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Grace Mar 2014
“Oh, you're a sprinter” they say
“you aren't really a runner”

Long distance people don't understand you see
They don't know what a pulling hamstring feels like
They don't know what running with pure adrenaline feels like
They don't know what not being able to breath while running feels like

You see, we sprinters have it down to a science
Practicing starts before the race is key
Pre race rituals are the law
If we don't warm up enough or warm up too much or forget to stretch one muscle
We could be out for the season

Sign in. Warm up some more

They call my race
I pull off my pants and shake out my legs
Double knot my spikes
Finally, my jacket comes off
I step up to the start and set my blocks

My brain becomes so numb with nervousness, the motions become mechanical
Two foot lengths away from the line, first block
Three foot lengths away from the line, second block
Bring my first block up two clicks
My second up three

“Runners, take your marks.”
Tuck jump
Shake out my legs
I tell myself “Remember: low, and drive”
Because there is too much to think about all at once
I lower myself on my knees
Wipe my hands on my spandex
Double check that my shirt is tucked in, my spikes are tied
Shake out my right leg and place it in the block
Shake out my left leg and place it in the block, toes barely touching the ground
Place my hands as close to the line as possible-about two inches to each side of my shoulders
I look down, check my blocks
Look up, at the finish-I will be there in less than a minute
If all goes as planned
I swing my hair so it's on my left side
Head down, look at my hands
Shoulders parallel with my arms and perpendicular to the ground
Just like practice

“Get set”
My heart is pounding
I can’t hear anything
I slowly raise my hips
It takes less than one second to become perfect
Just like practice

BANG

I shoot out of the blocks
Left arm jerks forward and my right thrashes back
I pull my stride in, getting into perfect form
Just like practice

I tune out all of the screams around me
The voices inside my head telling me to slow down
You're running too fast
You're about to pull a muscle
Give up already

But I keep running because I don't care about the voices in my head or the sprinters beside me
I race against time
An irrevocable substance that will always win

I finish the race, maybe not my best, but I did alright for my first meet in a year.
Finally eyeing my time I let go of the breath I have subconsciously been holding
I ran my best and now my lungs are reminded what it's like to taste air

Long distance runners don’t have to worry about any of this
They just have to make sure their toes aren't touching the line
Theres no science involved
If they warm up too long or not enough, it may cost them a few seconds
Seconds are all we have

Ever wonder why long distance runners are so nice to each other and sprinters aren't?
Because before every race we sprinters are too nervous to talk to one another
Everyone is silently praying that the  person next to them won’t toss their cookies
Then again, maybe its better if they did because I might have a better shot at getting first
After the race, I am too stunned-too out of breath to realize what just happened
Or to talk to the person next to me

Sprinters only have a mere couple of seconds to prove themselves
Long distance runners can take their time
They have at least two laps to prove themselves
Sometimes even sixteen

I don’t realize that I love racing
That I love not being able to breathe
Until I cross that finish line
And then I want to do it all over again
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.i have come to realiße that... it's not so much what you write about... but the mere fact of writing... i can't imagine myself being subjected to something, like a narrative, or furthering a character study... i can be the object of whatever is whimsical enough to come into my head of its own accord - i want to forget forcing something to come into this puncture, this dam, this incision that i am coordinating... and it's not that i'm objecting to something, but i am not going to subject myself to - no more than a whim, of its own desires... with no attached: i think so too... it's not about what i write anymore: it's the fact that i write... if i'll be able to spew 3 thousand words tonight... i'll be content... because... i know that i have crossed the threshold of not being left "satisfied": nonetheless constipated by an instagram haiku... mind you... that's a very troubling hindsight note you have in there... wouldn't an object the size of the earth... in a vacuum of space... create its own winds to imitate movement? there is no wind on the moon... yes... and we're talking hindsight from 420BC... the moon landing happened in the 20th century... let's give it some times before that becomes an obvious hindsight too... do you feel movement - rotating - did the turkish dervishes help at all?

the fine line between: competition and corporation,
otherwise known as a: very, very, naive poo'em...

by a definition alone:
it's not so much concerning whether this
would ever become a capitalism vs.
a communism "debate"...

after all - i'm ref. walking a tight-rope...

of the latter, verbatim:
'an association of individuals,
created by law or under authority of law,
having a continuous existence independent
of the existences of its members
and powers and liabilities distinct from
those of its members'...

can i just point out, foremost,
in an environment of competition laws can be bent...
to add to: the spectacle...
the athletics doping scandals:
it's within a spirit of competition...
the sprinters are not corporating for give
a spectacle... they are competing...
for the the spectacle...
ask me again the difference between...
what used to be a competitive event
done during leisure hours...
and what was a leisure event akin
to reading...
and ask me again: the difference between
taking part in the event of competing...
and watching a competition -
and what had to be involved to give
the spectacle its architecture...
i don't think it was so much competition
as it was corporation... never mind for now...

after all... how many times have laws
been bent when watching a football match?
the passing of law is hardly an objective
crux that so many "rational" and logic-"riddled"
people stress - can be made by one man...
sure... laws in vivo - science and what not...
these objective safety-nets...
that can lead to endless to-and-fro...
but i hardly think... man is capable of passing
objective laws: in vitro... notably in -
           in unum: omni...
unless that's a schizophrenic metaphor...
which is already a metaphor when
tested on a bilingual brain...

how many people did it take...
to pass: the earth rotates around the sun?

the heliocentric model...
genesis in the west from philolaus,
heraclides ponticus,
pythagoras (hindsight...
wouldn't an object moving in
a vacuum of space... create winds of
its own?)
aristarchus of samos,
then onto philolaus of croton -
anaxagoras; whoever was
debunked by ptolemy... then so many years...
until enough time passed...
before people could take the plunge and
be certain: for old time's sake with
copernicus - well the people have been sleeping
for long enough...
enough time has passed and we can pass...
this objective truth... that the heliocentric
model is true and that the pharaohs held
no authority as the sons of the sun
in the static geocentric model...
likes Xerxes ordering the sea to the be whipped
to calm down... and become a lake...
some pharaoh must have had a wild
idea telling a sand dune to stop moving
or seeing some mt. sinai said: shrink!
so instead be said: let's build us a... perfect pyramid...
a mountain that looks... geometric from
both afar and near!

or at least that's what Homer would have
said when visiting Giza: Δ'uh!

so a single man is somehow justified
in passing an objective truth?
unless the mob encores...
but what about the jury - a trial without a jury
is any trial at all...
murky ground if you ask me...
i don't expect man to pass...
judgement for a universal equilibrium...
but what i do expect is that:
he doesn't think he's capable of this: grandiosity!
clearly he's not... the objective reality
of falling... the subjective: i'm right as
allocated the status judge: therefore i'm standing still.

competition in a medical environment...
only in the realm of psychiatry...
and the mine-field of misdiagnosed misfortunes...
but i hardly think... competition is a catalyst
for getting surgery done...
corporation, yes...
among farmers? a rare treat....
a hobby pursuit for a selected fraction of
the crop... the dear-to-my-heart "g.m." tomato...
but all the other tomatoes... need to be harvested...
but this my pet-tomato... which needs to be:
THIS BIG! another matter...

sport and competition...
but work... and competition?
no wonder work and competition,
rather than corporation gives end results as...
who's wearing the most trendy sneakers?
who's social media account requires...
the most editing? who's child is the one with
the smartphone? etc. etc.

the bait of the poo'em is that it's naive:
but i think it is - so there's that to begin with...

i still can't fathom that "capitalism" was solely
promulgated on competition -
i'm still having to address the "model" as...
having to retain a "socialist" aspect akin to corporation
to get away with... what later became:
an all out economic "war" of competition...

naive utopian of me to somehow huddle
at the fireplace of corporation...
work - if so many people hate their work...
what would be the only gratifying
alleviation? and i'm pretty sure some places of work
are less about competition: and more about
corporation - as i write this...
the british national health service...
some people will compete by cutting corners...
competition will lead to doping scandals...
competition is... an Elisium for the few
and... a crab-bucket for the some...
call them the 10% cliff-hangers...

i've noticed it in poetry... slam poetics...
what not... this affair is already riddled with too many
****-up ****-wit window-lickers:
of which i am primo...
but i don't think it necessary to compete...
this was never about competition...
not every work is required to be
tinged with competition...
sometimes... it's just better to corporate...
do... undertakers compete?
do... postmen compete?
last time i heard: each is allocated his volume
of letters... it doesn't matter whether
he finishes his chores before the other postmen...
no postman is stupid enough
to take up someone else's allocated letters...
the first finishes his chores sooner...
the latter works overtime without pay...
it's a corporation of endeavours...
all the same... but there is no need to give these
postmen running orders when
they can walk the ******* mile...

competition within the realm of sport is one
thing... i guess a long time ago...
some people engaged in competition: sports...
to escape the general lagging begin plateau
of corporation... Rome wasn't build in
a single day... others dedicated themselves to
slouch and sloth of expanding the cranium
by reading a book...

the naive is still the bait...
is conscripting in an army...
about competition... or following orders and hierarchy
and therefore: not solely about corporation?
hierarchy you ask...
well... wouldn't that be something borrowed from
plutocracy / nepotism?
competition in an army environment...
what if you're in the royal guard
competing at what... shooting more blanks
into the sky expecting to shoot down the moon
at a wrestling-match fake
of staging of a state funeral?!
the cannons sounded... and that's all these
ever did... they were shooting with
empty wallnut shells! the wallnuts were
eaten by gunpowder gremlins long ago...
before the pomp & circumstance was shot
with: aenemic *****...

this is not a capitalism vs. a communism
debate... communism was riddled with nepotism...
come to think of it...
capitalism is not there yet...
but it's already there...
from what i've heard...
capitalism as this utopia ideal is not a meritocracy:
exceptions are made...
cicero was an exception of the roman empire
under nero...
exceptions and genetic freaks...
is this still a naive poem?

i can understand where competition works -
notably in what jobs it might work...
but most jobs require a stable work ethic
of corporation...
perhaps all self-employed entrepreneurs...
"perhaps" have no corporation in mind...
to a greater degree of orientating themselves...
in that corporation is: outside the bracket...
if everyone was suddenly...
self-employed... there would be no fear of...
the robotic onslought to come...
at least then... the microcosm would open...
and there would no longer be any employees...
just self-employed facets of...
"corporations in name only"...
which they already are...
corporations in name only...
given that... the corporations are no longer
competing with each other...
they have consolidated on a monopoly...
and since they are no longer competing with each
other... they have designated their former...
inter-competition into a hierarchal intra-competition
of "employees"...

can a bus driver, or a tube train operator compete?
by law... you can only drive a bus for 8 hours...
to operate a tube train... you can do X number of hours...
and these include breaks... necessary breaks...
can you find competition in these:
ultra-corporative environments? no!
capitalism might think it is necessary to scare everyone
into: the robots are coming! time to be self-employed
and compete! compete!
but some jobs are still: primed to corporation!

