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Rayénari Das Jun 2021
Eternal Schumann:
Your head was born
Between the shadow
Of your  ghost
Daffodil and echo
Always running around
into the wrong guideline
Of your love for Brahms
I think of you in the madhouse
Skinned by demons
And raised by the angels
You remind me of the gloomy manifestation
Of pure love
And every note
From the concert in La
Gloriously dragging
All that energy and ceiling,
All that contained love
Haunting your holy peace
Snatching the muse
Of the sublime and vertical fabric
From the truth ground to sticks.
It's a heartbreaking era
And the corpse of Schumann the terrible
Has been resting for a century
In dizzying memory
Of the human
Already impoverished
For the departure of God
And abandoned
To their fate
To the last cadence
That you did not write
In the first delirium
From schizophrenia




R.
#music #oniria #madness
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.oh yeah... chris isaak's: wiucked game - plenty of "facts" went into taping as many covers as the song spontaneously made replica... so many objective "facts"... too many to count... when will certain subjective taboos be recognized and other, objective "truths" be denied?! how long must humanity be obliged to secure the argument by "confusion" be deemed liberation as necessarily-arguing the case of confiscatory material? what?! my grammar is bad? if my grammar is so ******* bad... ask someone from Rotherham!

.i tend to forget that people have this, collective amnesia regarding subjectivity, somehow they only associate it with news spew... they vaguely recognize an old widow walking from a surgery to a bust stop, stopping my a lavender bush, to pick a few flowers off of it... like some quasi Notre Dame hunchback... joyous that she bypassed all the ghost souls on the "waiting list" of an English doctor, joyous... clearly innocent... there can never be a place in this world for objective truths... objectivity is limited in the realm of aesthetics... whereby objectivity is a truth: whereby two uncorrelated people say the same thing... but  when it comes to a taste in music? what is objectivity that focuses on the differentiated between the sound of Wagner with / without an orchestra... and a traffic jam? objectively? both are sounds... extreme comparisons... but you can't call one black and the other #A, can you? subjectivity is not a 1-dimensional propaganda machine, it is also a truth... and when it comes to aesthetics... within the confines of personal taste(s)... i can say Wagner works better without an orchestra than with one... but... you can't tell the two apart... subjectivity is not a bias... it is a profound truth... in comparison objectivity's claim for truth is a tirade, compensated by the mere excavation deposit of journalism, which is becoming ever more fractured in compensation; it was always the case that life, expired prior to the, death... but now? it appears? death expires prior to a, life. Wagner isn't anemic without the orchestra... Wagner merely hijacks an orchestra to overdo the purpose of the piano... to enrapture a concert hall; nothing more, and i wouldn't expect nothing less.

i'm drunk...

  you're sober...

good luck
reconciling either,

even if either:

invokes:

         none....

   who gave the reigns
to the internet,
under a sober guise?

****! quick!
catch me a moth in a lampshade
and send me off to
a CIA acid camp!

IVANA BELIEVE!
and congregate
like a ******* beehive!

or a termite mount...
whichever...
            what?
i'm drunk... you're sober...
    
unless you have some
fetish for Swedish pop music
akin to Roxette...
  we, have, seriously,
nothing, to, talk, about...

  savvy? is that privy enough
for you?

tell me the difference between:
i have no rank, no lābrador
to mind suite for an orchestra
worth a Wagner...

**** it... i just watched
Apocalypse Now...
   3 and a half hours of what i could
make of the heart of darkness...
prior to the ride of the valkyries...

but to be honest...
i'm with david...
             take of pure piano...
of Wagner's
     the entry of the gods into Valhalla...
sole, piano... it's not anemic...
it's justified interpretation,
it''s... the justified counter
to Chopin...
  a refined honesty...
                 i never liked
Chopin...
   unlike most Polacks...
i never like Jean-Paul II either...
like most Polacks...

i'd envision a Jean-Paul II emeritus...
like all old Polacks lay claim:
it you have been nice to see
an otherwise different,
process of dethroning...

no... the orchestra undermines
Wagner... the piano will do,
for now, for as long as it takes...
the piece doesn't require orchestration...
if the mere piano makes the pieces
anemic...
then the orchestra makes is
gluttonous...
  
people shouldn't expect their children
to be intelligent by merely
listening to classical music...
what they should expect...
is listening to classical music...
elaborating into jazz...
and then coming back into classical music...

why do i hear such horrors...
that the only classical music made pop...
is classical music underscoring
moving image...
why is the only classical music
"worth" listening to...
the music composed for movies,
or at least, incorporated
into them?

            no... Wagner is not anemic
on the sole basis of piano...
     das rheingold: is not anemic...
Chopin might be...
with his intricacies...
a bountiful butterfly in the age
of Bonaparte...
              
               but? listening to the piano?
of Wagner's exclusion of
orchestra?

   Handel is the new Bach...
and Wagner is the new Chopin...

you don't make toddlers listen to classical music
because they might be better
at arithmetic like some prized
monkey who later struggles
with economic biases -
or tax returns...

                     you need a classical
music appreciation,
to hit against jazz...
and if it doesn't return to classical
music?
then the original investment was
worth... zilch!

       orchestra ruins what perfects,
or rather allows Wagner
to stand-out from a Baroque tradition
of Germanic exfoliation...
   and hurts, hurts...
hurts the gentile spirit of a Schubert
or a Schumann...
      
the just Libra interlude hanging
within a composition,
the dangling in the air...
or a dire, interlude, a dire... note...

                   Wagner minus
orchestra...
                      what a fine affair to...
anticipate:

                                              ­    en oeuvre.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
i'm sorry, but it's true...
                          however rigid you might
find the need to confirm
a truth...
    but even the great
piano composers
   of the last century,
be that liszt, chopin,
satie, debussy, or schumann...
can't compete with
thomas newman's
   score for american beauty,
i.e. any other name...
     it's the pauses,
which act are stressors to
the whole composition...
   we're surrounded by
so many sounds that are
trans-mammalian...
          we've become
so accustomed to them,
that, as i once said:
    the song of birds with due
end of spring: irritates me!
   i'm sorry...
i'm sorry that poetry seems feeble
by way of imitating this
approach...
           there are never to few
words to be said,
   as said, regarding
           someone's death:
i wish i said...
                             i wish i said
this...
    i wish i said
          this to him (her)...
poetry can fake this minimalism,
akin to the oriental haiku...
    but that's beside the point...
            don't fake it...
    drown in your words as the last
breaths in the sea of narratives...
thomas newman transcended
the "masters" of piano...
      i don't know how he managed
to overcome satie or debussy...
     i'm scratching my head
thinking: huh?
  he actually wrote a piano haiku!
perhaps that's a misnomer example,
but given the waterfall dynamic
to my writing, i have no interest
in using the correct word...
   if the word i used was incorrect;
god, it takes so little...
to overpower so much,
         say: overpowering the power
hierarchy that gave us pyramids...
why isn't there an aztec story
  regarding those pyramids?
    surely there must be something!
ah! after all... those pyramids weren't
tombs, dedicated toward a burial...
they were sites of capital punishment,
   imposing sites,
    enough...          to warn
future transgressors of law...
                these weren't tombs...
they were scaffolds of capital execution...
   no wonder there was no jewish
stubbornness among the aztecs...
         there was no divine intervention.
yeah yeah, i know, atheism is vogue...
but with atheism comes no art...
              and why would art succumb
to a rational "argument" for its existence?
         fair enough... no canvas, no paint,
no paint-strokes, no painting...
      i hope you find a brick-wall more
entertaining.
Savio Apr 2013
Catherine's Tango
Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette
Do not
Do not be a poet
propose to a woman
and die with children on your
Denim Soul'd Lap
I am giving up
I am
disfiguring my Rifle
I am
unwashed clothes
tucked into the corner of the bed
where You and She and He and You
sleep
make love
speech
listen to the radio
when it
gives premarital birth
to Jazz C-section
when the radio
sticks its finger down its
electrical throat
attached to the wall
and
Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies

I am 1:42am
an orange pill
2 pennies
3 quarters
a dime
a nickel
molding yogurt
a face sprouting weeds
a body
blooming old age

Tip Toe
unlock my
golden halted door to a chamber of
Lamps that bend and sigh
only to leave you
quite sad
quite misplaced in the sand
asking for water
but all we have
is cold coffee
it has been sitting out for
2 waltz
all of the ceiling's light bulbs
are awake
chattering quietly
like 5am suburbia birds
Pigeons
Crows
The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest
watch out
Lovers are here to stay
they carry
knives and ****** bouquets
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!

just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
   and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
  making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
          and the watchman...
why?
   it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
    big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
   they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
     it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
   the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
             and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
           which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
   nice...
         but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
****... let me count...
piano, drums...
        bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
          that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
            the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
  nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
   as the watchman once said.
Dr Peter Lim Jul 2018
Passion--   a lesser word would blemish
The glory of an autumnal afternoon
The melancholy of Schumann drifted through the music room
It made the heart weep and swoon

And life's poignancy never seemed more real
Than every celestial note from the master's quintet
That which is beyond the limits of words
Is the soul of music: this , this was a moment in time I would not forget.
* an ensemble in Hong Kong played this and posted this poem in its program in 2016
Nigel Morgan Mar 2014
This board is not on the wall. It rests on a worktable against a wall. It’s almost the length of the table, perhaps a foot short. On top of the board its wooden frame makes a shelf ideal for photographs or cards to balance precariously, photographs and cards too precious to pin. Today there are five, yes they change from day to day, and today (from left to right) there’s an original drawing in walnut ink of a winter field, a photo of two children looking from a cliff top towards a peninsula’s end, a card called Autumn Spey from a lithograph by Angie Lewin, an invitation to a gallery opening, and a What’s On brochure – from another gallery – showing some unusual tapestry.

The Notice Board is 100 x 60 cm. The wooden frame is slight, probably home-made, but well-made, with a dark brown hessian surface. Not that you can see much of the surface as it is covered with stuff: photographs, images, poems, pictures, cards, quotations, a prayer, an origami bird, a doctor’s prescription, a piece of tapestry, an invitation, an address, lists galore, a cheque or two, a diagram (of a knot), a concert program. Not everything can be seen directly as many items are shared by a single pin and hidden four, even six, notices deep. Every so often the items are unpinned and consigned to a folder and filed, and so the process of choosing and pinning starts over again. This can happen after a holiday, returning uncluttered by days walking the cliff paths with only the quiet sea to gaze at and the cottage blissfully free of things known, things owned.  So when back at the desk, in front of the notice board, it seems right to be beginning again.

Mozart’s Linz Symphony is playing quietly in the background. It’s that time of day when music is sometimes allowed to frame work at this desk and blot out the going home noise of buses in the city street moving away from the stop three floors below. Linz, the capital of Upper Austria and now a large industrial city straddling the banks of the Danube, once gave its name to Linzertorte, a cake of jam, cloves, cinnamon, and almonds, and this remarkable symphony by Mozart. The composer had only just married his Constanza and wrote to his long suffering father:

When we reached the gates of Linz . . . , we found a servant waiting there to drive us to Count Thun's, at whose house we are now staying. I really cannot tell you what kindnesses the family are showering on us. On Tuesday, November 4, I am giving a concert in the theatre here and, as I have not a single symphony with me, I am writing a new one at break-neck speed, which must be finished by that time. Well, I must close, because I really must set to work.

And set to work he did. He had just 4 days to compose, write the parts (though Constanza helped), and rehearse an orchestra. Such is life for the working composer, even today. Maybe not a summons from a beneficent Count, but a phone-call from a producer with a deadline. It is the film or TV score to be composed at break-neck speed. And it can be done, believe me. It may not be sublime as Mozart, but it gets done: there are ways and means.

But this is today’s background, and as these words are written the gracious siciliano of the Symphony No.36 plays away. Such a tender confection.

Looking up at the notice board where does one start? Each pinned piece is a divertissement, an aide memoire to times, events, places, and people. It is a mixture of the colourful, the curious, the necessary, the unusual, the nostalgic, and the personally precious. These things are the qualifications required to occupy a place on this board.

But now Haydn takes over the musical background, Symphony No.88. No descriptive name here, just his wonderful music: his first symphony to score trumpets and timpani, and with more than a touch of Turkish in the Minuetto and Finale.

So close your eyes now (let’s listen to Haydn for a while), then slowly open them and choose from the notice board what first catches your attention.

It’s a coloured sketch of flowers on an A5 sheet of cartridge paper. It is outlined delicately in pen, coloured variously with pastels, green, orange, purple, red. The vase is a glass bowl. It’s set on a window-sill and there’s the frame of a window faintly rendered. There’s no artifice in the arrangement. These are flowers from a garden, picked and now firmly ****** into the bowl. Immediately the long, quiet east-facing room comes alive to colour. It’s in shade now the sun has moved since midday when the flowers arrived after a journey of 40 miles in a hot car wrapped in moist newspaper and silver foil. It is a special gift and its beauty remains vivid for days. When visitors visited gentle comments are made on their fresh colours.

At night when the room is only lit by a standard lamp standing by a pale yellow settee the flowers sleep in the darkness, holding a vivid memory of a day of colour and light. A recording of the Schumann quartets plays passionately during the ‘close to the end of summer’ evenings. Hands are held, and between movements there is an occasional exploratory kiss. Such was their collective fear of passion overcoming other endeavours . . .

In the early morning time when she slept in the room next door oblivious to his wakefulness he would enter the long studio room with its four windows to find the first sunlight patterning the floor. The flowers were wide-awake, their perfume rich in the still morningtime. He would stand entranced to see such beauty brought from her city garden; the first of many gifts he would come to treasure. His sketch was an amateur’s, but four summers past it continued to give much joy and dear memories. It had something of the solemnity of Mozart’s siciliano, and if an image could be said to have a right tempo, it had a right tempo, a gracefulness roughly hewn perhaps, but full of grace.
poor buick good dog we’re almost done bad moon bellyful of big dumb blond last line i want uh a memory yes before yes atomic foreskins pink & fresh yes hunger for the womb **** **** **** *** junk food ****** with a walkman playing schumann to dilate woman oranges have more delicacy oranges orages oral fruit caught in the act the memory here it is a certain man crippled since birth caught in the act *** without hands his only defense: today today is only the beginning this is only the beginning a sick man’s argument okay last line

while in the street already leaves are falling
Eres mi amor, Paula, mi amor, Paula, Clara quise decir.
Y cuánto tiempo, Paula, digo Clara,
sin ti y sin mí. Las diligencias
parten sin mí y sin ti.
O a ti te llevan hacia el norte, hacia el pobre Roberto.
A mí, hacia el sur, contigo hacia el sur, donde ya no estabas,
donde nunca estarías. Ahora he tomado el tren
para decirte adiós. Y sueño, sueño mío.

Cerré los ojos, deslumbrado por la memoria.
Apreté la cintura del paisaje, recorrí sus caderas,
miré sus ojos verdes, ceniza con sentido.
Tendía el cielo su metal hermético.
Y se superpusieron mediterráneos y cantábricos,
cipreses respirados desde un sótano,
casi a vista de muerto, y jazmineros.
Después, las cosas y sus nombres
perdieron sus contornos, su significación
y fueron nada más que ritmo, armonía viajera
liberada de los instrumentos que le dieron su carne.
No queda nadie ya que pueda perdonarte,
que pueda perdonarme, perdonarnos.
Nadie que pueda rescatar los besos que se pudren
sobre Roberto y su locura piadosa.
Ahora que voy a ti, a encontrarte en la aduana de la muerte
pienso, Clara, amor mío, que cuando nos besábamos
era a Roberto a quien besábamos, al engañado
hijo de nuestro amor. Él murió un día.
Su esposa, tú, amor mío, Clara, también has muerto ahora.
Yo tomé el tren para encontrarme en la frontera,
para decirte adiós desde el lado acá de la muerte, amor de mi vida.

