top of that:
                            she's the madam of the brothel!
she's the one who employs prostitutes and gives
them protection by employing a bouncer
who says a friendly: hello mate, how are you?
upon opening the brothel's fourth door...
oh yeah... you have to walk through 4 doors before
entering...
i have seen guys get rejected on the 1st door...
and the 2nd...

all these factors played a part...
ergo? my new year's resolutions are here...
my drinking has finally caught up with me...
i'm actually getting bored of drinking...
i know i said that once...
and never stuck to my guns of giving up
the habit... i'm also getting bored of smoking
cigarettes...
                     i can't smoke on the job
because i get nervous when sometimes having
to attend to large crowds... large crowds of
drunk football fans... i can't smoke in the morning
either... i get this morning tobacco sickness...
plus being a serious cycling enthusiast:
what's the point?
plus being pestered with a genetic predisposition
for high blood pressure...
the drinking is not helping... the smoking is not
helping... maybe that's another factor when it comes
to this one bout of erectile dysfunction...
high blood pressure...

and... writing... well... if i won't be drinking alcohol
my truth serum will be gone...
              and if i won't be smoking... what sort of writer
would i be if i didn't smoke?
the one eating carrots as a way of distraction and bad
habit?
                     i might as well admit that...
i think that i've written all that i have wanted / not wanted
to write -
     there's just no more incentive to continue this
dream - give up like Scott Fitzgerald... but instead
of turning to more alcohol... actually giving it up...
   all the vices... get in even better shape and...
                      go back to the madam and **** her like
300 Spartans...
                  
but on top of that she gave me more depressing news...
Mona and Kdarda ****** off... it would seem for good...
Mona became pregnant... what?!
oh yeah... she's in her 2nd or 3rd month...
she's back in Romania...
                                               who did she become
pregnant with?                                   ...
    ...                                          silence... not that i actually
asked the question...
                                    i sometimes wonder what
happens to those used condoms...
                                        it's almost like in the urban
myth i once overheard in Poland about...
either a man or a woman who sold condoms
having pierced them with a needle...

              well i have an urban myth of my own...
even though it's not a myth but a sad reality of being
with a woman, in a relationship,
who tells you she doesn't like you wearing a ******
because if there's going to be any latex involved it
won't  go inside of her but will be outside of her
so she tells you she will get on the pill...
                       only years later you realise....
it was impossible that she was on a contraceptive pill
because... you just performed oral *** on
a ******* who let you have unprotected *** with
her because she actually was on the pill
i.e. you can't perform oral *** on a woman who
is on the pill because there are no sweet juices flowing
there's only a ******* pharmacy down there...
it's bitter... so ergo... if that girlfriend of yours calls you
up a few weeks after she broke up with you
and tells you that she's pregnant...
                       on top of you suspecting her ex boyfriend
beta orbiter hanging around her flat in St. Petersburg
when you went over to visit one glorious summer...

why have only prostitutes  been the most
                                                 sane women in my life?
oh this night i'm going to drink my last
and write something rather epic...
                     because after tonight...
                                 a hiatus... complete darkness...
sure... any internet communication already established:
kept... but i'm not sticking my head out anymore...
i've done it for 8 years and i'm finally feeling the strain
that writing creates in the psyche...

i also realised yesterday that the ego can be sometimes
right... my ego planned that i wouldn't go to the brothel
until the next year, a day prior to ******* off to Poland
to celebrate my grandmother's 80th birthday
(and obviously stocking up on duty free Camel cigarettes) -
as i was circling the vicinity of the brothel
trying to find the darkest parts - alleys, the park,
my ego was already telling: but you said so yourself
that not until next year, look at yourself: you're a nervous
wreck! you're not in the mood for ***... not tonight...
you just finished a shift and you're tired... just go home...
but i didn't listen to my ego: it's a painfully useful realisation
that this otherwise usually fickle entity inside of
my head with its pseudo-schizoid advantages / disadvantages
of rummaging in two tongues is somehow still
trying to help me, persuade me, comfort me and tell
me the whole truth rather than some delusional spin-off
some variation of a Satanic-whisper...
yesterday i was illuminated... but of course i didn't listen:
since it wasn't my conscience talking...
     i've already done the supposedly "evil" / "taboo"...

