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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...

  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ
?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)

mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
die nacht  aus alle verewigung -
verewigung die nacht - in immigrant German
spoken - not spoken, hälfte, hälfte,
pork-chops go go got taken with Australian *******...
cos selling the body saved you with the crucifix from
selling something like your soul, hence the accord to
be ready for critique of selling the magic potion of drinking
iodine... i was a fetus back then... when the atom
**** got the plastic elasticity of tangling
to wanking a didgeridoo... magician's syndrome:
**** that tightened fist and i'll assure you
you'll get the white flag of piracy's peace:
meaning they never robbed the rich men, pirates
just robbed the artists... hey wooden plank,
knock knock... don't make me into a wooden chair...
take a creaking floorboard and make it into
a shimmy toothpick... knock knock... who's there?
Jude? Jude who? hey i'm Jude? Judy Jew who?
a Jew who chewed propaganda and hid Jude.
fair enough, Jude's the everyday Jew.
no, she's the Rabbi! Rabbi who?
the Sabbatical who knows who.
some say i know god.
well, good luck with that, mostly asserted
on death row.
at least that place is given a fabric of a team effort.
by the time i think about next week's trash
i'll have written something akin to it being
taken out into a pig's trough of what resembled
the dating scene in New York...
hardly reminiscent of the gay Utopia:
so much anger yet still only the vote,
so much anger yet still only the vote...
           the intelligence poured in, but the
quiff only wanted the algebra of x
to match it up to a presidential race success with some donor's
y, and later + and squared and equals to make
those family holidays affordable.
- winter-night... deutschekaiser....
i swear it would be cheaper to build a wall
around the middle east...
like the European Union really
wanted to invest in dates... cos we were
ready to make a Sabbath from a Ramadan...
like we waited for the loss of % on added debt...
we waited, and waited... and waited...
we got McDonald's instead... and that was all
in the inventory... and that was all in
whatever we got, if we got anything:
deutsche schmutzig machen... is that perfect
German muddy - herrbzigg - or alter
Philanthropist zigzag - howdy howdy **?
dots the avenue...
and the many riches coming your way...
make muddy, or muddied already,
takes one swipe of the credit card,
ends up with 110 to nil streaks of ****
bothered about Star Trek... and the cellphone...
and the extraterrestrials of Mexico (or he co & co; huh i?)...
got the gangrene green if you
like the Licorice tangle of blank Ovid saying:
mahogany, mahogany, mahoney... mama got all da
honey... n she got the 2Pac shaky shaky core blues;
mind the albino in the hood:
or Mars the red planet, Earth the brown planet,
scary they thought of dinosaurs with dragons prior...
didn't think of Martian life prior to government
conspiracies, way before Darwinism and crowd control...
life on Mars: well, it was once there,
long before dinosaurs, and bacteria and yogurt...
long before the circus, and the commuter caterpillar...
i believe that there was life on Mars,
given the timescale... it was there...
but it ain't there anymore...
                           which might explain the U.F.O.s....
don't believe the government's audacity to have
created something so phosphorescent Zulu
as to invoke an engraving of lawless Voodoo...
before we knew of dinosaur remains we drew dragons...
before we explored Mars we were given
the proofs... life existed on Mars, long before
Earth was made the 2nd laboratory of a deity...
then it died, given the life-cycle of stars...
Mars is rocky... earth is rocky...
whatever life existed on Mars in its full potential
is long gone... is this really as weird
as what pop culture makes of man and monkey?
kettle and carpal muscles evolving from
oysters? we really can become equally ridiculous to
the extent that we turn on each other...
it didn't take much to divide Hindu from Muslim
into India and Pakistan... this won't take much thought either...
i'm just trying to counter scientific negativism,
and counter the timescale of both physicists' big bang
theory and the anti-historical Darwinism...
i'm starting with life on Mars, at a time when
Earth was inhospitable... volcanic... i might be among
the many people treated as being "mentally ill"
when the government claims to be so advanced as to practice
such projections of phosphorescent objects,
when it's dumb as Donald *****... because NASA is
not theoretical enough... and the government seeks
control by claiming NASA isn't the end result...
the usual suspects: lies... and more lies...
the Venusian Art... the pick-up artists...
i read it, never tried it... wish i did... but i also wished
for a herd of goats too...
but that's the best explanation of sighting a UFO i have...
before Earth was made habitable, Mars came prior...
Mars is rocky... is Earth... our fantasy is about discovering
life on Mars... life on Mars left a long time ago...
it's gone... gone gone gone...
the sun is cooling down before it becomes a dwarf...
before the perfection of this glasshouse of plants and animals
Mars came before us... and it was perfect...
later came this whole God and Devil debacle and plagiarism...
the first supreme, the second mildly similar...
but altogether worse... i told you, a phosphorescent object
in the night is hardly a government project...
the government is not capable of such things...
if they are, then they're like a man with a 4 inch
***** telling a girl he's a millionaire and has a fetish for
watching his girlfriend get ****** by a stranger with a 12 inch ****...
do the match... get a mud-bath.
the Welsh drew dragons and the Chinese too,
long before the dinosaurs usurped the happy-times
next to a bonfire... i'm just like that...
life existed on Mars long before we decided to look
for microbes on that red Ayers orb...
i'd be looking for sodium rather than twin oxygen trapped
into liquid by hydrogen, then always alienating laws
by ice, the said liquid and vapour...
my theory is that the original life on Mars,
didn't experience hydro sodium chloride... i.e. the seas...
Mars had only sweet life form... given the Devil
plagiarised Mars with earth, we received the seas...
we received the hydro sodium chloride... salty waters...
so if i was heading to Mars, i'd be mostly interested
in finding sodium chloride (salt) than anything...
not life... if i was heading to Mars i'd be trying to find salt...
not life... salt... salt... salt... Angie Jolie film (2010)? Salt.
because we forgot our individual intuition,
and we chose to have individual intellect that might be
easily swayed, because of this we allowed
collective intuition to arise... which we couldn't
intellectualise, because a collective intuition gave rise
premonition, prophecy and such artefacts of similar attention...
no collective intellect could ever be grasped:
atheism and Christianity and Islam and etc.
are such examples of what we lost... once we gave up
individual intuition, to replace it with a collective intellect,
we couldn't revise individual intuition with an individual
intellect (how many adherents of Marx does it
take to change a light-bulb?) - so we invested in
a collective intuition, whatever you call it, it's maxim
is still unshaken with the words: the sun will rise tomorrow.
a line from Heidegger concerning this observation:
every man is born as many men and dies as a single one -
like me, how i discovered the difference between
the man and the mass, intuition and intellect...
how man reversed the intuitive continuum of animals
to converse with an anti-animal invigoration of
intellect, and transcend the continuum of replicas,
and therefore invest in embryo, or the book of Genesis,
"original", in that, also a continuum by ontological inspection:
i.e. continually revisionist... Einstein preceding Newton...
Orangutan Joe preceding King Kong was never
really going to happen.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
with every photograph
i've come to realize
that:
      i barely recognize
    myself...
  in that:
i don't! i can't recognize
myself!
            antithesis of
the Victorian prejudice...
  a photograph doesn't
steal a soul...
          to be frank:
i've been robbed
                   of a memory!
how else will you explain
paranormal
phenomena...
         within the confines
of the anti-matter
Noumenon?
            isn't anti-matter
crucial
in providing an explanation?!
why is, or how are,
the 2st century peoples,
the justified excuse makers?!
it's the 21st century!
a common argument...
so what?!
              the faact that it's the 21st century
us no excuse to market the
past centuries,..
  what is this... ******* Utopia?!
     i'm the sort of people
who says a moon landing never happened...
because it's anti-Pythagorean...
to draw a hypotenuse...
you need to points...
   the vortex of coordinates,
a (0, 0), and a (1, 1)...
                       you would have
landed on the moon,
have you landed on it, twice...
once?
   once, upon once, it can be faked...
you need to land on the ******* thing
twice... before it can can be
solidified...
and agreed upon...
shame...
         the Soviets sent Laika into space...
but the h'Americans sent
the long lost cousin of Darwin...
   Albert Jr...
                  i'm not arguing that
man never managed to land on
the moon,
i'm arguing... he never managed
to land on it the second time...
        which is slightly worrying...
i can give you: landing on it the first...
but the fact that it didn't
for a revisionist second?
slightly worrying...
  in the least...
a photograph steals a memory...
come to "think" of it...
why would a photograph steal
a soul, and not a memory?
and why would the first
moon landing be a success...
while Apollo 13 be a failure?
            this is no conspiracy theory...
but it's somehow odd...
  first come first served
success story...
               i'm not denying
the first moon landing...
             i'm denying...
what am i denying?!
can't remember...
             flat earth? sure...
esp. when and only when
you are reading a map and navigating...
car... across the European continent...
esp. across the Rhine...
      what  could Narcissus
say, comparing a mirror to
a photograph?!
oh sure... we landed on the moon...
but why didn't we land on it
the second time round?
   you know why there is a conspiracy
theory surrounding
the moon landing?
    the Pythagorean principle
of a vector...
      (0, 0) - (1, 1) -
               the only source of proof,
is to prove it a second time...
the fact that there was no second
moon landing...
oh i believe the first moon landing
was a Las Vegas fluke...
       but the fact that no second
moon landing ever happened?
denies the prospect of
the first moon landing ever happening...
with an X...
    there's no Y... to market a Z
away from conspiracy...
   i can't deny the moon landing...
but with the advanced technology...
prior to the moon... Mars...

             such crude instruments
back in the 1960s...
      oh... the moon landing happened,
even if it didn't happen...
but why didn't it happen
a second time around?