could i ever see undertakers competing?
in times of a spiked demand - during a plague...
what is healthy in sport -
is not necessarily healthy in a workplace -
after all... most people detest earning money -
it's a chore - mind you: do i enjoy writing poo'etry?
am i being paid for writing it?
no... i am "volunteering"... for the love of
the art... for ****'s sake... nothing more!
nothing less!

is this still a naive poo'em: yes... sorry...
i forgot to be caustic and there's no rhyme... my bad...
but this is not a capitalism vs. communism
tirade... from the yoke of the soviet union...
i learned from my mother that...
flues weren't really that prominent...
not until the 1970s...
by then it was a common theme...
biological warfare... while the crown-virus has
yet to claim a life outside of the mandarin
genetics: in the age of propaganda journalism:
you hear a "truth" one day...
three days later you're singing along to your
own "biased" / solipstic narrative...
after a while you have to adopt the "autism"
of solipsism: the world can only bite so much
out of you... you have to turn to standards of delusion
to match to their: from the many, one...

in sport, competition is the "zeitgeist":
it's not a metaphor, it's a misnomer...
but given the " " ditto brackets - i'm tired of looking
for the: "required" word... sometimes...

by the 5th definition of competition...
it's not as direct as corporation, competition
needs to borrow from an -ology...
again, verbatim: 'rivalry between two or more
persons or groups for an object desired in common,
usually resulting in a victor and
a loser but not necessarily involving
the destruction of the latter' -

what is untrue about this is that...
the destruction of the latter is paramount...
at least these days...
am i to believe that capitalism was not,
not ever, tinged with a belief in corporation...
that it was always, somehow, only about
competition?
what was communism born from?
when did the abolishment of serfdom happen
in russia? 1861...
the abolishment of slavery happened
in england in 1865... 4 years after...
but... but!
in russia? the slaves were thought of as...
people from within russia...
in england? the slaves? en route a trade from
one foreign place to another...
wow!
all slavery: either foreign, or domestic...
and to think that communism was a "failure"...
hard to imagine... truly hard to imagine...
given that... communism was born...
4 years prior to slavery in general was abolished...
of foreign to become "nationals"...
what does english he-he-history tell us about
native slaves? four years prior to the slaves
moved from africa to the cotton candy fields...
there were slaves that were not: ***** out of africa...

reperations who's who?!
why didn't capitalism bloom in russia...
why will it never bloom - oligarchs and...
currency of modern western capitalism:
nepotism...
who is jared kushner?
mr. cushions mr. cushtie...
mr. minted in: network baron...
slavery was abolished on the international scale
in england in 1865... four years after...
internal slavery was abolished in russia... 1861...
isn't that the sort of wow you were expecting?!
so when was slavery-slavery abolished
in england?
again... if internal slavery was abolished in russia...
4 years after slavery on an international
stage was abolished...
communism was a failure because: per se...
or... was communism supposed to be...
a short-cut attempt to catch up to capitalism?
was it a failure in catching up to capitalism?
in the 2008 financial clash...
where was Poland? recession free...
again... communism was a failure per se...
but... was it a failure in terms of catching up
to capitalism?
to me... it's still catching up...
when again... we're talking... freeing people...
only 4 years prior to people who would
otherwise still be... rummaging the romances
of Kenya and seeing no albino tourists sipping
brandy on their shores...
perhaps better for the whole load of us...

i ask, again, in my naive way...
that's the difference between competition and corporation?
not much...
a football team needs to compete with other football teams,
but it needs a corporative methodology behind it...
you can sometimes spot a maverick who wants
to be the solipsist in the team and become
nothing more than the top goal-scorcer -
then again: a kevin de bruyne and the number of assists...

if there was to be a level playing field...
everyone was to be self-employed...
what fear from robots?
competition on a ford's:
each man is a cog in the assembly line...
you can't compete... were you supposed to?
i thought that the only reason sport
was fun was to be compete and corporate...
it wasn't solely about competing:
not even in tennis are you ever competing...
unless you're serving a ****-ace...
competing but also corporating:
for the spectacle: with 19shot rallies...

to reiterate: this is a really naive poo'em...
is has to be!
- again... before capitalism became this hell-scape
spiral of: fear of robotics / a.i.:
let's just see if we get enough self-employed
people on board...
oh sure: the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed bus-driver...
i'm sure there was, what's not called:
a "healthy spirit of competition" in work related
niches of existence...

i'm an alcoholic living among workaholics...
not a pretty sight... believe me...

i'm sure that capitalism... must have began
with: a "healthy spirit of corporation"...
that one henry ford would benefit more than
all the assembly line workers: fine...
the brains is allowed the conscious efforts
to move the eyes, close them,
use the jaw... bite... do magic with the tongue...
the liver has no knowledge of alcohol...
the heart isn't exactly aware of either veins
or arteries... fine... a henry ford cigar can get
away with thinking he's not adding
a chimney to the whole affair...
or a rhine-valley load of chimneys...
the stomach doesn't know what taste is...
sure as **** the small intestine knows
what it feels like to be a woman:
should it find itself unfortunate to have
a hitchhiker tapeworm attached to it... etc. etc.

but i imagine the capitalism had a sense of
corporation before...
it worked too many psychopathic sport analogies
into itself... precursor to the fear
or a.i. robbing people of their jobs?
testing people in a self-employed job market...
again: oh sure... the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed busdriver!
perhaps a self-employed cabbie...
a self-employed surgeon?
how would that work?

        what's that? the cult leader... would not find
a job status match... in a corporate market of ideas?
then a ******* maverick he is...
esp. with such dates as: the brian jonestown
massacre hovering over his head!

perhaps i am naive is reiterating:
work implies corporation rather than competition,
in that work implies chores...
i've seen this in my father -
he doesn't underand household chores
on the basis on corporation -
he understands them on the basis of competition...
and he's to somehow... take pleasure
in the "free bread and circus"...
when the circus is not what it used to be?
once upon a time: the circus involved
men... who were footballers...
but they also did part-time metallurgy work...
they would clock in at a certain hour...
then be let off work to play a football match...
they weren't paid: professional:
disappropriate wages...
because their "work"... was over-inflated
by the gambling syndicate dicta...

there was a utopia in Poland...
it lasted for... roughly 30 years... from 1945
through to 1975... after that the herrings
didn't want to be pickled...
the baltic sea started to boil and the fish
strarted to froth at the mouth...
it's not a nostalgia segment: i was born in 1986...
this is mythology: curating the temporal
standards of modern journalism...
history: what time ago?
50 years? elvis was abducted by aliens...
n'esst ce pas?!

slam poetry competition with fellow:
poo'em eaters...
can i jut take the armchair with Horace?
i don't feel like competing...
what am i competing for?
volume... a new YA novel?
i will not ***** language...
even if it is a language i acquired:
and it's not a tattoo native first come first served
expression...
this is not a capitalism vs. communism
affair...

all the: towel in champions of capitalism
have made it clear:
start a traditional family, start a farm...
milk some goats...
pluck some eggs... living the dream:
brown fingers and all...
                       way way out from competition
in the workplace...
so... no need to corporate...
solo does it...
                                and if i'll be needing some
milk... i'll likewise claim: an autistic
pension and enough barren land to feed
goats organic glue and toilet paper that
magically morph into... a propaganda poster...

olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lignum:
once i was a stump of fig,
a wood without use... this is my best Horace:
thank you, goodnight...

what is to be competed for?
rather: what it to be retained, kept, status quo
enclosed... this pride for corporation?
competition in the workplace can only go as far...
not all professions can allow competition...
some will forever retain their base:
corporation...
to compete outside the realm of sport...
sport... those with enough awareness
of the body would pursue it...
those with a bit more brain in tow...
wouldn't... the ghost limb terms:
there's nothing of note
when it comes to competing with i.q. in
mind... or corporating...
there's this ancient feat of "solipsism" and
self-bettering... rather than running
the "expected" mile...
was capitalism always this:
chicken-shack-shackled into... wishing to squeeze
out drinking water... from pig ****?

again... this is not as easy give-away
that it's a capitalism versus communism base scrutiny...
all the eastern european laid-deeds have made it into
their chandelier filled land-allotement sights of
better ****** that gynocentrism...
i don't mind...
      yes... because among the bulgarian strip-party
i'm the ottoman janissary turned
well spoken sheikh... when morocco is given...
a fictional name... and i'm the Ali
that rubs Muhammad's lamp and
averts the... most ****** schism...
oh sure... Islam would be a pure religion...
and they would be allowed to complain about
porky-pies...
but... you see... how long did it take
for a schism to emerge between the orthodox grees
and tha catholic italians?
how long did the islamic schism take
to grovel and dig trenches?
not that much...
after all... Shia... Persians... Ali Woke-oh-Haram...
and the ****'ite... the ***** muslims...
the Saudi bin-Ladens...
well... that schism... didn't take that long...
some whisper about a schism in the monotheism
of the hebrews...
ha ha! i write ha ha... but even i have to laugh
out loud... a monotheism an inbreeding
of something more than genes...
fix the idea... and continue!

by now even i know that christianity has reached
a status of polytheism...
it's the same jesus... sure sure...
via no other than the orthodox,
the catholic, the protestant (calvinist, lutheran)
standards... or the baptists... or the jay-***-***-V-and-G
standards...
next thing you know: the vegans are
the gnostic monks!
because it has to be a joke at this point...
if christianity is a monotheism...
i'm mother theresa and that albanian
that stole george w. bush' mickey mouse's watch
on a state visit...
so to complete the holy trinity...
i'll be... alastair campbell... always for the giggles...

an alcoholic among workaholics...
who always had the satan's postbox concerning
the niqab... the same ones who were to be always
quoted: the beast from the east...
jesus is coming! look busy!

i mean... no need to look busy...
when the high a tide is making a comeback...
would you believe it?
if you saw the words... united kingdom...
england, scotland, wales... ireland...
that this was not moldova?
this is a language these are letters so arranged...
by an island-dwelling folk?
if you're the first, driver...
shotgun! who are we smuggling in the passenger
seats behind us?

imagine my surprise at the rereading,
with the typo: a missing (s) in letter()
and a missing (d) in arrange(d)...
i call them... the lost key of solomon...
or my own personal, hybrid,
hard-on...
oh god kept me with a phallus...
while giving all the angels a proper chopper
of the ol' wood... **** to stump...
i'm the one that wasn't circumcised!

and all i now have to sing about... is...
a forest of pines! a forest of pines!
pines pines pines! yippy caye!
Eefs Jungmann Nov 2014
People pass by me,
   from all  every direction
even in winter snow.

From exhausted firemen,
      expectant mothers,
               forgotten children,
         marathon sprinters.
    Even grumbling men carrying heavy, ancient computer printers.

Each have their share and take their turn on me, the local sheltered, secluded
seat.
Even if only for a deep breath and a break or a little body
heat.
    