it's for the best... for the past 8... hell! more!
how many years has it been where there wasn't a single
day where i wouldn't spew some sort-poetic but mostly
rambling every, single, ******, night!
non-stop! sometimes, in my peak, that would involve
me sitting from 10pm through to 8am in
the morning - going to bed with the sunrise and
getting up with the sunset...
                             becoming this nocturnal monster -
living a life associated with the comings and goings
of an ivory tower, ******* Merlin the whacky etymological
historian of sorts...

well... today was eventful: just by waking up i was transported
into a warping of thought...
i needed to have a conversation with myself...
woke around 2pm... exhausted... lay in bed for
3 hours, hungry, hung-over...
       not moving, like a reptilian predator...
what did i have to eat today?
   my father used to call my drinking antics by using
the metaphor: rat...
   i always thought myself more of a fox...
although ask the Chinese...
                rats are not something to be cringed at...
they spread the wrath of the gods...
                       i couldn't **** a fly i couldn't **** a rat...
i remember this one instance in Edinburgh...
i was with Ilona and a mouse managed to enter my
wardrobe... i could see it: eyes glistening...
what did i do?
    i built a maze in my bedroom...
     with a trap at the end... "ushering" the mouse out
it ran through my elaborate maze and into my trap...
i caught it... pincer index thumb held up upside down,
she took a picture, giggle... purr me...
what did i do with it?
       i went outside of the flat (Montague St. can't
remember the flat number, tenements)
and left it on the communal staircase... thinking...
well... it might just scuttle away...
what did the mouse do? a ******* KAMIKAZE jump
two storeys down...
              which sent... shockwaves of trauma back
into my at-then-present-consciousness...
   when i was younger this bully of a kid...
thick glasses... curly brown hair... encouraged me...
to drop my hamster from a height telling me...
he'll survive... so... i dropped the hamster...
watching it fall... watching it hit the ground...
watching its tiny snout paint a ******* of crimson,
hue pink, hue... all the Hugh Grants and Heffners
in red...
    as i ran back to my mother and grandmother
crying... talk of parachutes... opening...
some magical force this bully persuaded me of...
the parachute didn't open! the parachute didn't open!
it was a joke for a while...
                           but i was the killer of my own pet...
and this kid... i still don't remember how
he came into my life... he wasn't the kid of any of the neighbours...
he just appeared in my life for this particular instance...
and there i was thinking i was morally superior
when i took a walk alone down a little stream
watching two boys **** a frog by smearing it with
lipstick and setting it alight...

things changed when hamsters became dogs...
Axl... i loved that dobberman... ferocious beast...
me and the upstairs kid: BIOŁY... Mark? Martin?
he was so blonde he could pass off as albino...
we were playing my Nintendo console...
because... i was the "rich" kid in the neighbourhood...
well... rich... living in those old communist satellite
state sort of tenements...
i was the kid with all the presents but no father
in my life and a drunk grandfather who was still great:
better than nothing given i only had one grandfather
and you're sort of supposed to have two...
so we were playing... got into an argument...
i don't know what happened in-between
i just know that Axl bit the boy's nose and the same
glorious gush of red-energy emerged...
                            
"i"...well... my grandmother had to get rid of Axl
after he almost tried to take my eye out
after... perfectly reasonable come to think of it...
he started biting my Alsatian ***** Bella
                 and i stood over him and in cold-blood
treated with "paint-brushings" of a PEJCZ...
             whip... honestly? some things sound so much
better in different language...
blitzkrieg sounds so much better than lightning-strike...

i still can't believe i managed to "****" the madam
of the brothel... she even tied her hair in pigtails
to give an impression of being younger...
my god... given her age... what an attractive specimen...
oh... and a plump girl can pull it off...
seriously...
                       but only when she gets older...
younger, plump girls... eh... nope... but when she gets older...
i just regret disappointing her...
but... a learning curve is a learning curve...
i'll have enough time to improve...
it's not like into video games... i never passed beyond
a PS1 games console... ergo...
there's plenty of night and nothing and brick-walls
to meditate / be ****** into... the odd sudoku...
a Chinese ideogram or my favourite:
a return to the syllables of Katakana...