Pero nunca llegaré a ti.
El viejo Brahms es viejo, y está gordo.
Me he quedado dormido y me he pasado de estación.
¿Comprendes, amor mío, que nunca llegaré a tu lado
por culpa de este sueño, que es mi bálsamo y mi enemigo?
Ya nunca llegaré a tu lado.
Puede ser, amor mío, que no te amara ya,
que no te hubiese amado nunca,
que sólo hubiese amado a mi propio amor,
el amor que te tuve, Clara, amor mío.
****** with a radio
playing schumann to dilate
women
Rhythms of Mother Earth
Those which to life give birth
The pulse of all her life
When disrupted cause strife

Why is it we feel better when we go outside?
What has Mother Earth that is not inside?

Everything is connected
                                       And, in turn affected
                                                        ­                 By that which causes disruption
                                                      ­                                                                 ­      Mainly, human corruption
Drop a pebble in a lake
All things affected by that wake
Of those energy waves emitted
Like those from a tower transmitted

Where have the butterflies and bees gone?
Those that took fancy flight above our lawn
Why have their numbers decreased?
And why have more become deceased?

What is this pulse, what is this beat?
That which surrounds us and is beneath our feet?

Mother Earth's heartbeat, herRESONANCE...7.83Hz (hertz)
The same rhythm with which humanity flirts

Circadian rhythm, day and night
Daily cycle of dark and light

A world, from the eye unseen
Yet perceived by those who are keen
Aware of our world which is synergetic
With waves that are light, electric and magnetic

What happens in a world without bees?
Does the fruit still fall from the trees?
Do we want to live without the beauty of flowers?
All for the incessant need for transmitting towers?

What is the ultimate price that we may pay
If we do not hold our cell phones an inch away
As waves lethal as high concentrations of uranium
Are pumped continuously into our cranium

Wireless hot spots become pervasive
Much like a species that is invasive
Birds migratory instincts disrupted
By those towers that have corrupted

That natural balance we have with our mother
A balance that cannot be replaced with another

This resonance attributed to Schumann
Is a frequency that is also human

(C) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
I watched the documentary, "Resonance - Beings of Frequency" and was inspired to write this poem.  The film has some amazing information.  I have long been aware of the collapsing bee colonies and potential correlation with cell phone towers, but this film does a good job of laying out a solid foundation as to why our Mother Earth's frequency is so crucial to, not only bees, migratory butterflies and birds, but also to us as humans.  If we could only visually see the disruption caused by all of the various waves our technology emits on a continual basis.  I wish U all 7.83Hz on a daily/nightly basis.  Thanks for reading.

Live 4 Love
Shawn White Eagle
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
My five fingers meet
Your five fingers become
Our ten fingers joined
Together as hands’ kiss*
 
 As they turned into the lane he said to her, ‘May I hold your hand?’ Giving him one of her brightest smiles she said, ‘Of course.’ So he did, slipping his fingers between hers and thinking immediately how their hands fitted so exactly, because at first they hadn’t. There was this physical unmatchedness, a tension that prevented their fingers achieving that delicious kiss that held hands can achieve. How often at this moment, when that ‘kiss’ took place, had he thought of their first such ‘kiss’? And particularly here, under the same hills where it had happened three years past.
 
It was late: they had come to his studio after supper and sat together on the sensible sofa under a single standard lamp. There had been music: the A minor Quartet of Robert Schumann, a work full of love for his Clara. Stretching out she had lain calmly, her legged limbs resting across his thighs,, her feet on the sofa’s arm, and all with that graceful attitude with which he had now become familiar. But then . . . a little claustrophobic, he moved to sit by his table and into the semi-darkness outside the lamp’s thrown light, his heart too heavy with that cocktail love and passion blends. As the music came to an end he had gone to kneel beside her, seeking a kiss with the lips: she had refused. Yet she kissed him with her eyes and the opening and closing of her lips as they talked.
 
Later, when they began to walk home to the guesthouse, it had been so dark outside that he could not actually see her, only sense her presence close by. So he had found her hand, and with that the moment arrived, when, under a veil of practicality, he had become joined to her and she to him. It was enough: more than he could ever have hoped it would be.
 
Now, walking up this narrow lane as the day cleared grey skies into evening’s clarity, and after only a few steps, he drew her close and into a passionate kiss. He held her: to feel the whole length and shape of her body, pressing himself to her in love’s abandon – and, and, and she was embarrassed that he should so suddenly do this, that he should declare himself in this way. Realising this, he immediately kissed her again as if to say ‘Don’t you understand?’ trying, trying, trying not to say ‘I love you so’, attempting to put all his words into a single kiss. But she was elsewhere . . . and so his passion fell away. He wanted to look at her, again, again, again, drink deep draughts of her beauty, the delicacy of her mouth, her hair’s fine confusion, the dear fall of her ******* under the dress he loved (and when he had first seen her wear it he had experienced an extraordinary desire – as it seemed to speak to him of the curves and secret places he had come to know, had come to touch.).
 
But, as she needed to be elsewhere, he didn’t look at her again. He released his hand from hers and, stopping at a gate that led onto a field of recently cut grass, looked beyond the field to the tableau of the hills that drew the eyes upward to the clouds, clouds no longer opaque but blotched with a faint blueness and the slight pink refraction of a now day-distant sun.
 
Was there a time, he wondered as he stood leaning on the gate, when lovers stopped holding each other’s hands? Perhaps, as age and familiarity grew ever onwards, it was only in the occasional passion of the bedroom that fingers might lace into fingers. He remembered one such occasion, feeling faint as the sensuous images flashed past him. Her hand lay on the pillow, cast behind her head up turned, at rest, fingers curled slightly as one occasionally sees in a Rodin sculpture. He had placed his hand on her forearm and moving towards her wrist brought the pads of his fingertips into her hand’s palm. He remembered feeling those destiny lines etched into her palm’s surface. He had let his index and middle fingers travel her life’s journeys. Then, then, then he had moved closer and pressed his hand closer, closer to her fingertips, towards the smooth pads of her fingers . . . until they met. There were no words, only shallow breathing, her sweet breath, the tickle of her hair on his nose, the press and press of their fingers.
 
And all this was when they had sought each other in the spell of a late afternoon in winter, had interrupted all business and the day’s completion of lists to be in each other’s arms, to press their hands together, to experiment with passions’ chemistry.
 
Such times he treasured still, and, as they walked back to their cottage, he put these thought-gifts away in the plain sandalwood box he kept on a shelf in her room, a room he had furnished for her in the only home he had – his mind’s imagination.
Gira
la negra,
gira
la luna,
gira
la negra luna,
sobre sí propia,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita,
gira la negra luna de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:

-¡Bah! ¡Canciones! Y músicas abstractas...!

Y, lo que canta, es la Música Viva!
Oye el Viaje de Invierno, de Franz Schubert,
y el Rey de los Alisos,
y El Doble y Ganímedes y Ante el mar,
y de Schumann, Amores de un poeta,
y de Dupare, Invitación al viaje
y La vida anterior...,
y de Chopín, Preludios y Nocturnos:

tú, soñador romántico; tú, doliente elegíaco.
Oye la voz serena,
la voz profunda oye
de Bach -añosa encina,
inmensurable selva, órgano él mismo y templo
de la harmonía-:

tú, sereno y profundo.