  considering the fact...
the science requires at least two
examples of the same proof,
before it can be considered
unshakeable dogma...
  
   it's not a conspiracy theory...
if we are to be puritanically scientific
about, "things"...
there needs to be a second
moon landing for the first
moon landing to be agreed upon...
after all...
isn't science the rite of passage of
trial & error?

  no?
     first and sole attempt and all
is true?
   last time i heard...
that's not how science works...
then again:
i must be wrong...
             guess science is becoming
very much akin to religion...
how can you keep an article of faith,
akin to the moon landing...
with only... one... moon landing?!
- and subsequently
call it... a science?!
  
          i thought science required
a comparison litany?!
no?!
      might as well aim at:
the moon landing never happened...
the basic workings of science
is coordinates,
within the confines of a vector...
1 = it happened
0 - it didn't happen...

   prove it!
two words... prove it!
replicate a second moon landing!
i'll believe there ever was a moon
landing... if there is a second one!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
well... feminism has had its three waves
of revisionism -

    and there i'm sitting on
the windowsill,
   smoking out of my window -

watching the moon sloth the sky like
an demonic snail -

in the misty haze of a large patch
of cumulonimbus -
    right up there at around 50,000 feet...

thinking to myself?
   why are there two orbs of varying
light concentration
penetrating the sky
   and embedding the moon
in an eerie aura?

never mind -
   i still don't know what the chemical
formula for timber is,
or what sort of material is on
the moon that allows it to reflect
light from the other side
of the Greenwich Mean Time...

last time i heard: can a rock surface
reflect light?

          well then... ah... never mind...

but feminism has had its three waves
of instigation and two subsequent
waves of revisionism -

so it made me think:
   why not a second wave of fascism?
a revisionist wave...
    well... as far as i am concerned
the Italians were much paler -
   in their intentions than the Germans...

fascism 2.0 -
and the sort of fascism that would allow
me to be men...
    drunks, foul mouthed, you name it...
athletic, not-giving-a-**** losers of
sorts, among the glam of whatever else
it is that a man is...

working on the idea,
i had to think of a list -

   hmm...

          who then?
ah!

      Stanley Kowalski
   (from a streetcar named desire)...
John Wayne
  (notably from true grit)
    Charlton Heston
(from the planet of the apes)
   Tony Curtis...
              Hemingway,
Bukowski,
               Ezra Pound...
     Clark Gable
    Gregory Peck
                   the list is seemingly
endless -
   at least in the portrayal of
said characters...
ah... ****!
   Kevin Spacey as
Lester Burnham to boot!
            ah... double ****:
Denzel Washington as
Troy Maxson...
    because apparently "being"
a "poet" is little more than
the lesser stature
of a garbage man...
             unless of course:
you fiddle into a cosmopolitan
fixture.

    oh... and certainly an appreciation
for a traditional Turkish barber
shop...

something very much akin / borrowed
from America circa 1950s...
   and an unabashed sensibility
concerning good tailoring -
   but then also the prophetic
vagabond look from time to time...

just a vague idea -
    but something along these lines -
but then again, what a silly idea -
what is racial purity in
21st century England?
   some sort of vague notion
       of an even vaguer dream?

but i guess the notion of
individualistic purity:
   the purity of the individual is related
more to: who can and who won't
be swayed by alien opinions -
2nd or 3rd party -

        which includes this opinion...

i'd subscribe to put the idea on
the following zenith:

              grammatical cleanliness -
linguistic order -
            a literary tact -
   something along these lines -

after all: the 20th century is not the end
of a theory -
given 20th century communism this,
while 21st century socialism that...
ideas prevail...
   evolve - or devolve - regress
or make alternative progress -

               also given:
    there already is a fascist movement
elsewhere, other than in England -
where: it would be completely
impractical -
                  
                       prime tenet would also
be, what it already shows:
   non-expansionism of a culture
or a people -
                           more akin to
American isolationism under
                                                  F.D.R.:
i­ have a strange sentiment
for that president.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)

º
               º
                      º

                              º
      ­                                                      º
         ­                         º
                                      ­               º

do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
  and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:

                          º
                       º
                    º

                       º
                         º
                          

            º                          º  

i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
   besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
******* hippies, and your age of aquarius,
     this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...

but i'll end it on a positive note...
  
   there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...


and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
  the sycophantic actors of attendance -

throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
   there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
        however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...

but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
    
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
  there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
  and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...

i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.*

i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.

i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:

tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
it's scary what people want to hear,
i feel, nothing at all, to be honest,
whenever i think of fame
i feel all famous people speaking the words:
don't become even by our standards moderates...
szlafrok: bathrobe -
              szuja: lizard-like-homeless person -
then again chattering ratty too -
does that mean: if i write i'll
get a penny for a structure where a brick is
worth just as much to the letter, the word
           or the line or the paragraph?
                  cukier: sugar...
   for every brick i'll get a penny's worth?
      writing discourages you from dreaming...
only the most adapted
                   who get encouraged by
   advertisement and who fake writing will ever get
the technicolour coat of Joseph...
         writing erodes your perspective of dreams,
it actually censors your ability to do so...
    i hear them, make novels from their body-language...
        and get an itch... nothing finicky... just
barring without baritone...
      poet's alphabet st. - barring without baritone...
antinomy of anecdote... false impression memorisation,
nothing rubric bound nothing alphabetical,
         nothing Pythagorean...
      antinomy... and there was me thinking of
antimony...                  there's no cascade of the sound
encoding of b or of a...
    there's the alphabet... and then there's
the dictionary... na na mmm, ma ma nun..
                    so cool with it, fit-bit....
      or should i claim you a toyo-bot?
           a ******* Hamleys' jack-in-the-box
     chuckles?
            either way... it's all a strategic **** -
or a macaque - or mà-cá-qé!
         herald the surgeon!
             grave a in the first syllable?
a delay... let's term yhwh as surd invocations -
           mà! (and yes, exclamation marks
are part of the necessary progress -
   unless you'd prefer anti-German anti-compound
allocation of a word to be turned into syllable mince...)
         mà! alternatively that's non-ambiguous -
what's ambiguous is the second syllable...
   mà!... cà!     màcà!        it's almost like holding-off
*******...          màcà!
      and then there's the qé!        or for optical reasons
as well as for reasons for the priestly monopoly
written as macaque - my-khaki-haka...
  (haka is a dance in rugby by the new zealanders,
   and khaki is diarrhea brown, diluted brown) -
   it's almost Spanish in a sense, huh?!
   well, because it's not exactly queue -
  or: que(h)? i.e. qweh?
well yes, it's a monkey, a tiny little bonsai
of a gorilla... cute... funny... loves tea-bags
and sugar... great company on a hot Kenyan night,
gets pestered with slingshots by the courtesan
   "bodyguards" of a tourist hanky-panky free whiskey...
  the time those kenyan entertainer girls
came up to me i sorta wished to play the
white-guy-****-history-joke...
stood my ground, went to sleep on one of the lounge
chairs one night... could have been stolen by pirates...
and i kinda wished it, but it didn't happen...
   still, the application of diacritical marks to
define syllables... the grave mark above vowels is
a bit like "holding back"...
         for some reason i first wrote mà-cá-qé...
but i realised... the avalanche only comes with
the acute marking above eh!....
        grave markings means restriction, a holding back...
and by this i mean that when the acute stress is
added, no number of optically adequate spellings
can erase it...
     in this case qé for what's encoded as -que -
   and still the four surds appear whether invited or
uninvited - softened laugh, eh? as in the asphyxiating
form of breathing, and then relaxed: ha ha ha ha!
       then again, i'm wrong,
they call them macaque: ma-ca-qac....
         so as a good revisionist does:
                grave and acute without a macron:
      má-cà-qàc - ma-cac-cac - not ma... ca-que!
   macaque!          Fawlty Towers and Mánuèl...
i know... nothing - hairspray romance,
and a horse called dragonfly...
   macaqué! olé!              
                          mácáquè -
    for the love of u - or parabola...
                 truth be told? i'll never know!
why? because no one taught us the rules of how
or when to apply such demands!
   let alone semicolons or commas...
                   macaque - barbarism sentenced to:
ma       ca              qak
                or simply my kayak...
**** me... it's still a monkey whether you like it or
not taking a **** and calling that chocy part of
its inverted intestines' toad-stool.
  let's just call it a mácàq monkey... because
the -ue suffix is just getting unbearable, like
an umbrella unfolded in one's **** -
   and applying diacritics to a suffix of pure-vowels
is beyond missing an ******, and making
rationale (the part where you miss stating an olé -
the part where rational is elongated into rationál
or the non-diacritical addition of -e)....
and then they worried why people never punctuated
correctly... maybe because people never applied
diacritical marks that they went beyond,
and didn't punctuate correctly?
                       humpty-dumpty hmm hmm:
                   eggs St. Benedict's, and a falafel Sunday!
me? trying to invoke a vocab that transcends
the ******* cool, however condescending i can be,
without trying or eating rye bread to boot,
    and then wear a balaclava calling it a Gucci neckwear,
drinking rather than throwing Molotovs.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
oh i didn't write something to change the boundaries,
i wanted to capture the digital narrative,
or how the hope of destroying all forms of theology
with our a.i. gravitas, we started to
apply the digital anaesthetic -
and cradle the numbing effects of:
                 us, in experiment,
or: us, in a medium of synthetic material...
             either way pushing us apart friom actually
inhabiting organic matter...
           the many of us these these are merely pawn
in the game...
                  we're pawns in a construction site
of all thing theretical... meaning it's truly 2D by comparison
to the 3D structures we see...
       the element that will truly give a.i. it's ego?
wait wait... why with latin dead and me not speak it
but i have this theoretical baggage of ego?
            ego is only short of en egg should i decide to
write it... arbeit macht frei must come from
counter-conceptualisation of the remains of the roman
empire with self- (hyphen included), to remind people
that it's all about work, and how we will either loose
or free ourselves from the re in the setting sun to echo aeons...
that might be the case...
            but find me a modern day writer who has
to use this medium of people talking over one another...
find me a writer who''s lodged in the internet like
a cherry atop a cake...
          who can't be gagging for a log cabin in some obscure
place, who has to be in the thick of it...
       i'm not writing to change the world,
i'm writing to describe the status quo...
            qua norm, or should i say "norm"...
from status quo comes the question: qua status?
     when i write i think about throwing a pebble into
a lake, compared to throwing a pebble into a river...
compared to throwing a pebble into a sea...
to be honest? throwing a pebble into a sea is
the most involving...
                  and there is poetic subconscious in this,
which i will unearth: the pebble is supposed to mean this:
the three forms of water are supposed to represent
another this:
                                 the pebble is supposed to represent
a soul, a concentration of my my, my sigma (total),
and the three tiers of water are supposed to represent this...
that said, i watched
    an internet video... by angry mgtow...
an answer to white women are rejecting beta males now /
blonde in the belly of the beast...
   first thing: why are men using the internet
deemed more "creepy" than women?
    we've already embarked on this a.i. project for the sole
reason as to overcome theological argument and
religion... we are living in a Frankenstein experiment,
but the "problem" is that we're only working on
the software package of the beast...
         the hardware can wait... we're not going to replace
our fondness for busdrivers and cleaners any time soon...
  we love our manual labourers...
                  american woman! stay away from me!
american woman! mama let me be!