all throughout i'm listening to just one song...
Salmonella Dub's Problems...
a New Zealand band...
                              back when i was a ***-smoker
i invested enough time to branch out
into a ***-smoker's type of music genres...
New Zealand...
   i worked two shifts at Twickenham...
first shift? England vs. New Zealand...
second shift? England vs. South Africa...
my god... the difference in spectators...
the South Africans felt... so proud... sort of ageless...
imagine a tribe of African living in Finland...
this is what it felt like... the New Zealanders seemed
like farmer-boys, sheep-shaggers, the Welsh...
they mingled and bred with the local population
of the Maori... the South Africans didn't...
South Africa once colonised by the English
fell into the hands of the Dutch...
    but these Dutch of South Africa weren't at all progressive...
of the modern day Netherlands...
they resembled escapee Nazis living Argentina...

we received the best compliments from the managing
team... our gate worked smoothly...
i don't know why i was given the megaphone
reciting robotic messages i.e.
a. 'ladies and gentlemen, please use all the available
turnstiles'...
b. 'ladies and gentlemen, pleasure ensure to use
the minimal traffic of all entry points via gate DELTA...'

Greek... hmm!
     fork in the road... so that's diFFer to... say...
hello sunshine:

      P            H
           Φ Θ    
      H            T             just add Poseidon's trident

of Psi into the mix... Ψ: alternatively see diFFer...
just so... the **** of iota of the omicron...
with psi emerging from the O that's an Omega
turned upside-down Ʊ + I = Ψ

    mind you... with these seeing, living eyes...
an F and an "F" mind sound the same...
but... the disparaging associations of meaning
create a... literacy barrier...
still persistent in the advent of graffiti...

the last time i beat an animal without eating it
was my second arrival of Maine **** cats
into the household...
i didn't know who the culprit was... so i smacked him
and i smacked her...
she was the honest one...
but the second time the incident happened...
well... by then i knew who was ******* in my bed...

i know that by quitting drinking i'll be the inverted
version of a bear... i know that i have sleeping
issues, which will become more exemplified
by a reached: hope for sustaining my sanity...
but this high-blood pressure ******* has left too much
turmoil in my head...

oh right, my father's rat to "non-existent" analogy
of my buying alcohol antics, smuggling bottles
of whiskey... alone, drinking... and then during
the day playing the party partisan of society...
like a fox... or rat... whichever...
what did i do today... i had a bed sobering up
session... and a in the cold sobering session...
i lay on the jacuzzi cover in the jacuzzi shed...
fidgeting... trying to conserve energy: i was fasting...
i folded my hands into an akimbo
putting one hand into the sleeve of another arm...
folding my trousers into my socks...
lying flat... then lifting my legs up
touching the beams of the shed...
      
             like, a wild, *******, animal...
i imagined: but i did... steal a slice of bread
from the kitchen... smearing it with butter...
again "stealing" a tub of a ****** speciality,
i.e. a vegetable salad consisting of raw celeriac,
raw Bramley apples... petit pois (canned),
cooked parsley roots, cooked carrots, cooked
potatoes. hard-boiled eggs... raw leaks...
all smeared with a dollop of mayonnaise...
pepper? yes please...
                           and a can of spicy tomato tinned
mackerels... eating it while standing up
in the 2nd shed... the 3rd shed has my father's work
tools and my Tour de France 2nd bicycle...
the Kolarzówka... which is a spring / summer bicycle...
it's not the autumn / winter mountain bicycle...

i hate cars... i adore buses...
if i hear some alpha bru'h trying to sell me a sports
car... i start to think of Dalmatians and...
can, you, ride, a, horse?!
owning a car makes absolutely no sense when living
in London or its vicinity...