Y de Mozart el diáfano y sortílego,
y de Haydn y Franck, la cortesana
y la mística voz, inconfundibles,

tú, gustador de lo pulcro y etéreo.
Los Cánticos y Danzas de la Muerte,
y Sin sol, de Musorgski,

tú, angustiado, febril, hiperestésico;

y Borís Godunov, Borís Godunov, oye,
(bárbara gesta, miedo, sangre, lujuria y fausto)

tú, Sátrapa en los sueños...
Y, catador sutil de quintaesencias,
gusta la mediatinta debussyana,
pesquisidora de inusados timbres
y lontanos acordes, 1
en un dorado ambiente de calígine.
Y, borracho de lumbres y colores,
Óye, de Rímski, Antar y Xeherazada
y el Gallo de oro -vértigo y lascivia-:

mas, si de ritmos ebrio, tú, frenético
danzarín, danza todas las furias de Stravínski
-del sabio y del bufón mezcladas dósis-:
fino humor ricos timbres, forma clara 2
(sobria, o en concertado cataclismo).
Y oye, en la noche, y en Tristán e Iseo,
la voz vigía de Brangane, plena
de lo fatal, o el corno quejumbroso;
si no los Funerales de Sigfrido;
o el Tránsito al Valhalla, milagroso tumulto.
Y tú, plasmado en bronce, los vastos himnos oye,
óye las soberanas sinfonías
con que la voz del Sordo el orbe nutre!

Las acendradas síntesis:
sonatas y quátuors, insólito prodigio, filtros puros:

la Misa en re, misterio panteísta,
denso peán a la Naturaleza!

Y el trágico clangor de Coriolano...:

oye la voz del Indomado Prometeo,
oye la voz del Sordo, oye la voz del Sordo!
Gira la negra luna,
gira
sobre sí propia,
gira la negra luna de ebonita,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-Bah! Ficciones! Y músicas abstractas...!

Y, lo que canta, es la Música Misma!
MS Lim Dec 2015
THROUGH MY EYES:        
BRAHMS’ S UNTITLED POEM  (1857) *
        
Women I love with my heart and soul
But I am not made for matrimony
A domestic life  and its trappings
Would destroy my creativity.    

Clara I would protect and worship
With my life—she is perfection-
Love I would blemish and defile
If I were to mention—‘Give me your affection’.

Ah, my beloved Robert is gone
In his tomb my heart is interned
My mentor, my friend, my inspiration  
Alas, how little I gave my master in return.

My music is Robert and Clara
Our souls are by destiny wrought
History shall remember
But would understand us not.



         * Robert Schumann (1810—1856)

        * Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)

        * Clara Schumann    (1819—1896)
NIL
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2021
A mirror will suffice, no doubt.
The high furrowed forehead,
The heavy-lidded Asian eyes,
The long-lobed Indian ears.
Brown skin beginning to spot,
Of an age to bore and be bored.
I turn away, knowing too well
My face, my expression
For all seasons, my half-smile.

Birds flit about the feeder,
The dog days wane, and I
Observe the jitters of leaves
And the pallor of the ice-blue beyond.
I read to find inspiration. I write
To restore candor to the mind.
There are raindrops on the window,
And a peregrine wind gusts on the grass.
I think of my old red flannel shirt,
The one I threw away in July.
I would like to pat the warm belly of a
Beagle or the hand of a handsome woman.
I look ahead to cheese and wine,
And a bit of Bach, perhaps,
Or Schumann on the bow of Yo-Yo Ma.

I see the mountains as I saw them
When my heart was young.
But were they not a deeper blue,
shimmering under the fluency of skies
Radiant with crystal light? Across the way
The yellow land lies out, and standing stones
Form distant islands in the field of time.
here is a stillness on this perfect world,
And I am content to settle in its hold.
I turn inward on a wall of books.
They are old friends, even those that
Have dislodged my dreams. One by one
They have shaped the thing I am.

These are the days that swarm
Into the shadows of legend. I ponder.
And when the image on the glass
Is refracted into the prisms of the past
I shall remember: my parents speaking
Quietly in a warm familiar room, and
I bend to redeem an errant, broken doll.
My little daughter, her eyes brimming
With love, beholds the ember of my soul.
There is the rattle of a teacup, and
At the window and among the vines,
The whir of a hummingbird’s wings.
In the blue evening, in another room,
There is the faint laughter of ghosts,
And in a tarnished silver frame, the
likeness of a boy who bears my name.
A Benign Self-Portrait
N. Scott Momaday - 1934-

suggested to me by M. Gebbie to be shared
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.what the most plush drink i've ever had? well, i'm drinking it now... Tennessee honey liquor by Jackie boy... mm, yum as ****... just ice, no mixer... what do you expect? at 35% vol strength, you're going to enjoy it on its own... mind you... i am going to a country where there are no 37.5% vodkas... 40%: standard.

- but i won't be drinking,
                 odd how i can turn off the drinking
whenever i go back, "home"...
it will be winter, really short days...
limited internet access, or, literally none...
and a 3 volume book i decided
to get through...
   the English language will be turned off,
and i'll be pulverized by
the language, t.v. radio,
everyone around me...
   not a single word of English being
spoken...
         it's nice to get away from
all the Anglophone drama,
whether on the internet with the vloggers,
or anyone for that matter...
small town Poland...
          early nights in the mid-afternoons,
a book, a single lamp light...
mind you... why do people always
choose to read a book on a beach?
how about i sleep in a lit oven?
or next to the radiator with a closed
window?
   i do not claim to be a quick reader,
i don't like reading quickly...
i already talk quickly...
       "slow" reading is so much more
engaging...
   but at least i chose a book that's
just over 1000 pages...
   5 weeks away? yeah, i should be
able to do it...
          what's it about?
the Great Deluge... of Poland...
   by the Swedes, when our aristocratic
democracy, the electoral authority
decided to give the throne to a Swede,
and subsequently his older brother invaded...
a historic epic, fiction, with
a pinch of historical truth...
you could even call it a reading holiday...
i.e. go to a place colder that's much
colder than where you heading out from...
and... make sure you're surrounded
by old people, perhaps your grandparents...
****! i knew i forgot something
when packing...
how am i going to cook them curries
when i haven't packed the spices?!
well... i could gamble on feeling refreshed
with 4 hours sleep...
or i could drink this right here
Tennessee honey liquor...
    lie down for an hour with closed
eyes, to rest them,
but prior to... prepare the spices...
the latter...
                  power naps are for the Japanese...
in their 15 minute hotspots...
oh they have them... sleeping hubs...
**** that sort insomnia diet...
give me a decent 8 and we're cool...
ugh... but the dreaded thought...
i live in relative isolation...
i interact with less people than
i have fingers... on one hand (most of the time)...
the dreaded airport...
the moment i walk into an airport
i just think of... transported livestock...
the liquor will certain take off the edge...
from having to see so many people
all at the same time...
               plus, i've done longer stretches
of staying awake...
dunno... once i might have teased
the 48 hour mark...
but with this beauty of a liquor in me...
bah!                 easy-peasy-Japanese;

and the music i'm taking with me...
on C.D. (oh! the travesty,
employing technology from the 1980s!):

dikanda - muzyka czterech strong wschodu,
żywiołwak - nowa ex-tradycja
wager - an assortment
schumann - fantastic pieces op. 12
beethoven - symphony IX in d-moll op. 125
egberto gismonti - solo
sonic youth - *****
fairport convention - liege and lief
neon neon - praxis makes perfect
queens of the stone age - rated R
!!! - strange weather, isn't it
handel - music for the royal fireworks
water music...

that certainly packs a punch...
now...
         to associated myself
with making portions of relevant
spices for the curries i'll be cooking.
Wk kortas Dec 2020
James Sebastian Middlemarch was a prodigy.
No other way to say it in truth,
And those who knew him and his gift
Were in agreement that he was destined to reach
The apogee of the musical world,
Though he, even at a very young age, discouraged such talk,
Sometimes offhandedly, but at other times
Quite insistently indeed, for, even then,
He had the constant, gnawing suspicion
That there was a disconnect between the harmonies
(Mad, excruciating, yet unspeakably lovely)
Which scampered unfettered around his head
And those he could bring forth on the piano or viola.  
Nonetheless, his aptitude pulled him along
Through longitude and latitude,
To Julliard, then Paris and Vienn, maixing with others
Marked by their provincial peers as The Next One.  