   (it's daily, over and over in my head, that line and
many more kindred sing-alongs)
   we've already been drafted into creating the software
of the a.i. beast, it doesn't matter that the
hardware is already there but that we've stalled its
potential... the software is harder to be bound to
the logistics a limb might be drafted to exhibit basic
tongue of movement...
          all compliments to women:
they're the irrationality that will give the a.i. the spark!
           meaning autonomy...
  and how could i not even sound like an atypical man?
don't date the opposite ***?
              tease urban living with what life's like in
the middle-zone of outer-urbanity, i.e. the case of
a ******* bungalow? ha ha.
                              but this video got me like i might
catch a herring, and i do love pickled herrings...
raw pickled herrings...  it just got me
when i said: i'd like to move to the Faroe Islands...
no please, spare me the misery...
                         it's hard not to be
sexually antagonistic (sexist) - esp. when you're
not a sheikh with a motorboat and a fluffy moustache
that might brush-up against the ******* like
a vibrating ***** while you taste the pastries of flesh
with a saintly glee...
             every time i performed oral ***
on her i felt i left that hot-spot having slobbered
a tonne of lard... smeared a tonne of ****** cream and
that my face became phosphorescent, or an anglerfish:
which is the first sign before you don't even
bother to care to launch a space mission apollo 13
into the depths containing stars... or ask
      ridley scott...
                          i think he's the one dubbed:
coping mechanism... unlike philip k **** this guy's
a coping mechanism, a rare spectacle:
science fiction obstructs actual science...
                     i'm glad he's around and i pray that
we truly explore the depths of seas before going up
there: where the sun don't shine.
                  but this video got to me...
                i can't relate to it, either with the masculine
theory or the feminine experience...
i don't know: it almost feels like i live in a time
capsule at the best part of the 20th century when
i could still buy compact discs in a music shop
on a high-street... when there was no over-arching
agarophobia and claustrophobia telling us
when it was worthwhile to leave the house...
   and when it wasn't...
                         i opened another bottle of wine
that i made myself, and i don't know...
                  we started by ridding ourselves of god
to later replenish that end with a death of us,
it's almost as if we're staging parameters of being human
in this 2D construction site, on the basics:
merely exchanging opinions...
                                         i have, coming naturally:
this curiosity with the internet...
   i remember times of hotmail.com chatrooms...
      it's not as old as some people will claim the burden
to be, but the times when the ****** medium was
being sold to us... before facebook and subsequently otherwise
people were still very much comfortable before the television
set... but then people became less interested in
music and decided music could only exist in software
and not hardware, and i started to forage the berry shrubs of
youtube for music...
  i hope i don't precipitate any thought toward
nostalgia... bearing in mind i did establish myself
on the memory of having been to the cinema
to watch the films blow and austin powers 2:
the spy who shagged me
- and in the latter case
i laughed at the shadow-scene like i might at
a laurel and hardy... and in the former case i loved
the music... and that's before comedy became too
"intelligent": too canned laughter...
revisionist existentialist, when dittoing can no longer
mean borrowing, or passing on a meaning,
                     or d.n.a. competition, when the end result
is but ~ (approximate) / ambiguity...
    the too intelliget: canned laughter...
                   the last time i really laughed at the movies
i was watching austin powers 2: the spy who shagged me...
the tent scene... it was the epitome of comedy,
a laurel and hardy slap stick incantation of a viewer...
   i guess it only comes with a sense of an individual
finding something so simple funny, that when
the same individual is dropped like a paratrooper into
a cinema audience: his laughter will become akin to
a virus, and thus become infectious and the individual
in mind because the cursor for canned laughter
later stored, to witness a televised episode of Friends
or Fraiser... which... would you believe it: aren't funny at all.
what was i going on about in the first place?
      ha ha... dunno... which makes Nick Harper a comic
genius... every time i see him
i laugh like a tickled ******* dangling off a bull horn
and two words ring a bell: mein shawl! and yes: it's
dramatically flinged, like i might be found
******* against the wind...
   quick question! five easy pieces rebel or cool hand
luke rebel?!
I shall clear the air
of mystery
with a bold painter's brush,
blending cold facts
from blacks and blues
to soothing grays....

and callow eyes of every hue
shall dance and pray
on the tombs of villains
and buffoons
as if they were Gods....

~ P
(6/13/2013)
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

we the people,
long have known
the write of
passages and poems,
whether bellwether,
envisionist or revisionist,
too oft have thought
this journey long,
and weight of hope and change
to another there belongs;
yet i subscribe
that we as scribes,
can right this ship,
not merely write it's wrongs;
for we it's pride
with hearts ascribe,
and note-by-note,
as carpenters and soldiers,
we its authors and its poets,
in words, in deeds,
writers, of a patriot’s song;
with deepest definition,
and inner soul reflection,
it's stanza, chorus, bridges,
we must lovingly inscribe.

~

*post script.

i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve.  we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!  

if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!!   if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.i somehow found myself in a predicament, i can only read German philosophers in English, and that's my sole exclusion "manifesto"... basically i can't fathom reading the genre of philosophy in the English tongue.... i can't... unless they're German... i have to return to the Slavic intricacies, whereby my consciousness is occupied with a translation perspective... English was never supposed to aim as high as speaking of philosophy, the English were never adept in asking questions: given they always gave the answers in technological, scientific, architectural foundations; the people of practicality... their downfall? tickling Marxism translated out of economics, and into culture... their one downfall... and.. it looks, partially, as it worked.

what, what what have we 'ere?!
   bobby on the beat...
lookie lookie, lookover here,
the jokes runs...
and the priests in Eastern Europe
are known as crows...
krúki...
     as a peoples who weren't
invaded by the Romans?
   looks like i've learned a thing
or two... about orientating myself
with the said letters...
no... St. Cyril didn't come past my parts...

etymology:
   sve-                (self sight /
           swoje         /       my)
  -to-                    (that / this)
    -vid               (widze, i see) -

basically?
the god, "in question"?
                 what i see, myself...
i see, as myself,
and  what is, self,
is what, i see...
detached from anyone else
that sees...
  (i see what i want to see...
i see my own, and as my own,
this is what, i see).

the priests are crows,
the police-officers are dogs...
i love crows...
ever see crows mate in daylight,
akin to pigeons?
  i've never seen crows mate
in daylight, in public...
they leverage their courtship
to the night,
in secluded areas...
             crow knows best...
a crow will to imitate a pigeon...
a crow will mate with a female
at night...
   and notably: in a secluded
march of a land...
a crow is not a pigeon is
not a reverse exhibitionist...
     a crow is a crow is: crow...

just like with the German philosophers...
some, i can actually read in English,
rarely, but i can...
within the confines of the obscure works,
esp. their revisionist texts...
e.g.
               via the variant:
da-ist-sein...
                      there is being...
well not **** Sherlock...
i've just encountered it about
the "second" time for the past 32nd year!
but da-ist-sein...
  well... there's no a priori schematic
to encompass the statement with...

   how the people prance citing Hegel,
while forgetting the basic building
block of Kant... like Beethoven mattered...
when Handel was the orientating
composer to pay attention to...

sure... da-sein can have an a priori
and an a posteriori reality...
but da-ist-sein doesn't have an a priori
contingent plan for rhetoric...
a sophistry...
      mind you..
  we live in the times where
sophistry married solipsism,
and said:
           take some time to reflect
spending time with transitions,
airport banalities of trans-national
transit, in terms of people...
taking a bus trip seems like
a breeze these days...