oh **** me, even the thought of tomorrow shift is giving
me the Gremlins...
supervisor, again, why?! can't i be the break-guy?
i'm not even qualified... yet... i'm being given this
******* leeway like i earned it... oh, right,
i have earned it...
            i just don't want to experience
the fudge-packing headache of a delay in
constipation... which is not exactly a headache...
just a pulverising anti-music... a vibrating headache
that doesn't ache...
a vigilant reminder of: would i come out of
the Manchester Arena suicide bombing with PTSD?

i smile, i pause... i smile again... i clock faces...
it originates in my childhood...
this... sensation of numbing at the fingertips...
when... people... who don't own what
you own... are given a frightful... free... access...
and... you're sort of o.k with it...
you're not o.k. with it...
but you give up a stating ownership of objects for
the people using said objects for their own
pleasure... you feel pleasured by peoplg
being pleasured... but you just don't understand
why ownership of things is somehow important
a tier above the presence of the people
bypassing you owning and them: not owning
said, used, things, for that shared...
interaction... numbing of the fingertips...

i'm sad. Khadra is gone... Mona is gone too...
i'm left strapping myself to excitement and paranoia
and erectile dysfunction ******* the madam of
the brothel... watermelons, watermelons... watermelons...
ich spreschen Deutsche...
a bit like my surname... ******... Stalin...
made easier for English-speakers...
because... what the **** could they do with the addition
via E(sch)lert?!
                          oh sure as **** they couldn't find
the Slavic acute S in the Germanic SCH... could they?!

the only reason i have so much casual *** is...
i have yet to court a match of intellect in
the bedroom!
like i told the madam, excusing my limp-*******-****
situation... i shook her hand...
and this is what we do, formally...
but seeing you naked... touching your thighs...
your *******... my hands could talk for a seemingly
forever... and it would not tire me...
it would: embolden me!
things change... when... simply ******* prostitutes...
you get a stab... at... ******* the madam
of the establishment... you become nervous,
you become small... you become castrated...
you... hit rock bottom...
and then... Lucifer... Icarus.. what's up is down...
what's down is up!

you light a scented candle in your bedroom...
light your last cigarette...
does it matter that Muscovites are issuing concerns
over the Kiev-monstrum? no, not since the Orange
"Re-vo-lu-tion"...

i had... two... in all earnest... i had two... ****** revelations...
without all the chit-chat... two... both... prostitutes...
Mona and Khadra... a Romanian and a Turkish beau
respectively... there was only one woman in my life
that spoke... "respectably" similar level English to mine...
the rest... w either gave way to imagining Braille or...
whatever... but... insert crocodile...
why cry... when it, apparent ******* rains?!

i will miss them... tenderly, fully heartedly...
even as the Madam stroked my beard while i excused my
dysfunctional "third-party"...
                 why would a limp **** somehow diminish
my manhood... i.e. if a man is sized... surely...
a woman is sized too! a man's length and girth is also
reciprocated by a woman's depth and girth...
no?                              ergo?

plus all the mood swings that both the sexes share...
and have to... "en-ter-tain"...
but **** me... a madam of a brothel... me her and the pigtails...
well obviously i didn't deliver...
but... i'm thinking... if i quit drinking...
if i quit smoking...
that fat *** slurping lip brigade of an altogether
complete ****-buddy is waiting for me...
and i'm waiting for it... and the night and the foxes
and the crows are in my company...

well then! all the tales of vampires and werewolves...
can... become... true!
i can become a monster that understands
why... he feeds off being...
"casually" neglected...
why... it's not him who broke up with
a woman but the woman breaking up with him!
perfect!
which is why Mona and Khadra ****** up to
either Romania or Turkey, pregnant...
and i was left trying to **** the brothel's Madam..

melons melons! i'm telling you: **** like melons!
heartbreak and the heartless...
mind you... what's the other "thing" women notice
when courting...
apparently... ha ha... apparently... TEETH!
women like with no concern for dental insurance...
women like teeth... and hair...
i like... ****... what is it that i like?