Through all this time,
The sonatas, concertos, and full-blown symphonies
Danced on in his mind without restraint or retreat
Yet, when he tried to corral them onto paper,
They kicked and bucked and spit out the bit
In spurious sixteenths and turgid quarters
Which cantered along in pedestrian time signatures.  
These pieces (the “sad imitations”, as he called them)
Were performed on more than the odd occasion,
But on smaller stages by undistinguished orchestras,
And those freelancers dispatched by features editors
In the Rochesters and Pensacolas of the world
(Small-timers themselves, yet wholly without sympathy)
Would cluck and sigh dismissively in their reviews
That the works were derivative,
With easily discernible bits of Strauss and Schumann
(Clara Schumann, according to one acerbic small-town wit)
Scattered here and there,
And they were unanimous in their belief and opinion
As to the minor nature of his presence on the musical landscape.

After some years, he stopped publishing his works
Which made him even less of an afterthought
Than he had been at his low-slung zenith.  
He continued to play with some regional symphonies,
Where he was deeply loved by his colleagues,
As he was modest in the face of praise,
But never sparing in dispensing kindness in return,
And to all appearances the frenzied siren airs
Which had ridden roughshod over his psyche for so many decades
Had ceased at last, but after his death, one of his sons discovered,
Squatting surreptitiously under a mound of ancient antimacassars,
Several trunks containing untold scores of sheet music,
(Updated versions of earlier work,
New pieces abandoned in exasperation)
Which sat in mute testament to the difficult labor
Of unfastening onself from the yoke of being ordinary.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.seems like the asian dub foundation lyrics came true: the lunatics will lead the blind... counter-metaphor, like i don't know how the mainstream doesn't exploit ascribing metaphors akin to psychotic or schizoid to slander their fellow "sanity" hives... and then, there comes a snippet, a mini-apocalypse of a one-man "army"... conflating a genuine Hippocratic observation, with your usual casual slander in all things politico: including journalism... i guess that calling someone dumb / plain outright scheming is not enough... oh but the genuine examples scare people... for all the criticism of Muhammad... ha... ha ha? he was awfully fond of lunatics, maybe i misread this, but i'm pretty sure sort of content is ascribed to the hadith... my allegiance? to the language, this is true, on other matters... hit or miss... cherry picking... the usual... in terms of England? what's there to subvert, when everything has already been, subverted? ****, bad grammar... maybe that's what can be subverted, that last bastion, oh, wait, that's also gone with the whole pronoun debacle... about time to play the Pontius Pilate role... but instead of a maddened crowd of hebrews, there's that small matter, of an enraged crowd of grammar-fetish-nazis... rigid, rigid as ****, you couldn't find a dried out piece of horseshit as rigid as this... and i'm not even a native... going out to nightclubs on either a friday or saturday used to be fun, until, this culmination of events... yawn... no, no... this is where i get to punctuate my sentences in an excess of erraticism; well: any counter to the overtly eroticißed currency / culture... if anyone told me to fixate my attention of linguistics, i'd be like: give me a break... gone are the days when a homosexual could scribble something as curiosity-worthy as a william burroughs... well: if we reached a fundamental plateau point of inertia... it would take someone from... Gomorrah... to talk about all that slobbering over sea food juice, from the flowery pattern of a *******'s *****; and that would be me.

don't ask me, how, or why,
maybe i should get in touch with
some of the airline pilots,
maybe they'd believe me,
or perhaps to anyone in close
geographical proximity,

   let's say i'm sitting on the porch,
smoking a cigarette,
mentally lacerating myself
over an outburst of unfathomable
anger requiring me to do something,
which i nonetheless do,
but the whole fiasco of a tirade
wasn't necessary...
         and... with my rigid
ontology, i repent,
    i go a step further,
            i think up all the standard
negative thinking,
  
   to a point where
the word banal,
         mingles with the word
benign...
       at this point
           these words are being
drilled into my psyche,
   they become static,
   and obstruct any decency
of a cognitive narrative...
           benign becomes a negative
word,
      somewhat closely alligned
in spelling to banal -
   well...
                        as close as B
goes...
                   strange...
how thought has to process
feeling,
      and how feeling:
    rarely processes thought...
just your standard cartesian
"quadratic paradox":
yes, perhaps a misnomer,
but err:          into air quote,
there's always a nuance
to be minded,
   and a misnomer cipher
usage...
                              i.e. metaphor...

so i'm doing all of that,
   and then...
            you'd have to be in
my vicinity to see this,
    and a night sky...
   so the stars are there,
fixed points in their constellations,
or some outliers...
then you spot one appear
in the sky, and move
in a straight line,
         a slightly dim star...
copernicus:
     but i thought stars
weren't supposed to do that?

and then? a star so brightly lit,
also moving in a straight line,
so, so bright,
   and as it moves into the distance,
it starts to wane,
fade...
    a plane flies in its direction,
i'm strapped to the earth,
but i'm hopeful
    that the airline pilots
have also spotted it...

                this is not supposed
to happen...
   i don't know if i'm freaked
out, or just used to it,
years prior, i did my occasional
star-gazing...
   somehow detached
from the usual curiosity of men,
i knew that i hard to return
to the hierarchy of metres,
miles and centimetres etc.,

          someone else did,
whatever they did,
   to orientate themselves with /
around, the current capacity
of communication,
    but no one could say:
the guy who created the piano,
     could play like a Schumann -

my predicament comes
with this language,
      acquired, self-taught,
   perfected,
                i remember the day
i was thrown into a class
   at primary school,
   mute...
          cartoon network wasn't
exactly a teacher back
in post-communist Poland
in the early 1990s...
  
          i was... without a play
on words: thrown into the deep end,
told: ******, now tread water.
  i still sometimes help my parents
with legal paperwork,
  but i'm content that they
managed to... **** me...
    me, holiday, to the Maldives?
hard work, i almost enjoyed
doing roofing on an industrial
scale sized roofs...

             now, i drink,
and if i didn't...
   i'd writing with a sense of
urgency that's more erratic than
imbued with a sense of urgency
of, imminent death,
  and i'd be running paranoid,
7 trips back and forth
between London and Edinburgh
and Glasgow in a short period
of time,

        then to Athens,
           brief interludes of calm
like a trip to Venice...
   mind you: if the diagnosis
is correct, i.e. psychosis,
and for all that time,
  i didn't behave like your
tragedy psychotic,
               well...
               is that... responsibility?
the knowledge of a condition,
tamed,
    rather than walked into blindly...

apart from the usual
historical literature,
                       what could possibly
top philosophy as a genre
of literature?
          d'uh... theoretical psychiatry...
notably from the 1960s...
precisely because:
    prior to that time reference?
psychiastric conditions
were, grotesquely enough -
                      luxury ailments or...
the other kind,
         the ones were they throw
you into the asylum
      and... god knows what...
now?
            they drug you...
  pacify you...
                        but what if there's
still something hidden
within you,
                               to counter?

i probably the only smarter
thing available...
                      if i didn't turn to
philosophy...
        or psychiatric literature...
yes, it would take you a decent
3 years to read the two volumes
of Kant's critique of pure reason,
to be able to move forward
your own narrative,
   without having to: read it,
only in order to regurgitate /
teach it...

                   no one is going to talk
Kant to you,
    you will, most likely,
be talked Kant to you / taught,
yes, more like taught rather than
talked (down)...

                 for all the sins of alcohol
consumption,
   well: what other sedative
is there within the same price-range?
i'll always be unrepentent
about the drinking,
           how much of a *******
******* would i have to be,
     to repent for something
that, somehow, clarifies my head
and allows me to
spew out, something akin
to this?

            no, stars aren't supposed
to do, what they did,
and keep on doing,
        in my presence...
   only one person has shared
this spectacle with me,
my grandfather...
   'for the stars to be moving?!'
just my luck,
   that he suffers from
a mild dementia...
           cul de sac of convincing
someone...
    so back to the secular
game of juggling negation,
and lying -

     at least doubt can mingle
with belief,
   at least doubt
       is, akin to belief,
   a plethora of emotions;
i never understood the criticism
of emotion,
   esp. in the secular west,
i just can't turn into
   some emotionless
apathy-zombie,
    or some,  brain
and a spinal cord in
a ******* pickle jar,
semi-autistic:
but that still implies
   channeling your emotions,
rather than giving into
outright, shallow and not
premeditated calculation.
Terry Collett Jun 2014
Yochana-
my bird thin,
dark haired,

Schubert loving,
once kissed
now shy, girl;

see how time
has sped
by us both.