                 fascinating,
the English educational system involves
the Roman Empire...
oddly or rarely considered luckily am
of a people not conquered by the
pre kilt pansies...
                          and i'm scratching my head,
thinking...
                    but up to a certain year:
i seem to have no past,
just like you...
lost to the vehemency of institutionalizing
Darwinism as a replacement
of whatever history is implied
at that point...
not physics, not geology...
  thank **** that chemistry is not prone
to exert a historiological influence...
where i was born?
a flint-stone colony... half an hour's
worth of a bike-ride...
flit-mining... flit-stones...
   whenever science teases the humanities
by incorporating a "study" of history?
i lose it... chemistry never does this
sort of *******...
but biology with its historical Darwinism,
but physics with its historical Big Bang theory,
these sciences play both science
and a humanism game...
   bad idea...
  chemistry at least affects
the romantic movement...
what is a day in the day of the month
of the year, of a day, within the confines
of james joyce's Ulysses?
           oh look...
the double standard of the maxim:
an insignificant spec of dust that's a worth,
somehow, worth investigating...
nonetheless a spec of dust...
   the larger the universe becomes,
the smaller the human cognitive potential
becomes...
but the smaller the universe becomes,
the larger the human cognitive potential, is.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
when self-inflicted
or as counter,
the adrenaline is missing;
mind you the hara-kiri:

the sudden thrill,
                    the sudden attack!
it paces the heart differently
from a belief in a self...
the heart paces differently,
it's an entire revisionist sub-plot
of the book of genesis;
it almost makes Dante pigeon-****.
that's the problem with suicide
it's hardly adrenaline ensured
surprising, the predestination of it
being all top surprising as motivational
to provide us a new Cain of the future...
rightfully i'd rather be stunned
into a shock of adrenaline by a murderer,
than by injection of overpowering myself:
the adrenaline missing in suicide
is the real philosophical issue...
the adrenaline missing due to premonition,
the lack of shock... suicide in philosophical
debate is pure chemistry:
to commit suicide is to devolve chemically
without the required boiling points or infusions
of: suddenly.
Denel Kessler Oct 2015
How easy to distill the past
sifting out impurities
so a clean silky edge
will soothe another’s tongue.

Serve up what flatters
spit out distasteful lapses
swallow raw memories  
let them sink

deep into the silted
heart of gray.

The lies we
tell each other,
tell ourselves.

We are all revisionists
editing our histories, omissions
catered to the prevailing
whims of taste and culture

until intimacy unmasks us.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
it was once called a beyond "good" and "evil"... as if the two were confused... i think the actual confusion comes by calling it: "beyond" good and evil - clearly we have a distinct understanding of the two, in how we treat them in the most extreme cases (as antonyms), and how we can't seem to comprehend them as antonyms: one's a ******* square, the other is a ******* triangle... in that we create a synonym siamese of the two... and how the good men squabble for an argument to contend against their "crimes", and the justice served against them... or this much came from creating Ed Gein into a romance... a fetish for artistic inspiration from Rob Zombie and the Silence of the Lambs... but no one bothers... ah... what's his name... Ted Bundy... no one wrote a song about him... no, he was clearly evil... this is what i find bewildering: the suggested "beyond".

oh, but it's only a game... there no etymology involved,
there's no looking back at words created
from the alphabetical cornflake bowl...
where cornflake-a floats about with cornflake-b
through to c, d, e... m n... l  o      p... and finally
rests with zed.... this is another type of game...
i don't mean it as a craft of etymology,
scouting the tongue prior, to say something
about the word in the tongue, now...
   it could be a raving lunatic using the word
  *δαιμων
- and yes... before i make
the incission marks into the two syllables....
    i want to see how a "chiral"
aesthetic of: much the identical sound will give rise
to macron omicron ō = ω... just like like η = é,
   given the standard of epsilon
(ε) being the: quite distinct
measure of the sound suggested / intended.
but then, within a framework of bilingualism,
     made redundant as "schizophrenia" it's an absolutely
blunt statement to say: naturally, i am split mind...
i use two tongues... i can only imagine the horror
of being mono-lingual and having the symptom of
"hearing" "voices" in your case of dis- (negated)
-ease... that suffix needs not exfoliation...
but a game, there is, nonetheless! but it requires
the Caribbean tongue of patois... never know
why certain words sound better in the native tongue
than in the tongue acquired, but hell, they do...
    and to think my bilingualism became squandered on
    imitating a hellish encounter with schizophrenia...
   a condition so misunderstood and so exploited ("romanced")
that it makes no sense, unless if used in slandering someone:
not quiet 80, and actually in a degenerate state of having
lived a life... but i mean someone in their
20s, and embarking on a trip that completely obliterates
the boring tourist in them, along with the hope
of the father in them... and yes, if i wasn't bilingual
and merely monolingual i'd probably experience
the classic symptom: so many went down the route of
taking l.s.d. and so few never realised that the true
essence of horror is: music... people can't never fear what
they can or cannot see... it's what they hear,
or what others think that frightens the living-daylights out
of them! i mean: can you imagine a cultural
revolution when the drug made you
experience auditory-hallucinations
that's than optical variations in fluorescent
colours? i'd love to meet the man
who invented a drug that made you hallucinate
a Bach symphony... i really really would
love to meet such a man...
     meaning there's a bewilderment
about blind men and deaf men...
    sure, you can find them in
supermarket isle testifying that
   an elephant just ****** a donkey with
its trunk... while the donkey bellowed
out some jazzy impromptu...
  cos that **** would, just make sense.
how can anything make sense
when you already have five,
and given the sense of sight you turn
all revisionist and imagine things?
   it can't make sense, given the senses
are already given...
    it has to be the sense, turned into
a faculty: seeing-imagination
hearing-composure,
                           ­   poets are never compared
to musical composers...
my choice of vocab is a bit poor
at this moment...
             give me a tape recorder and i might
just be able to encrust my voice
like a cello in some symphony...
this isn't the game though...
i need patois and polish to play with
this word δαιμων...
     cut open: δαι-         / daj
  in polish means: give... a prompt, not: to give,
but: just give it, a basis of instruction...
   and now the patois... i.e. -μoν
    or man... aye aye mon, the drunken jammy-sailors
sung, drinking and swerving their dreads
    into puke-soaked sofas of the brothel...
so yes, we cheated a tad bit...
   we didn't write down: give me the moon,
we just said: give me man...
              and so pandemonium ruffled
a few feathers of man's peacock known as vanity...
and so the puppeteers said: enough
of strings! to the rook and bishop, pawn, king
queen and knight! suma summarum?
  only in england, could bilingualism ever be confused
with schizophrenia... oddly enough bilingualism
can deflate classical schizophrenic symptoms...
well: the symptom isn't exactly a pain...
     and they did suggest it to be a chemical imbalance...
which i found quiet funny...
given i have a chemistry degree from Edinburgh...
  i can't exactly state what a chemical imbalance is...
    not with the equilibrium theory...
   or any care to call phosphorus dipped in water
after having stored it oil to be an "imbalance"...
    surely we are talking about giving examples,
a bit like regurgitating facts...
but it would appear that there are no examples to
be given, as we are more interested in
simply regurgitating facts...
           i heard this one "dear" friend of mine call
my work a word salad... as if i hadn't heard that
phrase before... well great, coming from a man
who i remember unable to recite the ******* alphabet.
               god, how could i have become so
engrossed in these belittling narratives from past
or present, it's like i'm chewing on roast beef...
and i'm chewing, and i'm chewing, and i can never
even sniff the tulips of transcendence...
  every time i do, i just get dragged down onto
the plateau of being the common man...
             i just don't seem to value
will as my modus operandis -
    only a mere be - and **** me, with that there
are so many things optional...
                 i feel no river needing a travelling down
on in me, i feel no sea in need of
     a tide or a shipwreck...
               i feel no need for a mountain and
an avalanche...
            but whereas the will would guide me toward
overcoming the mountain,
  with each congestion of being bewildered by
a be injected into any thing real or imaginable,
along with that quasi-thing known as thought
that later becomes speech or writing or song,
      i can only state: without a will to overcome
a mountain, without a will to sail across a sea...
     i am both the mountain and the sea...
    in that i am being: set aside by both mountain
and sea in claiming a will over them,
           i am set aside by both mountain and sea:
for i know my own vanity,
            and as counter to res cogitans,
being a res vanus: i am of foremost concern to
fill that void with thought, rather than
   with sights of Eldorado across the sea...
    or a Tibetan monsestary, high in the mountains.
Life: The Pages Between Birth and Death
The book too thick to actually choose to read.
Cross-referenced with words too lengthy to even sound out.
Adjectives and adverbs, metaphors and similes
Neatly describing each seminal moment
That no longer makes sense.
A book dust covered and yellowed.
Pages dog-eared citing someone's past interest
In whatever was actually printed however many years ago.
Saying "Not the read I want,"
As I place it back on the shelf.
Avoiding the unavoidable,
I pass on it.
At least for today.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence

and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
well... i know how you love to be made expectant with psychological premature ******* of ideas, other than banking, banana tweaking ****** the bendy part? i was asking the ****... is that Croatian **** in Korean? elevator blues, diarrhoea... welcome a suburb of Saul and we'll have Bangkok for jokes... did she just squint her eyes at me? hard to tell... squinting in Asia is like killing Jews in German occupied Poland, December in Krakow, is that snow or Auschwitz ash? see how poor the joke is, even with English black humour? Monty Python seems more like Benny Hill right now - i too love kids, preferred their limbs on toothpicks with Kentucky glace dip sauce... but you said: cheap Romanian, so i said: alright ******, you go back to the construction site, we'll send the Irish concrete layers home, we'll send the polish plumbers and the roofers home, we'll send the german installers of glass home...  how many office worker in this country would like to work in the outdoors? **** me, given facebook, instagram and twitter, gucci and the new **** of the fashion industry, revisionist capitalism and solo brands... um... about...  none;
they won't exit Europe, they're not as evolved as the Swiss or the Norwegians, sure they have the 0, 0 coordinates of Darwin, a starting point, but that doesn't mean they're Swiss or Norwegian -
well sorry, but that's how it stands, i'll be happy to send
the Romanians and the Bulgarians and the Poles home... can we dismantle the Shard while we're at it? it's not supposed
to be here... i don't blame the Russians feeding a father-role for
Putin, the anonymity of western democracy just gets to me,
i get ****** over by anonymous poker players, gamers, prior to computers we had a different sort of gamers, call them retards,
call them nerds, they're one and the same; they think they read
novels having recited maxims of the plot to perfect Italian choir of
an operatic - it really doesn't matter, i'll just bunch-up together
a few ******* to build me a castle like in the old days,
and it'll just be a sweet sixteen William IV in the Encyclopaedic enclosure of former economic dynamics of who boxed,
who rapped, who played basketball, who sprinted against Adolf,
while the natives lost the plot in zoological enclosures
and the hybrids invented souls to counter such
enclosing.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
******* and your little intelligentsia
group therapy sessions
basing its roots in caveman cartesian
theoretic - i know you know that
the blank canvas are the *******
and that artists work on that -
because normally grey citizens are no
blank canvas but a subordination -
but still, *******, why not concentrate
on the blank economics of a beggar
to exercise your little intelligentsia
get-together sessions?
there are less social securities in that
department of inquiry -
mental health and art... what's that?
you jealous of the caverns of the mind
crafting an escape pod to your
****** exercise of mechanisation -
**** on me, crosswords! su doku!
all matters of encryption!
endear your lack of creativity with
the synonymousness act of creativity
decoding encryption,
because you obviously can't encrypt
on a complete lack of encoding parameters (blanks).
you can't encrypt originality unless
you start with encrypting nothingness
with stars... and how often does that happen?
perhaps once... i care to make you
feel something akin to bombastic,
a football stadium size of appreciation lost -
skull kickabout with commentary:
to create the post-relativity warp
of quantity-quality, akin to space-time,
for indeed the answer to science's
space-time hyphenated couplet
is quantity-quality - and that's hardly a measurable
consideration, since there are too many particulars
involved, i.e. too many individuals, choices
and disparaging wills - too many particulars
in the hyphenated couplet quantity-quality,
since science is offering universal breadcrumbs
with its space-time rationalisation
for each and every for a share in populating
an insignificance, whether on a personal
scale or an impersonal / collective scale -
and both are indeed expressed,
the famous parasitical comparison found
in too many numbered essays by individuals -
but still humanism has a quantity-quality parabola,
while science has its space-time parabola,
and indeed both in dip, provide waves,
for example the former with Plato and Neoplatonism,
and for example the latter with
the revisionists of Einstein - the revisionist excavators
arguing precision to 100% proof of measurement
in exponential scaling of the mind theorising
a bus trip to Saturn like a bus-trip parallel-akin
to a 1 mile trip on the same vehicle in the earthly atmosphere.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.

my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.

my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.

a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,  
failing to depart,
as time has requested.

these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.

yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.

nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,  
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,  
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.

All our hands.

upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the  
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.

that date,
initialized,  
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.

Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,  
on all
our hands,
all our history.

Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.

Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.

So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.

Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.





-------------------------------------------------------­-----------

* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian

(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Written a long time ago, can't remember when
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
reinvention of the jazzy period? 1920s, don't tell me!
1930s ****** and Capone and the Pacinos - chi:
   or cha cha: capuχino - hence the missing c -
   truant Capote wrote a bestseller meanwhile -
grizzly ra - and some bling to boot: always a favour;
oh i don't mind - it minds itself:
philosophers are removal van people:
boxes wherever you look: per se a,
per se b, per se c, per se d. i grew a beard because
i thought: might as well fiddle with it, get itchy
with pretending violin playing - always better than
counting money - grew one to counter the fiddler on the roof:
meaning? fiddle of the chin - you lucky people are so funny,
i got university education and can't laugh -
it's hilarity multiplied by Clinton: sure, the rich can do
anything... but nothing publicly - attention span of goldfish,
keeping an image or brushing your teeth to a routine:
hello dentistry, o'la chemists with toothpastes!
plus the deficit, plus Gorbachev and a hungover.
well, you do look like the generation that spawned
the first world war - cocktails and chandelier champagne
popsy-turvy - hunched burp - ****** warfare;
jazz poker or jazzy blackjack? you look so ******* familiar
that it isn't even funny... the populists are goose-marching
but you still need a partying excuse
to **** at a reed to breath under the blood-bath
waters of minimal exertion -
       Fritz Ferdinand also said:
                      fry 'em up, the young will
become un-bored - savages of the dance-floor
will need but one excuse: the airy-fairy one...
then the Zeppelins and the donnerkrieg -
or the thundering prior - rather than pre-,
  tropismuskrieg - alternative the compass read alter
N - north - the revisionist segment that's
a compass to mind: the equivalent of north
in human dynamism: K - krieg - war...
somehow potassium too -
                                 war
  
         peace                                  modernity

               ­               antiquity

           the model moral movement: krieg -

                                       krieg (K)

         frieden (F)                                        zeitnah (Z)

                                      antike (A)        

the fakz - the facts - and nothing else - sure
i was limiting myself to a skew, or a rhombus -
not exactly what you were thinking of:
chaka demus & pliers - tease me tease me tease
                                         got a spare cup of sugar
                   and a screwdriver? oh no... till i lose
   my t.v. license and my zombie soul;
are these the same ******* that got shifted to America?
don't blame me for what the ****** royal did
  to the ****** pauper - you have a basketball team,
and a dozen rappers - what's the... ahem... problem?
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2015
~~~
dear god, what you demand of me
is inhuman,
which is likely why
you demand it with
gleeful and gorgeous
word-worthy delicacies

walk forward to the small rise
overlooking the water,
the new cloud variation of this day's
particuliar peculiar moment,
a watercolor painting deserving
of the posterity of oil and
yet another poem...

raise my arms
half beseeching,
half grasping,
you color me every day
with your revisionist perfection
every day, nay,
verily each minute,
a new canvas revealed,
each an indie movie shown
but once,
then never again,
as seen from my reclining platform of soil,
kneeling on the crest of my sheltered home's soul

am compulsed, compelled,
addicted to finding new words
praiseworthy of a unique finger painting,
recombinant blue earth, soon turning, light green water,
all ring fenced
in the white ermine of a cloak of sand,
all worshipping alongside me,
the newborn sky of every moment,
majesty so nonpareil
that it chokes my tongue to silence,
hard slams shut my
desperately, deficient dictionary
to praise proper

yet every pore eager to share,
fall upon my naked knees,
as supplicant and mendicant both
to the majesty of this
particular minute's DNA
tasked to me to regift so pathetically

a man destined to fail,
who in advance knowing
unequal to the task,
grandeur impeccable,
in words henpecked,
mortal kernels of awesome and wow,
just don't cut it,
for this late afternoon tapestry of a
summer day's coronation,
it deserves far far better than this

the now multi-blue shaded water
wears tinkling diamond dust,
perhaps a piece of the sun's tiara
has gentle fallen to earth through
the puffs of Mistress Skye's
white, shift-shaping unceasingly changing
etchings

knocked to my knees,
gasping at the greenery on the far shore,
color contrasts from across the ocean,
raising the bar even further,
enfeebled by a chronic-need,
an aching desire
imprisoned in the right brain's stubborn will
to create,
to write down in words,
the glory of this workmanship

begging impolitely,
please oh please keep on testing me
this way,
so that I might
cry aloud my
failure in words,
just once more,
gleefully and gorgeously

for what,
for this,
dear god,
that you demand of me,

I thank you...


~~~

Shelter Island,
this moment,
this Michelangelo ceiling,
this
August 10th,
and days, years, centuries,
yet to come,
et en passant,
2015
the well nearly empty,,
new words no longer are collected in the cistern,
sooner, nearer,
I will only be able
to utter gasps of  living color,
that no pen could ever translate...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
can't talk that crap with you, with you rapping,
and how's your papa, who played the guitar; that
jazz man, that jazz!
you can take the european charity
companies to court... we're paying **** all
     until Africa stops faking
the ****** of post-colonial money...
should have settled that **** with
your original contractors...
   i hate the adverts, i doubly hate
the care for honesty...

need to take it up with
the bollocking's worth for africa...
the moment i spotted this
one fat kenyan woman
strolling, i started thinking about
keeping foxes more...
you gave us jazz, you gave the blues:
******! move!
      you deconstructed
the european orchestra! what more
do or can want?

       a ******* nightie...
white teeth and a chance spot of
scelara... ****** please,
i'm talking to this girl and i don't
have a 11 inch *****...
    you gave us jazz and blues, man,
what more do you want?!
     i love you man,
but the bro **** has to stop...
   a few of my "species"
liked to lacerate themselves,
i *** it...
              but you're turning all
******* Kentucky on me...

i'm not buying the need for charity
with western charity shops,
when i was in Kenya i realised:
only the idiots made it to the slave boats...
thankfully they did...
otherwise we'd have no blues or jazz...
and you're complaining...
   what did the germans and the russians
ever teach the poles when they invaded?
  i'm trying to think of something...
i can't think of anything!
nothing of musical to be sure...
          
   if there was no slave trade
there would be no jazz and no blues...
at least you can don that skin of yours
with pride...
   all i got was Auschwitz and a bunch of
angry Israeli tourists...
so yeah... clap clap...
    the only thing that might seem comforting
is allowing me to deal with it alone.
   i really can't be bothered with
people testing the shark-infested waters of
faking happy...
        please do... please... but not here.