                             i like snow... i like forests...
there's a difference between those more associated with oak
than those more associated with pine...
pines... entertain the existence of the scouts...
who are the scouts?! BIRCH... oak forests are the elders...
usually creating isolating environment
of island-dwellers...
               oaks don't appreciate birches...
and in terms of pines... well... in terms of pines and pins...
who's the one searching for the camel....
already in possession of the needle?!

my goblet of fine **** and saucy riches...
           i.e. my mouth...
                     i'll get ready...
as stated... once you **** your way up to having
the madam of the establishment that's
a brothel interested in you...
first time: disappointing her...
second time? you're going to quit drinking...
you're going to quit smoking...
you're going to sober up... simply because...
those ****... the fact that she's older than you by at least
one decade... and i like listening to horror movie
soundtracks... which makes perfect sense...
ugh... pristine nugget of fat and ageing...
it's like...
                  oh... ******* and jerking off...
that's off the table too...
        
             she's an ***-prized sort of a beached whale...
she's a Renaissance spectacle of the desirable woman...
plump... peachy...
now that i've had a taste... once the holidays
are over... when she asks for an entrance fee...
i'll need to seek out my hard-on in some other brothel...
paying her: sure... but only with you...
pigtails my ***...
                           freckle on her face...

then i'll start serving the concept of money...
Oslo? Brussels? Berlin... Berlin?!
ah... Bucharest...
                 no no... not south enough... Athens
i've already done... Istanbul...
        oh... wait... stop drinking... stop smoking...
regain friction with a hard-on...
**** the madam of the brothel...
   while her under-workers subscribe to texting each
other madly trying to figure out:
sq. not trg.!

now i'm becoming the baron of my own belly!
Poetic T Aug 2017
They wield the button as a weapon of
their verse, throwing words like a glove.
But it was limp like there inconsistent verse,
like a lefty throwing, right handed but worse.

Your momentary time of the month, I gave
you an emoji tissue to wipe off the embarrassment
of sweaty words you opened up on now behave.
needing a little dignity, reverse on your disembarrassment.

Either that or been known for your CAPSLOCK stutter,
seeing you tripping over yourself amid ridiculed clutter.
now see that light on the side, click it speak respectably.
now calm your rage, and talk respect others expectedly.
You always have one :)
while soaring the heavenly heights
     many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
     about a million miles below

the rarefied atmosphere
     ideal composition beckoned angels,
     who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
     (which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem

     intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
     and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
     cap ping bulging port folio,

which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
     snapped amidst light emitting diodes
     with a snazzy aura, charisma
     harp pulling, piping, and chiefly

     paying praise (CI years post haste)
     to William Henry Perkin
     whose credit able karma
     (and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
     purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo

couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
     shutter flying sky sustaining

     self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
     and gratefully huzzahing insinuating

     killing, kindling kissing
     malaria goodbye, an outlook
     (nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud

     respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
     (to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Empire Jul 2019
Alright, you did it.
You survived.
But once again, it was by shoving all your emotions down so deep
You don't even know where to find them,
And now you're feeling drained, bored.
You want them to come out and play, don't you???
But now it's all fake.
It's too late.
But you acted respectably... mostly...
So you did well.
Now, you get to deal with all the **** you tried to hide.
Great job.
This is much better.
I can't imagine why you feel dead inside.
I can't imagine why you'd wanna die.
My laziest Pygmies love me in their short, Pygmy way, my *******
Pygmies who ain't gay respect me respectably so they in Pygmy say
to their pig Pygmy clods who rule by Pygmy night & by Pygmy day
with Pygmy Malay gangs in the Pygmy French ***** city of Calais
Accidental deaths are common when there are no human witnesses,
“Accident-Prone Wife Kills Husband in Meat-Grinding Accident”
Our rare, blue celestial Heaven's Holiest Lord Prince Jesus Christus
of King Jehovah God knew that another ***** slap equalled spiteful
death so He held back ultra judgment for the moment, knowing too
well what Turkey's Turkish attacks on ***** Catholical Rome meant
I sat still with my hands folded, not wanting to **** you off more as
you were strutting around the old hen house preter-manly ****-sure
My laziest Pygmies love me in their short, Pygmy way, my *******
Pygmies who ain't gay respect me respectably so they in Pygmy say
to their pig Pygmy clods who rule by Pygmy night & by Pygmy day
with Pygmy Malay gangs in the Pygmy French ***** city of Calais

— The End —