   Bags and books, all sorts of things have been dropped or left on me, proposals have even happened here, you
name it.
If you don't believe it, come see for yourself and
frame it.
Sorry for the random ramblings, my first attempt at rhyming. Feedback/comments are welcome, and enjoy as always!x
Grace Mar 2014
I try to control every variable
Just like an experiment
Like a mad scientist
If something goes wrong it could cost some blood
A hamstring
My shins

My heart is pounding like a runaway train
Chugging along and always speeding up that it sometimes trips over itself in my chest
Fluttering

I tune out everything except for the official

I set my blocks
I am already trying to catch my breath to calm the butterflies in my stomach
I wipe my hands on my spandex
They're covered in sweat

I let out a shaky breath. Telling myself "You know the drill"

"Ladies stand in your lanes"
I do a couple tuck jumps
Double check my spikes, my hair
I shake out my hands hoping to wipe off the nervousness
But know deep inside my heart that it's the only thing keeping me sane

"On your marks"
A sour taste forms in my mouth
All I can do now is think about my start
Another variable I become the master of
Low and drive
I get on my trembling hands as I slide my feet in the blocks
I inhale-my breath quivering
I peer ahead at the finish line in front of me
It's so close yet oh so far away

"Set"
Is there a word for when all of your potential energy instantly turns into kinetic?
All of your nervousness turning to pure adrenaline?

Is there a word for that split second after the gun goes off?
For what it feels like when my muscles stretch and scream for oxygen?
My mind goes blank
I can't hear any of the yelling or my runaway heartbeat
I don't think about who's beside me

This race isn't about the competitors next to me
It's the clock
That irrevocable tick that means almost everything
That horrendous voice inside my head saying I am too tired
Slow down
My legs weren't made for this
But I know deep down inside that it's my brain trying giving up

I keep running because I don't care about the voices in my head or the sprinters beside me
I race against time
An irrevocable substance that will always win
But I was born to run

Is there a word for when your brain gives up and you are running with pure adrenaline and heart?

Is there a word for running so fast time slows down? You can hear your mothers pleads, your fathers coaching, your friends reassurance as you pass by but it doesn't even process until after you are done

You can feel every millisecond in your toes when you spikes dig into the track

You can feel everything that could have gone wrong but somehow went right and you don't even register it until after

I make it to the finish line in one piece
My muscles are tight and my lungs are trying to catch up with my racing heart
My head is pounding and I don't remember what just happened
But I get a feeling that it was something wonderful
I can't find a word for it

I wish there was because  I would have already said it by now
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
sure sure, forgive & forget, but you can't do both in a one-sided simultaneousness: forgive with anger, but forget with peace, for your own sake.

that comic abstract i wrote about children
and mathematics being first learned in units
and not π, π being akin to the word onomatopoeia
in some pandemonium of reverse
of the novel, well, i know 1 is odd, 2 is even,
but when walking and drinking i went a step further:
0 (left leg forward), 1 (right leg forward),
2 (left), 3 (right), 4 (left), 5 (right),
6 (left), 7 (right), 8 (left), 9 (right)...
10 (right left), 11 (right right), 12 (right left)...
it's like that game children play,
they draw a checkers board with chalk,
squares the size of gifted feet missing tango,
schematic looks something like this:
                            1
                   2               3
                            4
                   5               6
                            7
                            8
   ­                9                10
(almost the tree of kabbalah),
so you throw a pebble onto a number
and then do a one legged kangaroo on
1, 4, 7 and 8... but numbers 2 and 3,
5 and 6, 9 and 10 you do the two-legged stomp,
pick the pebble up, and do the reverse as mentioned...
girls loved playing this game when young,
apart from the indoor game of surgeons with
asexual dolls of artificial *** and third party donors,
very horrid that game of dolls,
hide & seek was the boys' invention,
basically anything with running and camouflage
involved, be it shadow, be it anything...
i did skip like a boxer with the skipping ropes,
didn't become a boxer though...
so girls invented the profession of boxing...
behind every tyrant there's a harem of sadists...
i like this feminism they're shoving at us...
i'm one of the last boys to go to university,
it ended circa 2010... now about 60K more *******
fathom the upper tiers of psychology,
education and what not...
mathematics is still a male orientation,
no bullshitting, just: wrong wrong wrong, remainder.
it was an article in the newspaper, what can i do,
censor myself? along with the new elements
discovered, so unstable they live like *******
***** in a petrie dish the length of a male ******:
funky pumpy did all the work, mission impossible
message reads: DISPOSE OF. husband material?
tick. drinker? no no. it's like al capote's time era,
drink the problem... GUNS DON'T **** PEOPLE,
PEOPLE **** PEOPLE. you trying to make me
supermalt or something? all the black kids drank that;
white boys milked the cow from a pint bottle of milk,
ones turned into sprinters... the others turned
into dolphins. that's what i don't get about evolution
attacking theology and undermining itself
from the realm of humanities... you know black
olympic swimmers sink in the pool... clearly
i didn't bleach my skin in arabia going north...
i was a sea monkey! honest to god... the fat in me
makes me float... origins of non-aquatic monkey
sinks in blue water, a dollop of brown...
or that english post-colonial joke about another
member state of the union... you know any good
californian joke about new englanders?
an uninhibited english man (with poor taste in
tailoring) glorifies this fact: per capita,
poland is the only country with each household
having a toilet for each member of the household...
that's why they exported so many polish plumbers
to england!
when i was only but a child and i seemed to have
forgotten being one, when
i got a shock after my ****** hair / beard envy disappeared
and felt no ***** envy, and when i heard being
described as a man... i didn't write any st. paul
*******... so i delved on it...
and remembered my favourite movie from childhood
and the actors i wanted to speak the truth as:
favourite film - le bossu, swash & buckle, cut & ******
adventure starring jean marais (based on a novel
by paul feval)... and of course the three musketeers,
with richard chamberlain and oliver reed...
i so wanted to be the shogun that was chamberlain,
the philandering priest turned musketeer...
lo and behold... i ended up as athos...
not that i mind... but that time period captured
my imagination, as a child of decaying communism
in a satellite state of the soviets... the rule of louis xiv,
and the intrigue of cardinal richelieu...
i wanted to be there! just sniffing up the gun powder!
alas... not to be.
so today i braced myself for no donning an elaborate
hat with peacock feathers and remembering the yore
days of chivalry... walking the grey pavement and grey
houses with a grey sky above... if only the houses
were coloured like the houses of st. petersburg...
if only... and in the hospital after almost breaking
my index finger i did a bit of solo c.b.t. (cognitive
behavioural therapy), i sat in silence, feet not in turkish
or buddhist akimbo but like nailed to a cross,
hands crossed... in this house of pain and legal morphine
addiction, in the orthopedic ward... just sat...
eyes closed... and couldn't conjure any thought...
just nothing... is that a problem for the c.b.t. practices?
i bet it is... what sort of behavioural problems
can arise from not thinking? running a marathon?
driving a car? flying an aeroplane? exponential
flamboyance of memory brought to the fore in an examination?
loads* of examples!
i walked with this somali woman after someone misdirected her
to get to the hospital...
but the gift of all gifts came to seal the day complete
(after not finding lamb kidneys at the supermarket
for a steak and kidney pie)
was next to an islamic learning centre...
three guys ahead on my path, two talking,
one running from one edge width of the pavement
to the other, jumping on something...
he was about to rush back onto the stone
then he stuck his hand out...
his hand warmer than my heart, my hand colder
than his brain yet to be indoctrinated,
he extended it looking me in the eye and i into his,
this little ****** of about 6 or 7 too shy to talk,
his warm hand no bigger than my pinky, ring and middle
finger did a sort of high-five with me...
i guess one of my paediatric theories came true
came the high five.
Theron Aidan Feb 2013
Gray eyes
Sometimes blue
Sometimes green
Mostly slate, no phyllite
Sometimes schist
And sometimes, when all other hope is gone
Shale

Crooked nose
Broken, bloodied
Put a band-aid on it
It's still proud
Proof of heritage and blood

High cheekbones
Finely sculpted
Match the proud nose

Thin lips
Pink, not red
Set in a straight line
Seldom smiling
Sometimes laughing

Broad shoulders
Strong arms
A chest that contains a heavy heart

Pianists fingers
Long and slender
Nimble
Quick
Bound by a ring on the left hand
Scars

Powerful legs
Sprinters feet
Bad knees
Scars

Things in between
Head and feet
Don't quite belong
But over time
Are no longer noticed

See the soul
Not the body
Live happily
this year the imported ponies
are the ones to beat
as they've got more staying power
in their feet

long distance racing
suits their genetic makeup
over a mile they'll
keep firing up

our horses are sprinters
who can dash
but that style of racing
shall ne'er win the cash
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, ******-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
Hallie Bear Jul 2012
She was as elegant as winds shadow.
In other words invisible
Her otter skin eyes pool in oak trees
Every ripple of leaves a whim. 
A tear.
She cries the dripping watercolors of fall
Her boughs dances the florescence of spring
Busy sprinters lick over her presented nuances
Passed by every moment
No one notices the silent hover of self made lush
Anymore.
I'd love some harsh criticisms please :)
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
to write in Latin these days, is to write the Vulgate, i am inclined to this graffiti for i abide by no cherishing of the tongue, Nietzsche said that Christianity is Platonism for the people... indeed the morphing of his maxim (God is dead) is likewise a Platonism, in that the populist reinterpretation is: Latin is dead; - so that the Vulgate might live.