How many stars
have burnt out
in that time and space?  

I dreamed of you
at one time,
tucked you away

in my dreams box,
placed you
at the bottom

of my mind's depth.
A photo of the old school
reminded me of you,

the background,
the playing field,
the other kids older

like you and me,
just before
the Beatles' first LP.

Yochana-
with whom
did you share your life?

Who touched your body?
Shared your lips,
sat with you

at the Schubert recitals?
I remember you
in front in class,

your head to one side
as the teacher played
that Schubert piece,

your thin frame,
narrow waist,
you titless,

Reynard said,
of you, he spoke.
I saw how

your hands moved
to the music's flow,
the fragile fingers

mock playing
on the desktop.
Reynard considered

the colour
of your underwear,
I studied you,

your far away,
music tranced stare.
Yochana-

where are you now?
In whose bed
did you lay?

Whose arms
embraced you?
Who fingers searched

you out and on?  
I recall
your bird-thin frame,

wiry arms,
the dark hair
the length

of your back;
how the Schumann piece
had you spaced out

in dream mode,
your eyes closed,
and I –

Benny,
watching you,
you,

unaware of me,
giving you
the desiring stare.
MAN RECALLING A GIRL OF HIS SCHOOL DAYS
Dr Peter Lim Sep 2015
SEA IMAGES

This rusty little boat, anchored on the far-away shallow bank,
Neglected, but still bears marks of past bruises and secrets
Of passion, known only to some daring lovers
Long forgotten.

Today the sky is still red with summer desire,
The winds blow free and wild, careless, enticing.
Crimson flowers, half-hidden from human eyes,
Resplendent in glory, flushed with fire,
Drunk with yearning, dream of a world beyond time
Devoid of regrets, pains and sighs.

This day seems so long, while the heat waves tear
At the insatiate hearts of all, both young and old,
Who share the common anguish, the same bond of longing
For what could never be, that unfathomable-
Beyond words, experience, touch, feeling-
that magnificent unknown
Born of first love.
Is that what is inadequately
Spoken of by the poets as ecstasy?

Like the themes of an eternal symphony, the sea
Holds the keys to the heart’s depth,
Its longing, loneliness, sorrow and pain
While the last song of this summer has come to an end, sadly,
There will always be a boat somewhere with its story-
Watched by the waves, the sky, the crimson flowers
And love unfulfilled, soaked in silent misery.

After listening to Schumann and Chopin’s piano concertos-
night of 14th August 1999, Sydney
NIL
Phoebe H Feb 2019
Overhead, the moon has spilled her pearl necklace onto the sky
A night's snowfall frozen in time.
She smells of aged lily of the valley perfume
that she saves for special occasions.

Around her, the sky is whispering Schumann,
Mondnacht, I think.
His celestial voice sails between constellations like a cloud
And the stars give one last wink.
Dr Peter Lim Dec 2019
O moonlit night
sad memories you bring
my dreams have all faded
forever lost is spring

yet thoughts of past love they linger
how I struggle every moment to forget
hopeless tears well in my eyes tonight
love is heartless and I'll die in regret.
* 1810--1856
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
always a return and as moving forward:
alway in retreat,
  to just quote empedocles:
         will you not end the terrible sounds of your ******?
do you not see that in your thoughtlessness you
are eating one another?
      indeed: what is the ego: if not a second mouth?
can i concede that this might be poorly written?
well: listen to a dialogue on scientology,
         conducted by joe rogan interviewing
a documentary maker louis therou(x), and try
to imagine how ****** writing can become a forest-fire
in society... i'd agree with you that heidegger
was terrible at using language, but then his magnum opus
took me 2 years to read...
                       and if you're interested in
the history of the third *****, outside of content,
it would be better for you to read the context of a hopeful
university professor than, say: reading the mein kampf.
          just saying... i'd **** out the politics of the zeitgeist
and look a bit deeper into the affairs...
    or how germany degenerated, what, given the treaty
of versailles?
                          how desperate people had to become
to later turn into: a volk of beethoven, schubert, schumann...
and the dr. satans of their days that numbered
  a span a 6 years.
                              i abhor psychology, i really have
not competent theory in this realm of learning, i'm sure
there is a competent cohort in some stratum of society
that could explain: no soul (psyche)... so these theories
better than i could. yet back to the greeks...
            psyche                  and narcissus -
a sound marriage?
                                  given these times... yes...
in that much needed allegory...
              originally it was narcissus and echo -
                                             but those days are seemingly
over: there is no longer talk of psyche and cupid -
             the suicide rates of teenagers?!
                         i have no need to treat the ego as a concept
that becomes a tulip, a rose and a field of lavender
  with freud, or c. g. jung... i need not these mental
stratas, these levels of codification:
accordingly with empedocles: my ego is just a second
mouth...
               that's it... there's nothing else;
and according to what is "good" quality writing...
             no one cares if ezra pound what he wrote, as if
he was writing in a telegram mode... but they sure as hell
give a **** saying: oh ya ya... t. s. elliot: fan-*******-tastic!
     even though ezra was the editor of the wasteland...
  so is "good" writing merely something pop,
and therefore simple? appealing?
                         to me: good writing is difficult;
      no one cares whether kraszewski is good,
                      most find him a bore, as a historian they
prefer to ref. pavel jasienica... why?
                   the former outpoured 30 books... the latter two...
and both wrote about the same time period of
the rise and fall of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
i'm all for intricacy, i don't like neat properly folded
napkin talk...
                       there's no need to stand for manners
and etiquette in general in writing... *** is never neat:
it's sloppy...
                                 unless you pay for it, so it then
becomes a contract... which doesn't mean that i sometimes
didn't leave the brothel after an hour and did have
an ******... and the ******* would look at me
with this horror of: huh?
                      jerking off? well: i wouldn't say
24 times a day... that would be pointless...
                            but the cult of the wendols -
which, as you might imagine, is borrowed -
                                       coincides with what happened
two years ago? it might be three or four; this english
politician found it abhorring that a woman was found
breast-feeding in public...    what the ****?
                                       can i have the other ******?
i dare say no one has really concerned themselves with
this realm of sexuality: of a husband competing
                    for the same affection as a baby might -
i'm not sure about the reasons for trying to explore this
very "sensitive" realm... but when a woman films herself
doing sexualised provocations (""?) and posts them online,
in the public sphere of things...
                                     you're thinking: maybe that
"parasite" (because that's how we're born, via the parasitic
route... that's not new... white tadpoles in some juice)
        well... that's the eroticism of the cult of the wendols:
i'm borrowing from cinema to understand something...
           there's this politician having a *****-fit when seeing
a woman breast feed in public...
   and then there's me and: the annoying brat screaming!
a baby screaming!
                            i can, but i don't have to look at the woman
breast-feeding: sure... she's pregnant and she's doing
this upper-body only dance...
                             i have a sheep-belly (socratic term
for bloated from alcohol) - the ****** element disappears
when the baby is ******* on it...
                when she's still pregnant and feeling *****
after walking the ****** Gobi desert for 9 months?
      well... you certainly can't feel guilty doing it
on a regular basis... given the chance that when you
imitate circumcision, the veins enricling that "excess"
could suddenly be ruptured... imagine that...
        death... by pleading out via a throbbing ****.
in the film, the wendols have a torso of a pregnant woman
dangling from their necks...
                  my, that really would be a rare paganism,
what with the original paganism and those *******
statues. (13th warrior... iraqi joins 12 vikings to defeat
the cannibals).
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
after the großartig composers...
there can only be
                    the great pianists...
you can do all you want
appreciating someone like
   joe satriani:
             but a guitar can never
become a piano:
   none of that hushes suspense
of a piano soloist...
  even a violin requires back-up
(akin to schindler's list
main theme)...
           but... piano...
                 schumann,
                satie,
              debussy,
         ­        chopin,
                    liszt...
                  schubert..­.
          campanella's
   reinterpretation of wagner...
a piano can stand
alone,
        and doesn't even,
remotely,
  require the harangue
of an orchestra
  (listen 'ere,
you uneducated swine -
sort of scenario)...
     no opera...
            but piano:
like... listening to the uniformity
of rain drops
  falling onto a tin roof...
mind you:
i have to return
to the slaughterhouse music
of modernity
   with its heavy influence
on stressing rhythm, drum...
as much as i do enjoy
the aloofness,
   the ivory tower music...
   i have to come down
to the horse-hooves
and buckles
    of THUMP... THUMP...
as much as i appreciate it...
i can't be sat
next to these porcelain
            aenemics for long...
from on high,
to from down below...
       i need the current music
of the slaughterhouse.
- but only a piano can pierce
the silence...
   and relieve something
akin to the royal albert
concern hall...
        with an unanimous
revelation of...
   that trembling
before the satiated
             sound of: a sigh;
as if to confirm:
            yes... you are alive.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
while making strawberry gelato...