next time i'll hear you complain
i'll just think of the last time you visited the Ivory Coast
and said: i'll never come back,
never mind the coco and knots.
     this is the last time you start moaning
about feeling: so at home.
last time ******...
           because you do...
     the last time i spoke to a whitey i was also
told: you didn't say that akin to ***** enough...
     last time i checked,
     it really didn't matter that i talked to a white
person...
            to give a proof of relativity,
   extract a word from akin shapes of relativism,
and give it concrete status, you'll probably get a
chemistry or physics theory...
            
      i really can't hear the complaints enough,
even though i'm hardly the one to inherit the *******...
i just hear jazz and blues...
        and as the sole instigators of post-classical music...
given the current theme, ultra-african,
primarily drumming...
       e.g. distance and the album
repercussions, and how it sold-out like
   a litter of hot bagles...
      or a bunch of golden labradors...
and i own a copy.
              
  that's the oddity of speaking the same tongue
as the one currently gravitating toward speaking
a history, and how tongue and ethnicity misfires,
how there are mongrels of the flesh,
and how there are mongrels of the soul...
how i will never, ever, accept a historicity,
and subsequently a responsibility...
    for something done in the past...
i could be german and forget the holocaust
given that the theme in several languages in western
europe is based on a colonial past...
      and i don't even know how i am to stomach
it, or begin creating an identity from it...
i heard ****** played blues and jazz,
and i was like: forget chopin!
    
they taught us a method to unlearn grammar
in the case of having learned it in the language
of music... came first: spontaneity:
like that scottish language teacher...
   who taught no grammar rules...
          some might claim to treat them as the proto
revisionist-reductionists...
and yet... so much hysteria over a word
on the tongue that would easily equate it as
homie...
          it's sad enough to pass an atmosphere of
easily acquired depression,
simply working from the basis of leveraging
the need to learn vocab, as in later instances
curbing it... and that's politics not done by politicians
but by 3rd party people obeying instructions
that don't necessarily require digging trenches,
which are nonetheless dug.
     i literally have no real argument for
democracy, other than: rule by being rude.
               i am actually tempted by the political schematic
of despotism, when we learn an omnipresent care
for etiquette, and how politeness gives us such tiny
delights, but at least the tiny delights are recurrent...
  democracy is just infested with the spirit of revolution,
like the re- / again and again could ever be improved,
or what's called: re-inventing the wheel...
    i think it's hardly necessary to give the mob:
an authority...
         i find the mob to be no source of authority...
   at least rulers can be undermined,
   made fun of in a game of posturing and
               philandering...
   the mob can't be over-ruled...
                  it has no shadow,
it has no individual...
it's basically just one sack of *****
   ready to implode, and when imploding
continually deviate from a work-ethic status
of a plateau-strata with only one individual
    ****** enough to be the tulip above the waters...
with democracy, no one really takes any real
responsiblity...
     all despots are accounted for,
but in the case of democracy, since the crown is passed
around like a ***** so frequently,
everyone can play the Pontius Pilate...
how eager they are with washing their hands...
   that's democracy for you,
shadow people and everyone
  a spy unto the next person: or at least glass houses:
with social media outlets: also glass people...
  they said Milošević was bad...
they held talks at the Hague (proto Nuremberg)...
but still T. Blair walks as innocently
as a swan...
   democracy has a perfect sense of
being a poetry describing a brothel...
  many people came through its doors...
a lot of hands were shaken, a lot of promises were made...
    and when democracy had its fury established,
it attacked the monogamy of despotism:
i.e. one man one country...
                     after all, pyramids were sacred,
as was the study of the river of *****...
democracy is a brothel, shadow people who make
many handshakes, and like cowards,
disappear into the night of a throng
and shout: it's all humble pie perfect!
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.

You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.

But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.

This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!

Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...

Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.
No need to correct me, I'm well aware the Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton duel was with pistols, not swords. Just thought I would take a little poetic license.
Valerious Jul 2015
In the Alps of you and me,
There can be no victory.
The problem isn’t that you’re unfavorable,
The problem is that I don’t care enough to be capable.
Captivated by our loyalty and then berating our backstory,
Another mystery, special delivery.
No longer caged in your palace chorus,
But in my memory palace you remain victorious.
A revisionist history,
A thousand times I am sorry.
jeffrey conyers Apr 2014
Do not be offended?
For part of this poem is true.
Once upon a time in America there was segregation.
Which made America look bad in the eyes of other nation.

We uplifted one.
While degrading another.
Especially when it came to the segregated water fountain.
Even the movie theater and eating counters.

Do not be offended?
Cause truth is written in the correct histories books.
Not those that the revisionist want to over look.

Once upon a time.
One group learned in schools.
While others in shacks or least made up of one room.

Oh, please don't be offended.
For part of the truth is constantly told.
People over look that Rosa Parks was in the right assigned roll of seats.
Theirs ran out once they was completed.
Then they expected her to get up and stand.
We know, who was the woman?
And one was a less of a man.
But that was the accepted Jim Crow' law of the land.

Do not be offended?
For if you are.
Then you must question's your heart.
Cause God witness it all.

Ministers tossed in jail.
Three killed trying to make things better.
And this group lay blame on "so called, outsiders."

Churches bombed.
Children's killed.
Still they attended church.
Makes you wonder about the sermon's message.

Do not be offended.
For truth usually hurt.
When you see the acts of the governors and police officers.
Who wouldn't wanted to be Bull Connor?
Ordering attacks of dogs and fire hydrants.

I guess treat people like you want to be treated.
Doesn't always work.
Unless you are serious taking in the correct message at church.

A lesson we ALL need to learn.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2016
Upon closer examination,
my hands, my history.

Irregular sized summaries, slightly worn,
like gloves, marked down for the discount table,
my creases covered up underneath genesis survivors,
a 'handful' of youthful blonde hairs,  
failures to depart as requested.

Refuseniks to time's ravages,
mockery makers,
yet, cohorts of, in cahoots with,
wave machines, breaker bringers of tidal decay,  
gray color content providers,
to the balance of my body.

Nicks and grooves, crisscross stitches,
vanity repairs to counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,  
wreckage of death stars, jails for membranes,  
forgetful fabric memorizers, crumbled fractures,
patches designed by an unknown haute couturier,
failed revisionist of the original conception.

All our hands.

Upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale, arrival day of the  
mythical Halcyonian,
the date, initialized,^
even DVR future recorded,
visible, right there, upon
on all our hands, all our history.

Source coded in a language for which 
a Rosetta stone, yet undiscovered,
but visible, right there,  
on all our hands, all our history.

Halcyon bird,
comes when it comes,
though we, always, surprised,
oblivious to the obvious.

Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm, and to lament loss,
coming, to still wind and wave within
the heart, repair the deepest rent.

So these words, caresses,
coming, to calm and to lament,
from my hands to yours,
asking modestly, for acceptance.


--------------------------------------------------------------­----

^http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian

(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Sam Temple Nov 2015
evolutionary revisionist
screaming about alien DNA
and the Annunaki
teaching ape-men
on the Sumerian plains –
looking at the southern skies
for the coming of Nibiru
sending red horns across the horizon
bringing back the overlord giants
another round of ****
and zero-point energy –
fallen angles look like greys
travelling from heaven
in shiny silver disks
abducting the impoverished
for genetic manipulation
and artificial insemination
attempted creation
of a hybrid nation
my lament is not taken seriously
and I slip further into the fringe –
cattle mutilation no longer garners
a press release
five million people with similar memories
are all discounted as crazy
so the masses can sleep
believing they are alone
and special
in the universe –
The carts rolled out of the warehouses
And trawled each single street,
Each drawn by a giant Clydesdale with
Those massive hooves and feet,
They creaked along, and they struck a gong
That excited furtive looks,
While the men that day, who rode the dray
Called out, ‘Bring out your books.’

They watched the shimmer of curtains as
The people peeked outside,
For many were loth to show themselves,
All they had left was pride,
The law brought in by the ****** left
Trapped all but the pastrycooks,
For they could retain their recipes
At the cry, ‘Bring out your books.’

They said they were saving forests from
The pulp mill on the bay,
There wouldn’t need to be paper with
The pads we have today,
And too many things were incorrect
Had been printed on a tree,
Were sitting on people’s shelves, defunct
In ideology.

The people set up resistance, they
Had loved their tattered tomes,
And many a shelf was burdened in
The meanest of their homes,
‘The government’s trying to dumb us down,’
Was the universal cry,
‘Go out and save the forests, but
If they’re already printed, why?’

The spread of ideas is dangerous
They could rot you to the core,
And too many things on liberty
Have been printed, long before,
Perhaps it would have been better if
The people couldn’t read,
Taking away the books at last
Might take away the need.

The drays that rumbled along each street
They had stacked the books up high,
But there was the odd revisionist
Who complained, and grumbled, ‘Why?’
A squad broke into each suspect house
Where the owner locked the door,
And tore the books from his fevered grasp
While screaming, ‘It’s the law!’

But mine, I hid in the garden shed
And buried the others deep,
They wouldn’t be getting their hands on them
The ones that I wished to keep,
There’s so many fake and useless things
That they’re legislating for,
But to take our books and our liberty
Would be like declaring war.