we all heard it when *Dominique de Villepin
spoke
against any sort of invasion - in uncertain times we
called for uncertain measures - and all we got was
more uncertainty with a failed intelligence -
populist poetry, as you like it - keep Shakespeare on
a peddle-stool long enough and Marlowe will
join the circus - the pseudonym for one of Lady Macbeth's
lovers - i have seen the marches of protest,
common sense overruled democracy, democracy failed,
common sense suffers - Mr. Milošević (sheer as former
diacritic, and itch as the latter) is handcuffed
while the western war criminals are
patted on the shoulder while *******
their pants with excess grey of gorillas' aged backing
for the entitlement of silverback and hip-replacement -
bred by children, we are governed by children,
in the end we end up punishing children,
the Disney shadow is never far away
from western politics - populist i я fox - desert?
(if ever a rune, it'd be this AT: Ѧ - post-Babylonian
AM to consider), alter:
do i look like a ******* camel herder to you?
that's whiplash with a blink given those
camel niqabs you did arson to with Jarred Jeff Chaucer -
suits you well... je suis Jarry, et je suis Papa ****...
get your ******* pokers out
you Algerian rapists? *** zee policé! (acute e,
missing hatch) - get a breather - minus the olives
at the street-market - shingaloong - na na na na (h multiplier),
meaning there's a supposed person itemising tribal secrets -
like this Amazonian Turk sourcing out an insomnia cure
with a cross-dressing Chilean Aztec with a
postcard from Azerbaijan stitched in -
while a white boy towed a burden no admiral cared
to whisper on the frothing encapsulation
of a destroyer and the cold cod look with mermaids -
and that literally was a minded fact - meaning?
generals on first dates with goats - horned eyed they were
bashing atoms about like the Hadron Mr. Switz.
(almost wrote Hydron, alias Hydrogen, gateway
to mind, ratio 1:1, as Rodin sculpted the kiss from Dante,
Francesca and Paolo - a paperaeroplane with
the following note attached via ultra-digression
and as poet's know, no paragraph rubric or break
for afternoon tea:
they were critical of communism to perfection
with what's happening in Turkey - an Army coup d'état -
i've never seen so many politicians anorexic on a diet
of fingernails - never in my life - prior... i have the tongue,
the rhetoric of bullets aimed at your head...
a storm-trooper with a gun: i have about 1000 100m sprinters
aimed at your head... bang bang and indeed you might be dead...
bang bang bang... you're dead, and Cinderella goes
to her ballroom gown event completely solipsistic.
what the Solidarity movement criticised wasn't
Communism, they were critical of the coup d'état -
communism and automated spying,
communism's Darth Vader voice-over is matched
with automated spying - why was social media invented
if we didn't want to be informed? i can tell you
how long it takes me to ******* - and are you to beg to
differ with me? capitalism never automated spying,
it automated freedom, a sorta-post-humanism when
people were allowed to perform the ultra-perverse acts
of freedom and later told: well, you can't really write a book
after all you've done, can you? and why would a book
like that... the European convention of authority wanted
straightened Brazilian bananas anyway...
Darwin laughed with words: they got over the skew!
modern phraseology? a smiley: or?
banana's tummy to peel and topple t'eh d'oh Cherokee chop chop
awaiting a garçon for the perfumed-airs of cold espresso
served awaiting a tip nonetheless with gusto! ah, die gusto...
when it comes to printing press it came down to
the salt mines being safer than the print genesis -
meaning that with printing companies asbestos was used -
the Chinese are famous when over-shadowing cockroaches,
prime with fireworks, last with gunpowder -
prime with prints, last with... whatever writing freely
meant for democracy when freedom was to be undermined
and democracy embraced - and autocracy (mono-republicanism)
rugby tackled - i can actually see mono-republicanism,
a Saddam Hoot-Sane - and i can actually see
mono-democracy - bring in James Cameron and a dozen
start-up app. geeks... we'll debate for ~15 minutes
(as in, fashionably the doors are closed, and we closed them
because we could hardly articulate what would be the forecast
with the weather prophets about the safety mechanism
of an orange thrown up into the air, levitating
or  being brought back down in the form of orange juice at
whatever Newton assemblage was obvious) -
and so we decided it was necessary to treat each individual
mention of event non-chronologically,
but as historian supermen would, with hindsight,
quantum June , a month of the highest rekindling of the sun
to shine supreme - to not dwell in chronology,
but as heroes of hindsight, to write post-eventum as if
glorified in numbering mentions akin to Achilles, heroes
anti-prophetic and endearing the whispering of
bookworms for their agitated mention of others' glory.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i don't have a low self-esteem,
or precursors to justify
usage of internet paraphernalia;
i don't have a phone,
i don't use dating applications;
if anything i'm looking
at the hurts of globalisation
from a village perspective;
and to me, it all just looks like:
cow took a ****, cow didn't take a ****,
cow bowed on all fours to sleeps
to keep a patchwork of grass
dry from the rain... cow slept standing...
back then you just had to walk to
the next village to ***** in the gene pool...
now you're expected to travel to paris
for genetic diversity and a love story
worthy of the boredom of writing
hunting the digression of dating:
is monday the 12th of July good for you
and the imaginary caveman? no?
i thought so... watching rain in England
in sunglasses kinda precursors
naturalised use of sarcasm, given
the Great Wall of China and Hadrian's:
an army of Scots just jumped the wall
like 110m hurdle sprinters! what we to do?!
what we to do?! wait for the Mongols...
ah ha..                   all in all.. good luck
and *cheerio(h)! ol' chap! bowler hats ahoy!
bop bop... like bloated frogs bopping along
              to Sherlock looking at an aquatic snail trail
    deciphering Cluedo.
Jennifer Marie Dec 2010
He smelled like a fall evening –
                      the distinct mix of dusty leaves, hay, and candy apples
                                          combined with pumpkins and acorns.
So I let him take my hand, his fingers weaving in between mine,
                  the way the October stars gently twisted through the sky.
                                            And we stood and looked up.
For the longest time, there was silence save for the sound of
                  a seventy-year old’s clapping shoes as she strolled across the
                            dance floor, on her way to do-si-do with her husband.
Appalachian hills gleamed under the harvest moon, as he smiled,
                      asked if I would like to run through the corn maze with him.
I said yes, of course I would, and would he be able to keep up with
                     the six-year old sprinters who would beat us to the finish?
He laughed, and the clouds overhead dispersed, revealing only velvet atmosphere.
                                   We ran for minutes, tripping over our
shoelaces, occasionally being startled by the tractor toting happy families
                                        who were on hayrides together. But we made it
To the finish, where we collapsed on the cool dirt, grasping our sides and
                                         laughing as loud as we could.
- From Love Letter
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
concentrate on the symbols... the narrative style is that of being pedantically excited, it's put together haphazardly for a reason... the point being to concentrate on the symbols, most notably in the title, by suggesting that returning to letters, there's an opposite to Copernicus' compass, not regarding north and south, east and west... whether it's heliocentric of geocentric, the compass concerning letters and how they revolve and transform, akin to the later stages of summer and the earliest signs of autumn - or the nomadic paths of man, but simply, on a page.

indeed mathematics breeds a different
type of genius,
                                                  as i already said
mathematicians resound to agree:
we're not drafted to do arithmetic -
                we're not sprinters
   or the world's fastest at: 1 + 2 + 47 - 90 + 1056...
because our phonetic encoding
is overburdening and too much
akin to mathematical symbols -
              B and 8
                                     l or I and 1
             6 and b
                                            3 and E
              S and 5
                                           0 and O
   if the Greeks built and Empire
that spanned into England
                               the Barbarians
would have never adopted the Greek
alphabet -
                          but since it was the Romans
that did so... the Barbarians exploited
the latin alphabet -
      as they did...
                                    it takes a different
way of thinking, we're not talking
etymology, we're talking things like:
organic chemistry's electron movement
   diagrams... what is positive in Latin
  and negative in Rune? or... what is missing
in Latin and necessary to remember Rune?
             in between the disparity between
  >                     and                )
or (                    and              >
               we have the resurrected sharpening
of encoding reminders: accents,
              namely called diacritical marks...
         or a game of matchsticks...
from the barbarian crude or chequered
flints in terms of chipped away curving-edges
into talking smoothed-marble buttocks of statues...
   Bukowski was wrong... Caesar won
in the end...
                     Caesar cared less for world
power, his ultimate maxim was:
a sudden death...
                              and he won... he got
the sudden death...
                                 he didn't say: death in
my sleep, but: sudden death...
                  he won, in the end.
         i never stick to rules, me? a minor
anarchist, in terms of the Nato alphabet,
it's Rome rather than Romeo,
perhaps even Rodeo...
             and it's Jules instead of Juliet...
   Aardvark rather than Alpha
         etc.,
                                 or like refining crude oil...
the crude version is written as
     ᚱ but the civilisation of the times wrote
R...                 odd.. they kept only
               U    in crude form          , they actually invited these
northern conquerors because, as one
chisel-labourer said:
                           the elder alchemist
seeking a golden fern leaf
             to turn stone into papyrus
and a chisel into a quill...
              for all the shortcuts i could
have written, i was told that only U as in V
                      was the only available
aesthetic pardon...
                                      thanks to bureaucracy
so many wars were waged,
because they were expected to not be
overly-eager in their duty,
   but make shortcuts, which they didn't exhibit
because they ****** the thumb of power
till the bones appeared... bones i.e. runes...
    all but a little empowerment
                            and the dictator complex
              comes without armies
but pages of paper, and filofax dilemmas
              of schedule;
             and what became a revelation
of excess shortcuts: ᚱ into R
                    ᚹ into P
              ᚾ into ł (orthodox Christians
make the sign of the cross: forehead,
           chest, right shoulder, left shoulder
amen, or: the glue of the trinity -
         liberal Christians make the sing of
the cross: forehead, chest, left shoulder,
right shoulder, amen; the orthodox
wear their marriage ring on their right hand
the liberal on the left hand, as with the
wristwatch... monogamy is so time consuming)
           nonetheless adapting shortcut
chiselling in either stone or wood
                     and the need for the Roman term
beauty: curvature... invited
                       the barbarian adaptation
to the alphabet... as i already said,
had the Greeks moved that far north,
the Greek alphabet would have been erased...
            primarily the problem of ᚦ  and  θ
          ᚠ and φ         (or the liturgy behind
           the silent twins of the tetragrammaton)
                                                 cut each letter
open... entry point of later adaptation of
what the barbarians said: but we also have
crude elementary accenting of the approximates...
   evolving the > into a ) will not do enough
justice!             how easily F can be translated
   and poured into the eyes...
the mystery lies in something that has no
archaeological prospect of artefact...
            mentality lost in how phonetic encoding
evolved is what modernity calls:
                  concerns for mental health...
we can't simply resurrect the mentalities of
the fathers who revised runes into
                                 Latin appropriation
                 by saying: we're ill because this
was never recorded, or that they were ill
because they were ferocious at the time
   and spilt blood...
                                 these hysterics trying
to see how one came into being from the other
is impossible... i just know that
    it took a lot of straight lines
                       curvatures of similarity in Latin
and the ****** of chisel-worked in Rome
who said: quicker zigzag the runic R like
our pedantic variation of U in V
                    but what if i had to chisel in
the word pulverise? V L V?
                                            comes out in
arithmetic - there are idiots either side:
    I + IV + V = X...
                                   i.e. ᛞ, Norse for day,
    or simply d.
                           idiots either side...
oh just because the Arabs gave us numbers
we have saintly camel jockeys?
                                       idiots either side...
some things correlate, some things don't...
             but nonetheless Greek empire building
would have failed had it reached even Gaul...
        let alone Britain...
     i start my history here...
not with the big bang, not with Darwinism and
the monkey... here... among *these
skeletons...
                           it was always going to be a collective
project...
                          which resulted in
revising the Rune ᛟ                         from the Latin o
                         but also adding the marriage
with ö...                  among other examples
come to think of it... looks like a crude upside-down
version of ω                       - of north
             and the hardened determination
(in intellectual pursuits) -
          of the south and beauty, of papyrus
                                   and the awe-ratio
                                                                    composed
of ?                                   as that case
              for democratically asking,
democratically not solving, and passing on
              intellectual inspiration
                        &n
deuynn Oct 2018
drip
drip
drip

the rain
falls
streaming into the
gutters that led below

falls
running down the rivets of
dancing umbrellas like
sprinters in a
race, each drop competing to be
the first to hit the ground

droplets fall and
hang
from leaves and
fall
onto the wet earth
slowly the
next drop falls and the
next

small creatures hide in
their cozy hollows of
trees they call
home
watching the tears of the sky
fall

umbrellas that were just
weaving through crowds of
others just
moments ago
are set to dry on porches
and the umbrellas are
soaked
and their tears start to
hit
the
ground

drip
drip
drip
My second poem. Thought it deserved to be on here.
Alexander Ross Aug 2013
You know that I like you a lot,
But this is just the thickening of the plot,
You love elephants, just like you they never forget, wise beyond your young years, golden hair pushed behind delicate ears
You can walk as slow as a Turtle, but in your face lies a sprinters hurdle,
And there were freckles asking to play connect the dots upon your  shell, With one look upon your precious face i could clearly see that you had just walked through hell, and your feet were tired and had begun to swell, but you still greatly longed for your home in the sea
I asked if you wanted to stay , and have a conversation with me, you said you weren't quite sure, for calling your name was the ocean floor, but You wanted to look upon my face for a little while more
Arlene Corwin Aug 2016
This one was written in 1996 for the then Olympics when fashions seem to have gotten that bit more exposed.  Embarrassingly brazen. Not always a welcome sight.                                            
Olympic Games Nineteen Ninety ****
  (a reminder for 2016 Olympics too)