i don't think i ever heard anything this beautiful...
well... vaughan williams'
fantasia on a theme by thomas tallis...
there must have been some other song
that allowed me to cry...
cry? perhaps mourn... mourn beauty...
something so beautiful should only be
wept at...
perhaps there was some other song...
but it's hard to take your pick of tear-jerkers
from the classical music scene...
******* Bach and his polyphonic layer-cake!
it's such a technical music:
it's music that could be written by
deaf people!
oh wait... Beethoven!
Bach's supposed revolutionary act just
destroyed melody...
as much as i like the genre i'm not going to
champion in...
jazz too doesn't get away so easily...
listen to it i might: but feel it: i don't...
i needed to go deeper... further back...
as far back as... the medieval times...
hell... on the cusp of... crusader chants of
the Templars... or to pagan Scandinavia!
- but i have found a contender to put
vaughan williams' fantasia to rest...

el cant de la sibil·la catalunya...
           montserrat figueras
    la capella reial de catalunya
                                                   jordi savall...

even if the music seems... "seems"? i only had
to find out that jordi savall is still alive!
alive... a "contemporary"...
that's the other song that could usurp
vaughan williams' fantasia!

   ola gjeilo - northern lights!

  here we go! back to chanting... melody!
no need to complicate matters...
Schumann or Schubert? Schumann...
wait... i always get those two wrong...
but enough with the Mahler complications!

jeez... jordi savall is still alive...
well... isn't his interpretation on the cantos
of the sibyl of Catalonia a real thrill...
has my tears...
once more! music that makes you feel:
you escape the sensible drudgery of
objectivity and thinking!
to the rawness: the pulp of the heart!
it is nearing a year since someone dear
to me passed away...
today was the first time i managed to thirst
for tears...
prior to? i smashed my head against
the radiator and replied to the inquiry party:
well... this puddle of blood?
it seemed easier to bleed than to cry...
then again... i don't think i was crying
from grief...
death being so: consistent... let alone a constant...
i cry at beauty... authentic beauty chokes me...

music that makes you write something
in Danish!
i don't speak Danish... i suppose all of this
is in the confines of English grammar:

jeg græd: hvordan kan du ikke?
sådan skønhed er altid så en ydmygende sorg...

music that makes you want to drink!
makes you want to drink well into the night!

medieval music... music that's everything
that Bach strived to invent:
music written by complicated deaf & blind men...
music that's like... eating a steak tartar...
or a Turkish lavash...
who would have thought that rosemary
works so well with beef...
or that Turks appreciate the onion so much...
all it takes for the "salad": garnish of the lavash...
it tenderising the onion by squeezing
it to get the juices flowing...
some lemon juice... some salt...
some sugar... pepper... oil...
parsley... sumac... but i also add some
gochugaru...

       beef and rosemary?
i want to be drunk with my lack of ambition...

- with no immediate: yet not lacking in
immediacy: concern...
i do not venture to give collapse to the modern
man's debacle...
as a revisionist... not a reformist...
two labels i like to contest...
it begins... and ends with a critique of music...

the urban sphere is lost...
to the African rhythms and the Asiatic grooves...
hollow out the horns!
i pass these landscapes like i might pass
a tomorrow...
it doesn't change: i am expected to find
the congregation of the whole world
on these shores...
such a crushing defeat of the senses...

i ought to take that prospect of
£50 for a massage from an Asian woman
than... cough up...
£120 for the same hour of *******
and... "proper" eye contact while engaged
with her... genitals to genitals...

i can't bemoan a land that isn't my own...
i can't bemoan a land that isn't my own...
as much as i have acquired
the tongue: i feel a desire to find a home
elsewhere... it wouldn't be the tongue of
my birth... forget Russian...
i tease the German root...
somewhere... else... among the Danes...
but i know the answer already:
i'd sleep best among the Franks...

ha! to speak Russian implies to first write
the ****** version of Greek...
Cyrillic looks just... blatantly awkward...
it seems to be having "problems" with
the lowercase representation
of the uppercase letters...
Cyrillic looks like... ahem: cheap-Greek...
makeshift-Greek...

i.e. you think some people are... sparring
with you: engaging you with...
nukes & submarines & ****...
you aim at the soul...
their language... &... pay them a compliment...
or two... because Cyrillic looks...
by comparison to Greek...

a bit like watching a sacrificial...
Germanic type... mythological blonde...
being sacrificed on an altar of a *******...
take it to: retro... *******: gloryhole...
last time i checked: i did not wish to fulfil
all that's offered to me, by my sexuality...
last time i checked... my mind informed me
something on the lines of:
let's conjure up a... hammer!
& a nail!

            is gelato "somehow" superior to...
ice-cream?
sure as ****... stir-fried: it's easier
to make... l'inglese... beating egg yolks
for a freezing of custard...
but... gelato you make and eat immediately...
ice-cream is perfect for storage...

- i know i will drink this bourbon tonight
and regret two things...
tomorrow's hangover and tonight's:
not have visited a brothel...
warming up to a woman like
a Spartan 300...
all i have is... Gregorian chants
in my ears... i guess... that's enough...
& a squinting of the eyes...
like: i'm supposed to see any better
what is already lost to this
old soul...