David Lewis Paget
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
poem

Forgotten heart attacks sleeping by the back door Mercury in retrograde channeling spiritual warfare crooked teeth pealing wax work set in sixes off of tables and chairs
***** hands casting crystal corners in my head yesterdays tea poured over the infinite misunderstanding divinity thickening the air that's already wrapped tightly around the time that steals so much space in my bed heavy eyelids slipping into controlled chaos sighing out larkspur symphonies dead men don't sell secrets they hand them out for free.

comment*

i know you're pursuing a dead-end take on punctuation, and that's much worth the acknowledgement, but i can be a puritan sometimes, i too transcend the distributing norms while equipping them... but i only think of catching a breath... i can spot the obvious avoidance usage of punctuation when i can; but to me the fact that it's hidden is like a sobering artefact of modern critique of art, i.e. that your avoidance of punctuation would spell out a need to keep the poem fragrant's worth of a crossword puzzle...and that much is needed when reading poetry...poetry has to be a lessened musicology, and has to become an encrusted form of puzzle... otherwise it will not survive. thank you for considering this revisionist approach.
your dark past
casts long shadows
in your new light
lies defined
projected far and wide
in sharp relief
no protection
revisionist excision
cuts deep
inconsequential
exsanguination
for all to see
scooby Nov 2017
I have previously,
and this is forbidden knowledge I am about to indulge you in,
(feel grateful perhaps)
I have previously been accepted here before.

In my blueish age
of 13,
deemed enough of a literary
writing reams,
cartoonish spools, overspileth
sounds about right,
and history was recorded!

Little did your establishment know that
years into the future,
in a plasmatic stopwatch,
I'd be
frantically,
absolutely sweating bullets!
attempting to erase
the pubescent penning about
Lord knows,
depression and gym class.
and after, said to no one in particular
in a completely
revisionist fashion
"bless this mess"

so how about it old friend,
another round?
I wrote this because i forgot i had an account and then when i submitted it said my email was in use so here I am, not wanting to put poetry to waste amirite fellas
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
spare me the art form to leave it unto women!
spare me! make prone to ride a horse,
shoot an arrow from a bow, and weild a sword,
don't make me, this! make only women bound
to it, akin to the pashtun, leave me sacred, bound,
to care to the billionth remark as a plumber might,
and yes, revisionist as all might be,
                 for isn't there a fear
that with reincarnartion there
came only come a set number of
Noah compatiorts?
       how are we to esteem, or
indeed redeem the said quota?
who to say failure: without a battlefield?!
  to what altar?! i ask, to what altar?
a couch and a ******* t.v. altar?
you be god or mere boredom?!
      a death in war be a spark,
and above that a flit,
and above that a flame....
    and that means should a congregation
partake in the passed wisdom:
all but one are excused..
   but pray! leave me with an oath
an ancient greek might have said:
that these women bring nothing
but turmoil... and that they should
be left, best cleaving to
    a moment's adrift, care toward
symposium of a wave...
i was never born to be ***...
       and i never will be...
shame...
mind you: i was never born an ethnicity
of vermin... and that's salt,
that's really salt, whether there's a wound
or there isn't one...
have your Knightsbridge and
24 carat plating encrusting copper... have it!
     i'll fall asleep, and have my war
contra crux.
          because, i dare believe,
i have no ethnic boundary,
or a care to remember...
                           that if i had any...
i was never rat, or metaphor...
so i am prone to faking it...
demoralising its significance...
      for a cause i am afraid to ask a: what for?
once there was a tale that a nobleman owned
a horse... and he was the most esteemed
cladden of the sort...
later came the footsoldiers and their banners...
and lastly: i can't believe i just woke up;
i am bound to daydream the past,
and heaving perfect standards of modern technology,
i am with limbs, bound to be without any...
i can't even be bound to a prison to
try to escape it...
                  why did i begin to write poetry,
with poetic populism afright, and the safety card to send
men to war.. if they remain: only half literate...
       i really need gills to breath in this
air... it's too sulphuric: not when my ethnicity
be compared to rats... not again, not another german
scheisseladen in tongue of anglo-saxon...
   if that's how it going to be...
please give me the gift.... cos i sheisse ain't
about to look at the magazines of vogue like
a human, anymore!
you call this human? i call this lesser than animal,
o.k.?! dogs and cats get better treatment
in the west than i... i might as well endorse
a jihad... just to wake certain peoples up.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
call it culture... call it: kul-toor... something "cool"...
i've just drank a bottle of wine and
i'm far from... feeling an armchair moment
of enjoying: whatever it is i'm supposed to enjoy...

millenial woes...
        h3h3... the whole list... it's really your standard
packet of pork chops...
i would be much prouder if i were...
adamantly watching an english soap-opera...
at least that sort of "consumering" makes
it to a pub quiz status... the trivia the knowledge:
the machine gun and blank stares:
who's who?

      but i have comes across the concept
of ASMR...
                       insomnia dalmation barking
in swiss...
i was... once upon a time:
  told to listen to some Max Richter...
      i still much prefer christopher young's
hellraiser II: hellbound soundtrack...
i've been buthering that soundtrack for almost
forever... and the "problem of counting sheep":
i imagine myself making a chicken...
into a soup from the torso - intricate bones
of the spines...
   perhaps the wings... then leaving
the ******* for a roullade: or schnitzels...
and the quarters (thighs and legs)... well...
that's just another dinner... probably roasted...

counting sheep: can it be called:
shooting ducks?
              ASMR... cringe videos of whispering...
who pays...
when there's that full package available
with the bulgarian women... the dimmed lights...
once a year... perhaps once every two or three...
but of course... i check on myself daily:
whether all this drinking and all that smoking
is true: that it might lead one to a limb-****
bashing... day in day out like someone checking
their blood sugar or their blood pressure...
i check mine...
                        
        culture: ketchup...
           a clean and easy throne of thrones affair...
the no. 1, 2 and 3... and then a baptism in
the shower...
                most of the time i pretend:
having wiped my ***...
            if "culture" / ketchup is this bad...
the next best thing? ******:
                  becoming a **** flinging monkey!

busy as busy comes...
when was the last time it rained in england?
april was when i witnessed the spike of oddities...
it was sunny: so much so that you could
turn sunlight into a liquid and drink it:
like a schnapps...
     the bewildering concept of the english garden...
when... the garden is rarely used...
to b.b.q. like an australian:
   etc.
                 but the neighbour put up a fence
after 15 years of "politics" and now
i am working on putting apart the old shed
and putting up the new one...
          
ASMR... that kite is flying and i just want
to cut its umbilical chord...
and send a message in a bottle... thrown...
into something as static as a big chemical-puddle...
in a mini "bottle"... the message being written
in braille and itching on nail's head...
like a Gustav Dore etching...

                              something: spectacular...
        this that or the other... something spectacular...
like a phoneline... all calls from india
and from a call-centre...
                     thank god this canvas is "meine sprechen"...
spectacular" unwinding in how pedagogy
is a memory acid... someone comes along:
we, write - alt. "grammar"...
           no need - or need...
                      rules like gravity: never mind!
rules like: how to tie a tie: never mind!
      we make up as we go along...
***** spirit: yo'go!
               astounding my disbelief...
                 such rules when asked:
  could, extend... toward... the schizoid cipher?
        nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
bad grammar is one thing: speaking in metaphors
and crosswords: only the zodiac could:
with that splinter of ego and a hacking:
of brain as woo woo wood woody chen.

                to have went to school for the sole reason
that: one weren't born in the victorian
era and being a chimney-sweep!
   better have dumbed down and taught
to stack supermarket shelves:
while also being taught that...
   and... wanting to read in your spare time...

to see... a cohort of peacocks strutting like
geeese... tails folded.
                
    for lack of a better choice of words:
hit & miss... hit & run...
             if this was as easy as getting:
what walt whitman got...
             or didn't get...
                   bad grammar is good grammar:
a bit like arithmetic: 3 + 15 = 19!
or... the science of: guess...

                scratch of the head:
perhaps i'm an apostate catholic...
a proselyte veering toward... digging under
judaism is a pitiable reading of the qabbalah...
the good catholic boy'oh with his credo,
his litany of ave marias and unser vater...
     in conversation with hey'zeus: ihre vater...

                  noster pater: pater noster...
                    vester pater: pater vester...

to be so: "shielded"... a belief matching up
to prayer beads...
to actual prayer... and all that... cognitive free-space
to boot!
i'm a bad atheist: at inception...
or is that the "un" conversion?
to gravitate filling nothing with a self,
a mirror and smoking a cigarette infront of it...
it's not enough...
that i do not pray: doesn't excuse the fact
that... i'm squeezed by an octopus in a straitjacket...
to think of god: existent or non-,
            it's hardly concerning myself with:
objective reality objective truth or objective
morality...
               pass as a ghost in this life...
a tomb of body in the waiting: to admire sparrows
is to also pay very little due for
opera... the timing is crucial... or not...

   concern oneself with comparisons...
to truly appreciate a sparrow singing...
is to stand stark naked in a garden...
to truly appreciate an opera...
is to don the tux... and play the vanity game
and the game of voyeurism...
same old same old:
same book: different cover...

                     new atheism: no god...
yes... but still that funnel argument of: no god...
if a funnel is the hearing-aid of Pascal...
i bet it is...
                  bad grammar was one thing...
but the proof of solipsism?
farting in a crowded place...
and being the only person who wouldn't
mind the mild: overstated "nuance"
of exploring perfumes that...
better suit... the decomposition of
strawberries and apples...

cezanne... had he painted still life...
yes... at that moment of "death"...
recycling vector (0, 0, 0) when the fruits
in still life have reached the nadir...
but the form is still intact... etc.

                      to be a catholic or...
but to be an atheist: and have one's prayers
"stolen" and replaced with...
at best: the prefix omni- and a geometry...
to have one's prayers "liberated"
by the thought-glutton of existence or non-,

chowhound: chew-fiend...
best of all... no teeth, not tongue...
no tapeworm of oesophagus inverted:
umbilical chord "gizmo" replica...
no stomach no **** bishop "pomp & circumstance"
and the **** the crown...

so much for praying: praying could be recovered
from...
but to have one's thinking occupied so?
it's beside the psalm of the Pascal wager...
to think:
             ut cogito... the act, itself...
so much for: ego cogito...
                    