Forgive me God, forgive me folk,
I’ve got to make this little joke.
I’m not a girl who’s often ******-
After all, I practice Yoga,
Keeping mind and body pure:
Mostly mind.  But I have eyes,
And one Olympic year the sure-
Fire fashion for the thighs
And ***** were shorts exposing all.
When I say all, I mean the ball,
The bell, the ****-.
God, how they knocked!
And while the race was being clocked
The racers showed what Adam hid;
And while I tried to watch the race
My eyes kept dropping to that place.
I couldn’t help myself.  They slid
To dingling, dangling, banging things –
Some small, some large, and all these kings
Of sport diminished in my eyes.
I didn’t wish to see their size,
For I was there to see the sprinters
And the long jump and the discus,
Knowing that they’d spent long winters
Practicing like titans.  Now the viscous
Summer days, all damp and sweaty,
While the world with its confetti
Waited to exalt its heroes,
It was long, short ***** that hit my eyes.
May athletes, trainers, sponsors wise,
Fashion moguls on the rise
Remember, modesty is also prize.

Olympic Games Nineteen Ninety *** 8.16.1996/ revised 8.6.2003/revised 8.5.2016)
Our Times, Our Culture;

arlenecorwinpoetry.com/duanespoetree.com/youtube
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
the idea being, opposed to what james joyce invented in ulysses and sartre replicated with a lack of punctuation marks: point being - at what point is atlas speaking, and at what point is sisyphus speaking? and, as it happens: when are both speaking, and where one of the either is introspecting in the domain of thought... that least futile realm of action, that act of mining: enter the minotaur, who said: you keep both your orbs, i'm attempting a crossword puzzle from (a) to (b) with the only clues intertwined with a memorisation of R L L R R R L L R L R L R L L L L R L R R E (R. turn right / L. turn left, E. exit).

i'm getting this void re-entering
the orbit of planet-365 -
and it's bugging me -
  quite a simple observation -
what's with the volume of jokes?
western society is peppered
with comedy, or rather in
the non-classical sense of what
a comedy ought to be:
    they ****** the poets throughout
the ages: but comedians are
not writing comedies:
they're writing sketches - comedy
sketches... is anyone as tired as me
languishing under the:
  why is the fate of sisyphus always
deemed worse than the fate
of atlas?!
             i find that western society
has become infested with a comedy
virus...
   i've never so many jokes akin
to ****** laughter, where what could
have been genuine, is merely
canned laughter replication...
so many jokes have been said:
but of the many jokes -
i remember my childhood,
as children we used to tell each other
jokes, and remember them...
there was this one about killing
mosquitos and how we went to the 3rd
mosquito's killed funeral...
some classics, that remain lost,
or at least archived in the deepest
recess of memory...
      if there ever was a plight of the west,
it came when western societies
"thought" themselves to be funny...
   ****, it was going so great up to the early
00s...
      boy, they could sing... they could
sing their hearts out!
but then they stopped singing
and thought it was better to tell a joke:
mind you: there are no decent jokes
in the anglophone world -
because:
  (a) too many jokes are being said
(b) a joke is a correctional facility
based more upon insinuated-clarification
than slap-stick spontaneity...
and there's, of course
(c) with so many jokes, it's hard
to tell a decent one...
  a memorable one...
   i still think the anglophone world should
have concentrated on their singing
prowess...
can we talk about the black privilege of
the bible belt gospel choirs?!
  the 100m sprinters?!
          breathing apparatus of the choir
like the guns of navarro!
          why do the english-speaking
nations suddenly think they're funny?
they're not...
    if you managed to watch the original
comedy show from the 1970s
you'd find that there was no canned laughter
instrumented like a bad italian *****...
akin to the moment in *the brand new testament

with ea telling marc that he has a nice
voice, so he does the "subtitles of onomatopoeia"
versus authentic pleasure in the movie...
and meets his german sweetheart...
      the downfall of western society,
if there ever was one, given the 1920s observations
from germany: when the english stopped
singing, and turned their sight toward
comedy...
   i hate comedy for lazy people,
as much as i hate intelligent comedy,
i hate modern comedy because modern comedy
is sketchy, it's not scripted to a proper
comedy in the classical sense -
       the more jokes you tell,
the less chance you have of a memorable
joke -
    i sometimes wish to read a book
of maxims: and find a joke among them -
like the joke of the two picts copper wire
a penny argument and stretch armstrong -
or how welsh men get laid,
              pushing a mutton off a cliff...
tell me a joke worth being said
side-by-side akin to vine vidi vici -
and you can have the floor...
             i think i've had enough of
laughter,
     i am actually beyond tired to respond
with laughter...
          the anglophone world used
to have just great songs, and by having
great songs was renowned for
telling bad, overly intelligent jokes -
                  in all honesty i find more
laughter from moments in between
sedative refills where i am looking for
       a cogito - that has no ergo-bridge
arithmetic into a sum -
   i laugh, because once i start
looking for my "narrative" -
    or the "loss" of therein -
    the moment i stop thinking and
never demand it to resurge with a "purpose"
i find that - omnia in aether est
                    (all is in the air) -
   which is just an alea iacta est
                                            reiteration...
funny: i find catching myself not thinking -
more funny, than any current take
on comedy -
    and it's not exactly pennies
falling from heaven:
   everything on this earth is thrown
into the air, and whoever catches what he
catches - he tends to -
                       the same fatalism as of old.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
ooh... those crazed up (a fata morgana of eye shadow) eyes of that sweet-***** Elaine Thompson-Herah... alias: Calypso... i was trying to figure out my kinks... mulatto girls... oriental girls... Turkic raven-haired shamans in the bedroom... i like the Olympics... all the body sizes... in their niches... the high-jumpers... the discus throwers... the swimmers... the sprinters... but also the table-tennis players... everyone is being represented... Shiva's girlfriends... if they cook up a curry... no, they won't... i'll be in the kitchen turning it into an organic chemistry chemistry...

critical race: kink...
  you'd think that some
things would remain
in the bedroom:
topsy-turvy world...

perhaps i'll dip a finger into
this fudge...
on seconds thoughts...
perhaps i won't...

"who"? Hugh's hue...
Hugh's hues...
for any native spreschen guise
i'd like to see
the encapsulated surd of double-v
"double-u"
and how the acronym satan:
Santa ** **'s...

each saint a satan...
critical race: kink...
i tried interracial ***...
i met my match with a bony assed
ivory "princess"...
a small tight ***
i knew because the front of
my pelvis...
the "garden of eden" of *****
grew a shade of plum
from the interaction...

i cannot: not... admire the white
teeth of black people...
i tend to forget about their skin....
if you were born into a
homogeneous racial "scrutiny"
of: origins...
i feel sick going back to the old capital:
once in Warsaw
i turn into a feral creature...
so many of "me"...
where are the blacks... the Indians...
all i'm getting is a whiff of
Mongolian...

mind you... at least on the outskirts
of London... how the county
of Essex is teased...
you'll hear the dogs barking
but then you'll hear...
whatever sound the foxes
make that can't be "magically"
turned into either onomatopoeia or
typo...

all of a sudden everyone is
feeling... un-com-fort-able...
copper-skin brush of joy...
little piglet moi gets a ******* suntan...
the skin doesn't resemble
a serpent's shedding its old
girth after having ingested
a giraffe...

a cheap £125's worth of a viking road
bicycle...
it was a waste of money to have invested
in a Trek Marlin 5 worth circa £500...
it really was...
i believe you only require
only about... 7 gears to fathom
heavy traffic...
even at night... pretending to be
a pedestrian... showing the three-finger:
read-in-between-the-lines
to some: oblivious ******
in a: you going to orientate yourself
on the road like a SMART car...
or are you still pretending to be
driving a... ******* TANK?

i've passed so many oblivious people
concerning traffic it's no wonder
i think of them at best as
sleepwalkers..

white girl academic critical
race: kink...
why would i require over or coming to
21 gears?
riding a road bike... sure...
a 26" inch wheels:
but they have a 23cm width...
so i can gazelle up any elevation...
what's with this basic *******...
clashing with church bells
and the uvula...

esp. not now: when a white girl *****
a black boy: Everclear will not make
a song about: "combating stereotypes"...
a white boy ***** a black girl
that doesn't require added inches
for their sofa of an ***...
how about i shove my elbow into that hole
for better measure?

that's why i like keeping cats...
grooming a female aroused me...
for three days solid i was cycling like mad
to and fro central London
looking for an alternative brothel...
i found the long lost abode...
one hour for £120 with a limp biscuit
of a little richard: ****...
shamed...
i returned... and found my pristine
"killer" of a ballerina...
in a span of 30 minutes...
if only i could invert the hour with the 30 minutes...
when my feline "princess"
agitates me with her **** stuck up
while she's about to be teased with
a knee when being groomed...

i'm not gagging for it...
i didn't experience it more than enough
to somehow want it more than
i can do with doing it myself:
well... if i were circumcised...
but since i haven't been circumcised...
****-off strict monotheistic crowd...
under the guise of monotheism:
and my circumcision...
sure... but then the women have to make
concessions...
i'm not getting a circumcision
if she's not going to don a niqab!

pije... pali... konia wali
(he) drinks... smokes... masturbates...
well... if i were given....
a frequented depth of thirst...
but since i haven't...
i can turn 30 minutes of the best ***
into... half a decade's worth of
abstaining from it...

i toy with my beard like it might
be a violin...
there's a hmm portent at some point...
but that's for the deaf...

over the weekend taking apart an old
b.b.q. meticulously...
however many screws have been unscrewed
in my head: whatever came about
from a "chemical imbalance":
notable mention: Robert Walser...
Fernando Pessoa...

well... if only the asylums were still
open...
if only the asylums were still be open...
i'd still be practising all my best
to enter the cages...
reinvent cubism by smearing
excrement in the corners of the room:
or something like that...
but... the "squares" found out us out...
the prisons are very much alive...
asylums?
well... "they" sent the madman into
society... no wonder...
whatever's still left of society
is... two-crutches strong...
struggling toward a myth of Bethlehem...

it's so exhausting...
no one sentenced to be encased in an iron
maiden would leave it with
a necklace of the torture instrument...
even if he said the least...

day one... let's call it a Saturday...
taking apart an old b.b.q....
without a hammer...
***** by *****...

day two... let's call it a Sunday...
putting a new b.b.q. together...
***** by *****...
Hephaestus... no wonder...
i have to thank him for momentary father
status: since my own father never believed
in my tech competence...
changing a bicycle tyre and inner tube...
someone was looking over my shoulder...

forethought: premonition?
i disintegrate into something resembling
a crossword clue by clue...
Prometheus was the TITAN
Hephaestus was the god of            fire...
that titans came before the gods...
it's not like Prometheus stole the fire
from Hephaestus...
but as the gods built their marble Olympus while
the humans were left cowering naked
in mud-huts...
a sacrifice...

                flimsy narrative...
besides... by the time someone decided to steal
the electric rod of Zeus...
an Edison... he was no closer to being
credited for it...
instead: making his living from having
created the archetype of movies...
ha... "making his living":
i'm so disinterested in money
that translates as...
keeping up a family... the "genes"...