- but a language i can, try... & defend...
but do i really want to?
so much & yet so little...
i'm living among these people while wanting
to speak the language of people
not willing to invite themselves to these
shores...

jeg elske: som langt som jeg afsky: mig selv...
all those crippling components
that are supposed to make the: fullest:
of man... myself: my?! my?! perhaps... with-self
ought to be the better pardoning...
but i dare not even have that?

no-i says... can't keep this outdated marriage
of language in place...
conflated the ego: conscripted the self:
to no one's ease!

such people as they are: come-and-go...
           such little ought... befalls them...
no crippling nothing-vacuum
of presence: "thinking"...
        nuance! forever with the *******
nuances! it's not enough that
the dead are dead... have died:
it's not not enough the living are still...
worst than somehow sleeping
through their hour of waking...
when someone might ask them to
snooze... a little... a lot: i ask!

don't implore me to write:
it ought to be a slaughterhouse sort of a...
an... assortment...
it ought to be made... clinially:
critical... precise"
don't ask me to write these words!
i want to have a wife...
a child... children!
stay up till midnight
to make ice-cream for them... for breakfast...

al dette tid!
    but no one to spend it with!
if regrets were all i wrote:
hvis beklager
                     var al jeg skrev...

in mein: tilting Ing-Leash...
so many... so many people here!
i want to escape to my roots!
to my rot!
      i want to feel hot: when i feel:
subsequently cold!

the cats are... happy... i must tend to them:
proper... i eat... 200grams of beef
from time to time...
they eat... the eat amount:
if they eat the said amount...
don't blame me... if they don't eat it
and i throw the meat away...

i write in English... everyone else seems
to write, speak... this... pulverised... this...
horrid, tongue...

der taler det?! alle sammen?!
      all men: thus... summoned...
upon an... implosion! i don't want to know!

i gathered... i gathered...
i... drink like a sailor...
i sing like a nun!  noted... noted...
it's all down in my usual flurry of escapades
that need... noting:
i drink like a sailor... i sing like a nun!

i wish i was sober when i wrote: everything
it is... that i wrote...
b Jan 2018
the dread i feel
from valiant effort
to a broken railroad.
an endless love
sent down the stream.
it sails.
i watch from the peer
but pretend not to see.

i feel schumann in
the mirror.
we let the same notes
push us off the cliff.
Dr Peter Lim Mar 2021
Through my eyes: From Brahms's secret diary (1857):



Let's  keep this purity

Robert is not dead--deeply

he dwells in our being--we

do him wrong if our memory



should fail him---he will weep

for our lack of fidelity- ah, how deep

indeed is our affection-- his legacy

I'll immortalise in each my symphony.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
never really understood punk,
or rap...

  i tried, and tried...
went to the pillars...

   n.o.f.x. - decided:
    better stick to the polished
L.P. quality
    of i.n.x.s.
               welcome to wherever
you are

  (that really is,
a complete album,
      like roxette's joyride)...

orange goblin,
    the refused...
    the ******...
i was sold
a.f.i.,
   as being punk,
just before e.m.o.
came about...

               yeah the ramones,
***,
         still little fingers...

but i was always a meat-head...
i remember trying
to crawl out of
a slipknot mosh-pit
when the london arena
was still standing,
near canary wharf...

meat-head?
   not a skin head...
the guy who used to headbang...
not that i ever aged
from my beginnings...

i already mentioned
schumann...
   and all the other great
pianists...

    god module:
   that's...
     slaughterhouse music...
if equipped with
something akin
to wumpscut
or tanzdiktator...
  you're basically
looking for a comb-over
relief to once,
upon a time,
  using your head
and spine at the butcher's...

meat-head...
  i've survived a
brain haemorrhage
aged 21...
no one believed me...
so they enlisted me
in the danger-brigade
of schizophrenics...

         i'm looking around
with **** similis
and thinking?
   this is very unusual...
hell... i should be so lucky...
no other medical condition
is given as much
poetry, outlets...

   schizophrenics
are like the cardinals
to the bishop melancholics...
and the pope?
   no one's ego.

funny... the best metaphor
ascribed to cancer is...
what i found,
growing off a tree...
   mistletoe...
mistletoe is a botanical
parasite...
sure... cancer as giving
alien birth that is never
born...
   but somehow,
people have a fetish
for schizophrenia,
or... not having read enough
poetry...

psychosis...
contra ingesting hallucinogenic
drugs...
they are, quiet the pair
of magnet opposites...

     so this one instance when
my girlfriend told me
i would be more comfortable
without the ******:
it's like she didn't see...
i imitated circumcision...
it was already
uncomfortable...
    
              abortions: well...
excuses excuses excuses...
   with no job upon
graduation?
                 where did i leave
that "oops" moment?
so i went to a *******
to check...
    no... the rubber is not
that bad...
  i already have
the sensitive part of a *****
intact...
   sure...
if i was circumcised...
then not using
   a rubber would mean
something...
    
   gathering from what i learned
watching das boot
and the german joke
about yankies being semi-semite,
i.e. circumcised...
   i don't know if,
i can follow...
the argument...
   provided by a circumcised
male...

   give me a minute...
......................................................
­...................................................
.............­...................................  
.......................................................
no,­ sorry, what?
the circumcised male is
to dictate to me...
how...
       only once did i have
*** like an uncircumcised ****...
when a *******
****** on a rubber
before i managed to fully
undress myself in her presence...

and i took a risk every time
i "folded the umbrella",
"took off the tux",
    my top-hat... whatever you
want to call it...
what with the two protruding
veins...

     excuses excuses excuses...
counter-argument doesn't even
exist...
           there's only the moral
question,
         or there's: no question...

landed in ****...
   and in so doing:
started doing choc angel shapes
in the mud...
while a litany of
democratic pigs asserted
that was to become of me:
flesh... or bone?

the days when circumcised men
talk down to uncircumcised men...
the circumcised men...
who haven't been humbled
by jewish orthodox rigour...
*****-nilly...
            no w'oh m'ah nou cwy...

it's a European
"superstition" to assume
all american men as
being circumcised...
    or maybe... looking at all the ****:
that's just normal...
it was always going to
be a "necessary" revision
of the human product...
like... cutting off your big-toe
or your ears...

  hell... maybe there's a middle
ground...
   all uncircumcised men
should be coupled with
     all the examples of f.g.m.
because, somehow...
the two don't work...
might as well write
the kama sutra rubric
for monotheistic religions:

circumcised men
uncircumcised women

                         uncircumcised men
                         circumcised women

circumcised men
circumcised women (islam)

   uncircumcised men
    uncircumcised women (fans of simon
                                    & garfunkel).
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.well i could give you plenty of jazz examples or... mahler? big difference between schubert from schumann (i prefer the latter), i drawn the line at penderecki - i don't have the stomach for him, yet somehow i don't mind philip glass - but of the moderns? Górecki: symphony no. 3... the bolero-esque build-up, when it begins you actually check whether the volume is up... and given those hours between 1pm and 5pm on classic.fm 101.7MHz... when people chose songs for the d.j., em... mostly film scores... "intelligent" people listen to classical music... so... why do they need to listen to in reverse? i.e. they need images before the sounds, like watching aeroplanes, which drag their sound behind them? ever listen to classical music without any images involved? isn't that how you learn to abstract? the sound precedes the image... since... the image can be almost anything you want! but since i'm audio-slave / radio-head... a sucker for pop music once in a while... well... before dj rebel & mohombi feat. SHAGGY, altogether before shaggy... there was a decent "pseudo"-reggae duo... chaka demus & pliers with the album: tease me... hey, it's music... it's not a ****** orientation or any ***** preferences, but as i've pointed out this before: people are more embarrassed about their music tastes than whether strap-on ****** are in play... which is extremely funny... because it's so innocent... not phobia-related funny, that's irrational funny... but with regards to a taste of music? might as well have an eclectic attitude.

here's your heroic past,
*******:

battle for france
10 May – 25 June 1940 (46 days)

yeah...
german nazis,
soviets,
how's that for a tatsy bride
you ******* irish mongrel?!

    i've been given the lot,
via a "hallucination":
with the voice
name, them, just name them:

PZL.23 Karaś,
    PZL.37 Łoś...
                
1 September 1939
       28 September 1939

heinz guderian...

               jawohl...
but that still implies...
two nations' worth of invasion...
          haben...
       this deed...

bad ****, good ****...
          erwin rommel...
   salute, coffin march,
das ende.

          hälfte-geschichte

als bergwerk...

it took both **** germany,
and soviet russia...
to invade poland...
        
        funny, eh?
      it took two superpowers
to overpower a resurgent
strut of power...
  really?
                  
oh i don't need to be tattooed...
i know my dates...
they're burning on my skin,
akin to punk rock tattoos...
they burn,
they have managed to turn
acid and erosive with
the set requirements...

       i'll make you a *******
tattoo...
oh i will...
one which i will not forget,
and once,
which you will never turn
into rubric!

— The End —