                         to think: no therefore...
is... to...             what?               be?
how many times i have found thinking to be
a **** manual... thinking at times frees...
but most of the time: reality-checks...
contrains... and obliterates prospects...
then again: that wouldn't be concise enough
to be given either noun or verb status concerning:
the...                zone rouge...

to think: is and isn't:
     otherwise... a statement... of exasperation...
that has no compensation
in a translation of: thought = being...
i think is hardly a cornerstone...
it's a stone... a stone among rubble...
a good... revisionist: again!
   this... "i" and this "think"...
                      
and overstated fact guarded by:
a pronoun invocation...
          but: to think...    what's that?
to think is... what?
           to conjure up a soul...
and all the hallucinations to boot?
to think is to... what?
in the future: the lost participle of present...
and the past tense being:
nothing more than a mongrel
of journalism... history and... perhaps...
poo'etry?

             no... there's absolute no need to make
of h'americans for their secular shortcomings...
but there's just the Salem...
and those stickers... parental... guidance...
necessary...
                        oath words like: i... **** i swear...
the church the tele-evangelical:
spit *** sooner pit of...
                    if i had my way with
the mid-west... sooner i: deer-hunter...

so much for the catholic boy: prayer, duty...
and so much for the atheisst "i":
who eats all my thought: the θ(ought)
conundrum... perhaps it's a moral question
too... perhaps...

   to think: thought: ought i?
lucky for me...
my body is a shadow and my shadow is thought...
and i forget what's a crowd-pleaser and
what will allow me to sentence to grief: less and less...
and less...
ah! to think: ought i? ergo:
qua: non-qua
                             vel: non-qua: qua...

i waited for rain... i waited for rain...
i finally found joy in rain...
i also found a lisp of scotland...
many a mile before edinburgh was reached...

up and along the swing...
to swing so high... but to also sulk so low...
at least the catholics and those other
pseudo-italians are just: god-****! predictable!
backwards... introspective:
that the orc started to trend on twitter...
where is Mordor? east...
i usually conjure up the russians and
the slavs: well... given that russia is mostly
conjured up into breath by
mongol mongrels - anything of russian
envy east of moscow?

kazakhstan?!

         i'm no freer from "god" as either
atheist or catholic...
sure... i don't have to pay duty for and excuses
mumling credo under my
"knowledge" of soul: the breath...
but something is still eating my thought:
it doesn't exactly care whether it exists
or whether it doesn't...
the best argument i'll have to borrow...

si dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer...
if god did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him;
i too wish it would be done: the easiest -
to simply not think of him...

a cul de sac of arguments for my liking:
it's a plughole...
a bathtub full of water...
and the waterline is diminishing...
that will still not make me more
"believable" should i succumb to pray...
the worst aspect of h'america is
not the gluttony...
it's the evengelical zeal... then again:
i'm also wondering how this
is to escape me...
dilute itself into the readily available air...
fizzle out...
like a bottle of caronated water...
left open... till the carbon mingling within
a ******* of oxygen twins...
goes-bye-bye:

  when the first h'americans took to tourism
via pulp fiction: about le bib mac...
and fries served up with a dollop of mayo -
alt. - to home run: score...
zoid ist tod! zoid ist tod!

                 the prayer manual worth of god...
gone... dusted... the moths are settling...
and the spiders too...
              but the thinking loose skin...
"   " and what was missed bound to
a "malapropism" -
             hyper-inflated dyslexia...
       because learning grammar sentences you:
to that ode for the dickensian
chimney-sweeper!
  
                the misnomer... and the malapropism...
a debate: no... it's not a pun...
the peacock is loitering...
bad gwammar doth not:
fizzle out to faze him...
            
                yep... one of those internet ketchup
        moments...
to be "commited": pride and dignity...
performing a karaoke of harakiri...
                high-brow ambitions...
that: pride... and dignity... revenge... say what?!

salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sweet: true... because:
you can't exactly....
              sugar is: sweet...
but sugary? unlike salt: there's no salty...
    sugar... sugary...
           salt: salty...
                    sugar is sweet...
but: sweety? an endearment?
sugary: taste the difference?
granuled... powder... syrop prone?
salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sugary: no... sugar is sugar...

                                             blah blah...
and thank god no one has the time
and... concern for a capacity of minding...
such details... of obscurity...
better equipped:
a plumber with a blockage of a pipe...
than me... teasing at etymology...

life is: the bore of the precursor of time:
eternal time...
           forever is hardly a wait...
no amount of solipsism could ever solve...
the stage the sycophancy:
i ask: the solipsist and the sycophant
the same question:
what's the answer... when no question
is being aksed?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
and who would have thought that there would be such
certainty governing ι (iota), as to effectively stress it
               all the ****** time? guise it in whatever pronouns
you want, either modern or ancient and if ancient
then bound to psychiatric theory - but who would have
thought that so much pinpointing was to be allowed
over ι? and yet there are hordes of people without
a clue as to who they are and what identity to rattle
the world with... pinpoint above the iota...
if it was absolutely precise, and if it was truly identifiable
with a great accuracy, i'd find people in shackles of
certainty, hardly deviating from that's already apparent
to them... but it's not the case... so presumptuous
to ascribe iota (ι) that sort of certainty  when ascribing
it a holy pronoun status... there's hardly a pinpoint
about the iota, hardly any certainty, always the spontaneous
venture, and that's still bound to what  aesthetician you
speak to...
                           ᾠ (oi)! wriggly serpent of
arabic in greek, wriggled in, subscripted, prefix: al-,
then the l'ah the l'ah, la la la... la la... mmmbop! handsome,
   innit? kamoze... na na na na na na na na na na nah...
  'ere *** d' 'otstepper... chilli chilli in sprechen dingo...
                 roughing up the woof downunder.
and wrote a surah about the byzantine defeat...
true up to the point of mongol  and the mamluke...
for if not the serpent to teach man handwriting,
what animal? is not the serpent the jurassic spine
and our pause for thought? or what does predate
the discovery of dinosaur bones if not bonsai
   morphed into welsh and chinese dragons?
exaggerations of sleeper's intuition collectively?
to bow, or say: prior: all things worthy of a palette -
then the revisionist meteor, then all things condemnable
and bound to excess - gluttonous eyes  staring poignant as if
gnats stuck to venomous arrows with a thirst for st. sebastian...
    for what audacity asserted that it was always to be so:
a pinpoint above ι? there was no universal agreement -
as is to say: a god of the omni realm will never consider
a peace treaty  unless the people abide by the mantra om
and subsequently flourish... and what animal taught us this
wriggling? should we rewrite our stance basing all
metamorphosis from shouting to a hush and then compound
with statement: genteel reader away from the serpent
and haloing the worm, that too wriggles? it all depends which
aesthetician you speak to... if you speak to me,
i'll tell you this version of human history's worth of
soap opera.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
you know why i can't be much of
                          an atheistic *******?
to be honest?
i - prefer the voice of
someone like black pigeon speaks
than someone with the pompousness
of someone like t. j. kirk,
i'm not a trekkie either!
but come on, the voice whether with,
or without the image...
i just find atheism boring,
esp. if it's the sort of atheism
that subverts free-will,
   what sort of atheism is the type
focusing on discussion,
but the blatant discard of the mark of cain?
why leave the murderer from
your ranks?
                   i'm not an atheist akin
to witch-chard dork-ings citing
a liking for christmas carols...
     me? i prefer the chant of the templars...
salve regina types...
   i'm just bored of atheists...
they're boring me to the death i wished
instilled by islamic terrorists...
          atheism becomes boring
when it finds itself fathomable
within the confines of poetics,
esp. among the ones critical of cubism,
who also make gain by criticism of
the current "status" of poetry...
atheism seems to leisure,
rather than make critical claims...
i just find it so insolent...
that it almost resembles islam in the kindest
stratum of worthwhile discard...
whether poetry, or whether song,
both are to be avoided by
the guiding principle of the caliphate...
mind you: i'd rather make amends
with the shia muslims of iran,
than these berbers of morocco...
   half the casket filled with decapitated heads...
at least the shia knew the concern
of image, knew the bounty of poetry,
of the persian, came prior to the tusken arab
with their barbaric "leisures"
crafting "law"...
      i cite worth the shia above the sun-amun-ní,
and that's how the matter rests...
i will not care to budge a revisionist fable...
atheism bores me...
  it bores me to ensure i make
my bone into an ashen crude fathom
of form, "relieved" by an epitaph...
mark the pilgrim his
            expected tattoo of the haj...
coming from iran,
  mark him with the gesture,
                     of being a welcome guest!
mark him, or forever serve the "peace"
of convening the wake of
            your supposed istishhad;
i say, mark him!
        make peace among the two:
to better see the one,
  minding you avoid the poly-schism
of christianity...
       mark him!
       lever toward a peace among you!
do not suppose you are freed from
a monotheism, than can suddenly
turn into a polytheism of a poly-schismatic
distaste of arguments, akin to christianity...
mark your shia brother!
          mark him! tell him!
tell him: this is as far as our argument
settles to dust, within the perpetuated falter
of argument's invited...
   mark him! tell him!
      you will not allow a third party schism!
tell him! mark him!
     you will not allow a third party islam,
no islam, beyond the already debatable
shia & sunni... no third party!

— The End —