    - each and every day i wake up
"thinking": before i get onto that bicycle:
there's no point eating up the itch...
why do i have to find meaning at the end
of the day: in writing...
rather than at the beginning with the sunrise:
some "vague" prompt...
to motivate me.... ?  ?
                                ?  ?

i probably know why... just today at the recycling
centre some... puppy... late middle aged
man in a Nissan Micra... or whatever...
i just shrugged my shoulders when
i was investigated with an accusation
of missing his front lights
while i was taking an old lamp out from
the boot... petty insect: bothersome little:
cre-ah-ture...
i shrugged my shoulders because:
no damage was done but he insisted on:

OH! WHAT IF?!
it broke me when he called me a silly ****...
pumped up chest...
i was going to say: how much do you weigh?
how many teeth that are not prosthetics do you
own?
i just shouted: ******* mate...
no damage was done yet he was
adoring his entire possessions in
a ******* ******...
that moment between shrugging my shoulders
and eyeing him up...
a momentary pause: i too feed off the petty heart....

i wish it was... the first time i discovered
tom petty & the heartbreakers...
i was with someone in the driving seat who
shouted: better buy a Bentley to
have those sort of concerns...
whatever happened to: innocent until
proven guilty... whatever happened to:
wait until the damage is done
before throwing a ******* poodle cartwheel
of a hissy-fit...
no damage... but being called a silly-****...

petty people bother me... more than mountains...
or the seas...
the heart turns into a placebo of:
what it must feel like jumping out
of an aeroplane armed with a parachute...
i wish i said: bark little doggy... bark...
next time you bark... i'll bite...
but i'm ******* slow... i'm always either
elsewhere: trapped in some variation
of dasein: some horizon of: there's... existence
elsewhere... always...
now mash this up with an elevation of
the cartesian res cogitans: i.e. buddha walking
as i like to call it: res vanus: the empty thing...

that moment of frozen mirrors when
i eyed up foul mouthed poodle...
sitting in his car... neither scratched nor
attended to...
he would do x, y, & z... i shrugged my shoulders:
did anything happen?
oh god... such motivation to find a chunk of
beef large enough to practice boxing on...

i'm thinking about Brazilian mulattos...
Jamaican Calypsos...
all the hoard of Asia brought to the altar
by the Mongolian horde...
and here i am...
abstinent... gladly...
please don't cage me... a moment more with
the Turkish raven haired shamans of
the bedroom...

- it's not even funny...
i'll spend near £500 on a Trek Marlin mountain-bike...
it's only 3 months+ old...
it started to cringe at me... squeak...
make odd-noises...
but that Viking road-bicycle: kol

anything... almost anything with a label:
MADE IN XINA... made by the number...
worth duck-squat...
i still own things manufactured in...
for ****'s sake: Sri Lankan rubber...
Pakistani / Bangladeshi linen...
almost always the better quality than
those fake Beijing silk woorms...

by why of bypassing editorial scrutiny...
aren't the public the better judge of...
what, exactly... is... being... printed?
not much... go go green!
so... me... waiting... one rejection letter
after another... not reaching the immediacy
of an audience... just so... i can establish
and authority of "publishing"?
the gate-keepers?
the... ahem... "selected tastes"?
i have a long attention span...
but i have a very short sense of humour...
for that matter... my father thinks it funny
pushing my span of keeping... my anger at bay...

i'll immediately post: and free! free whittle birdie!
what use do i have with orthodox publishing
credentials?!
when all, i, wanted... was to bypass
the orthodox publishing credentials...
**** the medals: it's all about taking part!
democracy or no democracy?!
should we ask Iraq... Libya... Afghanistan?!
itch... itch... i'm itching...
which implies: the itch existent and the process
of alleviating the itch: by scratching the itch:
i'm itching...

the sort of song you rarely hear on the radio:
black... wonderful life...
i'm too not skipping along to the rhyme
of flipping burgers... or burdens of the easily
available.... scooter frenzy of arrived
at New Delhi traffic:
seems i had to merely introspect
to find a snippet of the Giza pyramids...

- to hell with magic...
there's mythology, there's air all around us...
and like this one poet
mentioned ( )
water water everywhere...
but not a drop to drink...

the Pollacks: the Paul lean brigadiers have...
gladly left these isles...
forget these isles: fellow ethnic scrutiny...
let the English housewives make
better jokes when the ****** plumbers have
left and the tap is left running...
jazzy pop interludes with 1980s/ 1990s...
whatever you had in mind...
thank you... i'll leave it to the closure...
my fellow-countrymen have left...
to concentrate on their own "hood"...
your's? slightly undermined...
but blame me...

oh they're not interludes...
it's fine by anyone's standards if a white
girl welcomes her ******* baptism...
but a shy thought of a romance with Calypso...
or the hearth of Asia by a what-why-not-a-white-"bloke"....
******* clowns and jazz-hand clapping!

i once attempted a take on ENSO...
no chance... not now... not ever...
but the white girls pursue their...
****** liberation freedom:
look at me...
come in between... a decade's worth of
abstinence... halved...
then again encountered...
sell me all that's the Brazilian
of the mulatto bonanza...
i'll buy it...

30 minutes with a Turkish "killer": in her own
words... and i'm freed from
the extravagance of a responsibility...
to tow woman... and at least 2 children
in tow.... towing a woman
and at least two children...
no... thank... you... it's not enough
to merely breed for a product of 2 produce 1...
2 at least better produce 2...

i don't want to breed in this environment...
who would?!
idiot... saint... a *******
psalm singer... a reciter of the qu'ran?
it must still be a success story
among Muslims... to leech onto the
conquest ambitions fo the Turks
penetrating Europe:
although the Arabs probably think the Turks
as lesser "Muslims"...
but who is to forget the... bridegroom
of a reflex...
how the Christian Serbs....
how the Christian Serbs...
made the remains of the Ottoman Empire...
little or no nought of ash, skull...  bone...
we... "we"... Caucasus brigade...
sure... very Anglo-Saxon: WASP sensibly in Nyod: Ork...
just because the Jews can have their
Holocaust... doesn't mean that..
what's sleeping can't be suddenly woken...
n'est c'est pas?
it takes something trivial...

because the sacrificial body of lamb of Muslims
didn't take place... in "Europe"...
the Ottomans: whoever they were...
yes... they "were"... already happened...
it's such a tease... here's my slingshot
of history... the Bataclan theatre massacre...
sure... just give it enough time...
enough soy...
i'm clinging to the memory of Robespierre...
the guillotine too...
i'm gearing up...

who is? not me... some mythological collective: oui!
je! moi aussi!
nice living together: isn't it... esp. in
the clique of keeping up with
updates of Rotherham...
alias for... ha ha!
speaker's corner...
why are the Hing-Leash...
sowwy so so: sur-PRIOR-EASE!
***: onto the surf ye' go forth!

years later... whatever ****** revolution happened:
the girls entered a harem...
the boys were left talking solo
with "premonitions" of:
glad to be awake:
would be... abortions....
vamped up *** revolutionised:
for the women...
if the men were not subjected to world war I
trench warfare... they would
most certainly be crippled my
chemistry infused...
limp biscuit **** while the harem of all sorts...
she... pleads a pretty please back
to... who?
via beer it's he **** of gods...
via whiskey it's ms. amber...
same ****: different cover...

ghosts of the same poker fold... facing...
each other: worth of the same
evil: intent...

the liberated woman:
the liberated man...
seems i "forgot" to pass on the intrinsic
demands of the stereotypical man:
archetypical hunting... gathering...
sorry... you were saying, "saying" something...
no... must have missed me...
i probably "forgot"...

fair enough with the girl playing
her interracial anti-racism white anti-...
o.k.: whatever...
it's a proper antithesis surge of her
already met expectations when
i figure out a Calypso for my hard-on...

she's becoming boring...
truly: literally: *******... boring...
like her adventure was only surrounding
her juiced up opening of an oyster's worth
of ****!
*** is already boring:
i can have it on a relapse...
once every half a decade...
however much she tries to sell it...
the wind sells itself better...
silence also...
eh... she moans: she might moan:
the magpies cackle with
more authenticity...
the crows croak with more "girth"...

she can sort herself out...
after all...
she's the freely available...
variation of: what it might feel like...
living in Buenos Aires...
all the freedoms she requires...
i'll sooner come toward
a foetus within the confines
of a tornado: genesis a tadpole...
than i will ever make do with:

dough: dumb downer... make: do...
ugh! ugh! WOO-MAN! WOE-MAN...
whatever...
i don't mind the crisp: cut... dying out...
this cul de sac...
why would i?

i sort of... stop myself... forgetting myself...
whenever i cycle down oxford st.
and some Japanese gearing up:
****-pants flashes me for kicks...
you lost me at the brothel...
i lost myself at the brothel...
with the Turkish and Romanian girls...
sorry... what?

the night is always in its infancy
while the day: ages: oh most... terribly...
the day ages with responsibilities...
while the night runs: RAM-PANT...
such is the privy acquired by those awake
in the: NACHT...
everyone else is asleep...
by "tomorrow's": today's a quarter
to... 8... i'll be fresh as a daisy...

although the miracle of tourism
of sightseeing central London via cycling
will not be undertaken...
there will be as much of as little
as there is of this: to nibble on...
for anyone: eager...

a pursuit of the roundabout current...
yes yes... many thanks... ado...
no... thank you...
me chasing "shadow" while also gearing
up to the momentum leftovers
of either a bus or a truck...
how, did... so... many...
"cyclists"... get... towed... dragged...
under... these... trucks... busses...
oblivious traffic hierarchy status: "superiority"
complex?
minced meat... i like to think of those deaths
as... minced meat...
they had to be: St. Pancreas: minced: "dodgers"...

best dead... retardo: fernando: minced meat
"dodgers"...
oh guy's gotta looks ups!
(in that ****** aghast voice-over)
i get a hard-on every time
i entertain a roundabout
where i'm quicker off the mark
than some tirade of traffic...
always aiming for the momentum
associated with a truck
or a bus... or a south african scrum...

eh... little women: know very little.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
if i thought that prostitutes coming in at £2 per minute was bad... that's £120 per hour... the "engineers" at my local bicycle wholesaler come in at... £10 for 5 minutes work... changing the tube of a deflated tire... to hell with that... i'm going to invest in some tools... do it myself... walking past the shops in the mall while it rained... work... loitering... work... loitering... why is retail so... undermining the body? oh... i imagine escape with the mind is no good either... work as loitering... flick of the switch... it's hardly construction site antics of roofing... i'd sooner hang myself... but it's not like i can **** myself off... it's great that both she and me can boast about keeping personal hygiene to a zenith... complete shock when she performed ******* with rubber... pleasant shock... about five storms brewed in the sky over London while i hit a flat tyre near Rainham... well... what to do? walk the **** back... 4 miles...  but a thought arose...

i've heard this complaint... several times...
it's worded in many variations...
but the gist of it has the following words
arranged, thus:
i don't want to "merely" exist... i want to live!
Frankenstein had the same bother...
perhaps Frankenstein's angst makes sense
since it was conjured up by a woman...
while Frankenstein is burdened with existence:
per se...
he still pursues "life"...
ex-instance: out of, every - every(!) instance...
i was taking out the garbage:
massive freak for recycling...
i usually put out a ratio of 4 to 1...
orange recycling bags to one... slim... black...
bin-bag of recyclables...
i'm currently someone else's *****...
Pimm's... i'm pretty sure some ancient
Greek philosopher had a saying about
drinking someone else's alcohol...
oh... it's ease now...
but i know what i'm looking for...
it's only that much easier:
Diogenes the Cynic...
oddly enough it makes sense...
i feel like an English girl teasing her virginity:
long... long ago lost...
teasing with white lies...
talking nonsense during ***...
i **** like an animal: mute...
well.. if she let's me ******* inside of her...
oh... it happens once every half a decade...
do "they" have to speak during
*******: last words most poignant
where: in her bedroom...
'what would my father think
while i'm ******* you off...'
do i look like Oedipus... dearest Electra?
talk is beyond cheap during *******...
how about you show me your tongue...
as almost forever:
my eyes turn into two mouths...
my mouth turns into a socket
whereby my tongue becomes an eye...
while my head is sliced open
and a grand ear is lodged into the space
once occupied by fast-phlegm-of-brain:
freeze: i can remotely remember a 10 year old
moi leveraging the following statement:
i can't hear silence...
those words: exact...
i can't hear silence...
god i love to drink... what lot of life...
i love drinking more than:
perhaps if i loved ******* more i'd have
all the grazed knees and greased elbows
to go forth: into the world... with a pledge
of Darwinian beauty to: stare down
the stereotypical male archetype of:
spreading my d.n.a.
that one Thai surprise i picked up on a park
bench... enough strong beer
and enough jazz and she was... sloppy ***...
she even gave me a totem to remember
her while i dressed her in my shirt she
disappeared into while walking her home...
i ******* into my hand: rather than into her...
last time i checked Darwinism has no
place in the Freudo-Jungian schematic of
the atomised man...
consciousness is a flimsy affair...
given any focus for thought: ought-i? ought-i-not?
but still the angst of Frankenstein...
such burdens from mere existence...
such burdens that have to be translated
into... the pursuit of life...
me? i'm at the opposite end of the spectrum...
whatever happened when
Jason v. Michael took place...
well... what happened when
Frankenstein's (monster) took up a challenge
with Sisyphus...

it's the same old complaint:
by people who... come to think of it...
will not squeeze that much out of life
should they arrive at: "living" and not merely
"existing"...
however...
like today... with a flat tyre...
watching the sky for the direction
of the opera in the sky:
there was the thunder...
like a grunting... grumbling...
an empty... fasting stomach in the sky...
no lightning... i walked wishing to be struck dead
by a stroke of hey-zeus...

i remember that i exist:
more than i project the fact...
i remember that i exist...
more than i project that i do...

it has to be a mantra akin to: memento mori(a)...
by then it's impossible to love
or assert a posit for life
within the grounds of: well... it's not like
this will ever end...
watching the gymnastics: women... mostly...
no sorry ****** would attempt to undertake
the beam...
oh look... no need for only-fans:
but if all you're selling is...
selling bodygood-me-body-good-you...
that's fine...
what these girl gymnasts do...
what female tennis players get up to...
do girls really need to box?
**** it... let's see...
i'm asking for a compost of...
plum cherry and a prune...
i'm not going to paint those archaic
faces... dissolved under a niqab... just on a whim...
if they want a cat fight without nails all
manly: fists clenched:
let them... have... it!

i still don't understand the "underbelly" of
an argument that says:
existence is less than "life":
life's ****...
a flat tire and walking 4 miles while i
could have cycled 10 miles more
reduced me to a silence of the mind that re(a)d:
don't even bother thinking...
don't even try turning this inot
a cognitive narrative...
where's your pen? where's your paper?

all the greatest poignancies of essence
of life are encapsulated within the posit "bloopers"
of existence: per se...
life is ****... life is trivial...
i exist without pardon:
i recoil at seeing a maggot or a snail
or a spider...
my beginnings are hardly...
******* anaemic tadpole...

      to merely grasp the fact of existence...
will Frankenstein's monster argue:
subsequently: a life is necessary...
the life... well we all know what
the upper echelons of society prescribe:

let's be mean: "us": the poet gets... **** all...
the restaurant critic gets...
an umbrella for the rain...
paid load: newspapers...
toilet-paper should cost more than...
what weekend newspapers have to offer:
lazily bypassing dialectics...

i exist... a fact i remember from time to time...
i exist: it's not something i project forward...
life's... life is... pretty much **** in between...
but how people complain:
the mere fact of... midnight air...
while cycling to the brothel...
no... breathing itself: taking a ****...
that's not enough...
even eating... not enough...
the joys from the spices...
the cinnamon... not enough:
people, just... want... "life"...
by life... that implies invoking other people
to share your: "presence":
by that time... the people of want...
are... wanton... i don't want to be surrounded
by people who...

reminding oneself of being the recipient
of existence...
is... well... life fulfilling: in-itself...
i might not fly a F16 fighter jet...
or... make a cosmic trip to the moon...
but... i can provide a rhythm to
the pulse of a roundabout when i engage
with it on a ******* bicycle!
i like using much larger objects to my advantage...
a bus will sloth out from the starting
grid much slower...
what do i do?
i linger behind... i can match up its momentum...
fun fun fun...

within the categorization of "life" counter
"existence": by life i probably have to imply:
"essence"... and all that debacle:
does essence come before existence
or does existence come before essence?

i don't care much for "life": life is complicated:
life is drama... life is soap opera engagement...
life is disappointment...
existence... on the other hand...
reminiscence... spontaneity...
the full acquisition of the faculty of memory:
it's not that i must remember that i'm:
worm-food... i must know it...
knowledge of death must be burning at
my ******* groin...
it's not good merely focusing on memorising
that fabric of future events:
to remember death implies:
reincarnation... i'm not a big fan of reincarnation...
reincarnation implies:
zombies and only a fixed number
of worthy people jumping from body to body...
it implies:
the soul as being parasitical...
all of animation being parasitical...
this animation will never transcend
beside mere body toward a collective pursuit...

sure... call it something else...
if not soul then sigma or anima...
if you've ever seen a dead body in the morgue...
you'd know: this façade...

eh... i love to drink... i love to drink because:
even though i've love to **** a little bit more...
drinking never leaves me disappointed...
perhaps somehow... melancholic...
at the introspections i find...
to **** like the prowess of a game stallion...
that would require... doing the bidding of
other people... including myself:
i like to drink in order to undermine myself...
so drinking comes first...
******* comes second...
ambition is... long gone by the time i sieve
through all the music i want to listen to...
the books i want to read... sometimes i do:
read the books i want to... read...

hmm.. ****... humpf..
she has like a Lamborghini... a stomach like
a Genie...
what could existence possibly afford me?
the scent of cinnamon...
the taste of pint of Guinness...
a well constructed curry sauce...
life... on the other hand... "life":
a persistence of disappointment...
that i might have to share all these pleasures...
halve them...

why did it arrive in the mind of the most
atomised man that: essence comes prior
to existence?
there's nothing essential about existence...
there's only the existential existence...
scrap heap of: go toward the fabric of:
the in-between...
lately i stopped minding inter-racial
breeding antics...
given 2nd or 3rd "half-caste" inter-breeding:
depends on a woman's disgruntled taste...
wash up on the shores
of the sandpaper cliffs...
still not pickling ******* symbols in the juices
of ****...

you come across sandpaper skin...
these mulattos will fizzle out...
but i get it... if i were strapped to a whitey
beached whale... i'd want to be black...
otherwise all this... little bit of me...
cycling losing weight makes...
absolutely no... sense...
how did the black guys phrase it back
in high-school: more cushion for the pushing...
no wonder... if i were acquisitive of a 12"
phallus... i'd want... enough ***
to penetrate for her thrill: met...

hence my ***** envy disappears...
i'm left with beard envy...
oh god... chest and the whole worth of torso
a pirate's envy of kidding with pepper...

'i want to live! i don't want to merely exist!'
can one, merely...exist?
oh sure... one can live:
without ever once reaching for
clarifying what's essential to be alive...
to exist? i'm pretty sure that's missing on most people...
i like to rub my fingers on bricks...
tarmac... before i enter a brothel
and touch a *******'s body...
i like to impress myself with the sensation
of imitation: blind... when i read her body...

such that it makes sense...
the verve: lucky man...
a sing-along sort of a song...

let it flow: allow the walking abortions: oh wait...
too late: already conceived...
but thank god for the Olympics...
the male swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters... the swimmers...
much ado about the torso...
but it's so gladdening watching the Olympics...
all body: shapes and sizes
are... sized up...

the body build-up to swim
is not the same sort of a body
associated with lifting weights...
or performing judo...
or sprinting... or undertaking the high-jump...
if one British athlete decides to "take the ******* knee":
Olympics is ruled by a spirit of: all-inclusivity...
you testify racism at the Olympics...
you testify that... Jesse Owens didn't make
****** uncomfortable at the 1933 Olympics...

you bring your politics to the Olympics:
you best cancel Olympics...
sure... take the knee...
take two... i'll gladly kneecap you while
you're at it... just to make sure you forget
both running at a sprint... or walking...
black racists  will not undermine
a healthy atmosphere of:
some of us are born lesser...
some of us are born superior...
all of us aim at managing what we're best at...

me, drinking... no... i hardly think anyone
can match up to me...
i persist to drink yet retain a pedantic attitude
in relation to spelling, punctuation...
i say: ******* from posit A...
rekindle... eastern Africans... Kenyans...
are much darker than western Africans...
Nigerians... no wonder that among
the macaques i was admiring...
ivory beauties...
i forgot their skin colour:
coconut oil in the moonlight...
i was reminded of their teeth and the sclera
of their eyes...

itchy... ******* itchy... i'm so itchy...
itch after itch... i'm itching... itchy...
     itchy... i'm galvanized by some ulterior motif
of a reflex i won't be able to control..
i'll plead: not-guilty....
not because i am...
                  but to conjure enough
dissonant-custard of...
readily accessed pie-bypass that: i will not:
readily give... itchy... itchy... always with this
*******: itch!
Travis Frank Sep 2018
A swarm of blue and white
Shot-putters hurdlers sprinters javelins long and high jumpers
Congregate before esteemed guests whom the PTA did invite
To secretly scoff at losers and worship winners.

Not quick or strong,
All I could do was jump high.
Alwyn came in stone last in the cross country after long.
Poor chap – their sneering and booing made him cry.

Soon after, it was my turn,.
Third jump – down went the pole.
Alas! – one corner poked me in the back. The pain, the burn!
Need something sweet for the shock, like a Swiss roll.

Into the common room I went,
Where smoky, limp athletes unwound with a movie.
There I encountered three foes infernally-sent.
Alwyn was among them – out to get me.

“Why are you crying?” one goon prodded.
“I got hurt by a pole,” was all I could muster.
At this, Alwyn’s raucous laughter erupted and exploded.
One day I’ll get you, buster.

Didn’t you cry moments ago when they sneered at you?
So, your solution is to do as the Romans do?
Syd Mar 2018
When you are here
The quiet feels so soothing
Peaceful
The sounds of a long day filled with laughter, love and storytelling are finally coming to an end
Where we lay our heads down on a bed that feels like the finish line from the race
Of the best day of my life
Tranquil
And when you are gone
The quiet feels so heavy
Overwhelming with thoughts that race through my mind like Olympic sprinters
Chasing down the next conversation I get with you
Filling the silent air with all the things I wish I could tell you now, in this moment
The bed feels different now, each night I lay down in this marathon of missing you
Wishing I could sit with you in silence
Smiling in the darkness as the conversation holds us
The only words we say, I love you, I love you, I love you
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
you want me to put out a cigarette out
inside your eye?
   let's face it: tears don't come cheap...
sometimes you need more
than a rom-com to turn your eye into a
niagara falls... which way's the
              hmm hum umm?
this sort of time-frame
is really confiscating my
anti-claustrophobic philia
worth of shaking
hands or knee-jerking
really quick;
get my drift? no? no matter...
i can do with a "thought"
basis for summary...
   ah **** me...
can you imagine feeling
magnetism when shaking
your hand really ******?
      apart from watching
paint dry,
   i suggest the "movie"
of watching ice freeze,
or mercury freeze...
   the latter?
  gone with the wind standard
of 3 hours +...
               nice though...
to imagine, better still:
imitate...
    what a sin to bed driving
a car, and listening to
classical music,
citing john brunning after five
p.m., who the **** listens to
classical music when driving
a car?
             leprechauns?!
         he-be-he-be-hoom-ha?!
modesty just ****** off,
all we're left with is
a welcome "bargain" of profanity;
i always enjoyed the idea
of running 100m while dribbling
a football, like the time
when marc overmars could outrun
most sprinters dribbling a football
while playing the left-wing for arsenal...
every time i see these men of sprint
getting all cocky... i tend to ask
them: hold an egg on a tbl. spoon...
and run the same time of the worth
of distance...
marc overmars would still
     out-run you...
mind the fact that he was also dribbling
a football...
            evidently humanity will not
remember a marc overmars: simply because
he wasn't in a ****** advert...
      too bad... that dutch "prince" could
out-run that jamaican rod while
juggling three oranges with his hands,
   balancing a watermelon on his head,
                and dribbling a football;
basic!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
honest to god or no god... this was supposed to be merely about a comparison of two bicycles... a road-bike viking... bought for £125 years ago... the chain was all rusty... the wheels were deflated... and a trek marlin 5... bought for £495... which... comes to think of it... only just now... seems like a waste of money... tired rubber... 3 punctures of the wheels... and it only took me 3 months of testing it... for the tyres to be: worth jack-****... double-sure on the condoms should the Irish come knocking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i have a heart: enough of a heart:
to... drown a stone...
if not a stone then i'll suffocate
a mountain... however peacocking worded:
i'll drown a ******* mountain
in a puddle! then... i'll call it...
a lob-sided phenomenon of...
"ugly" tarmac!
Anisah Mar 2020
Lining up in rows waiting for the music,
Dancing in the puddles counting seconds, counting bruises.
Waiting for forever for a never ending cause,
Wishing for a well that's filled with open windows open doors.
The sky is thickening with the things that have been done;
Leaking with regrets of present thoughts, it might be fun!
As the tone is drumming, the sprinters run off blind
But when the drumming stops, oh the horrors you will find.
One leg in front another and before you know you'll fly,
But the angels don't take killers, manipulated or the wry.
Saving all the people living in your narrow minded view,
The angels that you follow will make demons out of you.
scope me again
into nothingness

here am i found
brushing fingertips
on
moonbeams

talk of moth bitten butterflies
light chasers with sprinters wing
reflections off their glitter sing
you could never catch me


catch me we sculpt
it is written in the stars
it has been written in the stars
that my emotions tremble
with sand

what sand trembled
ask
me
as
the
earth quakes

this valve for the duct of mine tears
caterpillar to me that we may cacoon
pleasure has resistance on no ends
seen into the cons
of
an
spiders dream


see her lips on me
catch me beyond this dream
catch me
beyond
wit
ended
?


















...
..
.
baggage
Colm Mar 2021
You're not captured in your paint,
compelled by stills,
or encompassed by song at all, my friend

No descriptive words can color your sky,
no sprinters length catch you without breath,
or fail to float the fly on the wind, no less

That is unless you let them say
what you are not,
is all you are, untrue

For you are the essence, embodied, reborn
not what anyone else says
or thinks they know of you
Big Virge Aug 2021
There’s ALWAYS...  
MUCH To CONSIDER...  

When It Comes To...  
... FAMOUS Figures...  

Who Are QUICKER To Pull Triggers...  
Than The Best Olympic Sprinters... !!!  
  
Cos' There Are Always...  
... BIGGER PICTURES...  
  
Where There’s ALWAYS...  
... Someone QUICKER...  
Who Wants To Prove They’re SINNERS...  
  
BIGGER Than New Escobars’...  
And Guys Like Nicky Barnes... !!!  
  
TRUE ORIGINAL Gangstas’...  
  
Who Like Jeru' Are REAL DAMAGERS...  
of Crews of Dudes Whose Managers...  
Employ The BADDEST Characters... !!!  
  
Like Bikers Who...  
Are Sent From HELL...  
To BLAZE With RAGE...  
To Make Heads SWELL... !!!  
  
Like ALI When He DANCED...  
Around Fighters With NO CHANCE... !!!  
  
To Counter How He’d BLISTER...  
With Punches That Were SLICKER...  
Than ANY GQ Mister...  
Or BEAUTIFUL... HOT Sista'... !!!  
  
So DON'T Be QUICK...  
To Be A FOOL And RUSH IN...  !!!  
  
Because Some of These Chicks...  
...... Act SICK...... !!!  
  
When It Comes To ****... !!!  
That They CAN'T RESIST...  
That They Want To Fit...  
In Between Those Lips... !!!  
  
Because The Next Thing Is...  
The ARRIVAL of... Kids... !!!
  
So It’s Best To THINK...  
And CONSIDER Things...  
BEFORE You Get Tricked...  
And Start To SINK...
  
Because Your Ship...  
... TITANICALLY Drifts.....  
Until You're... DROWNED...  
Cos Your Thoughts WEREN'T Sound... !!!  
  
Like A GREEDY ****...  
Whose Business STINKS... !!!  
  
Because of Links...  
Who Are QUICK To Bring...  
... Bullets That HIT...  
HARDER Than Drug Liks’...  
That Make Man SNIFF...  
Just Like SCARFACE Did... !!!  
  
WITHOUT Acting In A Pacino Flick... !!!  
  
It’s Best To CONSIDER...  
Before You Pull Triggers...  
If You AIN'T John Wick... !!!  
  
See I’m A LYRICIST...  
Whose Lyrical Gifts...  
Are Those That Enlist...  
The Type of Lyrics...  
  
That Are Those That Show...  
... Which Way To Go...  
  
When It Comes To Dark Roads...  
That Lead To Black Holes... !!!  
  
YES The... Types of Zones...  
That Can Cut TOO CLOSE...  
To The Bones of Those...  
Who Follow FOOLS Gold... !?!  
  
I Consider The TOLL...  
That Goes With Cargos...  
That Get EXPOSED...  
Within Ships Holds...  
That Face Embargo’s...  
Because of Coc’...  
And Dopes Who Roll...  
  
Into The... "GRIP"...  
of Police Well Equipped...  
To END A Mans' Wish...  
To Be A Drug Kingpin... !!!  
  
Who NEVER Considered...  
Being Cornered Like Tigger...  
WITHOUT Winnie Or Pooh... !!!!!  
  
Because I THINK Things Through...  
And Try To Be Shrewd...  
As Well As... COOL...  
In The Face of BAD News...  
That Can Lead To FEUDS... !!!  
  
With CARTELS Who Pull Moves...  
Like... COLOMBIANS Do... !!!!!!  
  
Who Are Quick To Collude...  
With Informants Who...  
Want To See You LOSE...  
So Will HAPPILY SHOOT... !!!
  
NO MATTER What Cost...  
It Takes To Be The BOSS...  
WITHOUT James Brown Songs...  
  
Or... HEAVY DUTY FUNK...  
Or The Type of Drums...  
That Made His Funk BUMP... !!!  
  
Like The Type of CHUMPS...  
Who Are... IGNORANT... !!!!!!!  
  
So Will Pull DUMB Stunts...  
That STINK Like A SKUNK...  
That Is CLEARLY FRIGHTENED... !!!  
  
So Is QUICK To Let Off...  
Something SO PUNGENT... !!!  
  
That It Makes You ILL...  
And Makes You Wanna ****...  
Like Uma' Did... BILL...  
In A Way That CHILLS... !!!  
  
And Makes You More BITTER...  
Than A CORNERED KILLER...  
In AN... MJ Thriller... !!!  
  
So I Hope That This Piece..  
of CONSIDERED Poetry...  
Has Helped You Young Guns See...  
  
That To Be A Smooth Criminal...  
You Need To Be An Individual...  
Who Has STRONG PRINCIPLES...  
That PROVE That You’re A THINKER...  
  
Who Recognises... THIS...  
VERY IMPORTANT THING... !!!  
  
To Be The Type of Figure...  
Who Inspires Clever Scripture...  
  
Cos’ You're COLDER Than A Blizzard...  
In The Midst of An Arctic Winter...  
  
You MUST SEE The...  
... BIGGER PICTURE... !!!  
  
Cos’ There Will ALWAYS Be...  

“ Things That You Need To Consider ! “
Inspired, in no small way, by, " El Patron Del Mal ", " Narcos ", and the lives of famous criminals, like a certain, Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria !
Yenson Dec 2020
they don't even have fingertips
to grasp a little humanity
for they have crawled
for too long to see

in surging weakness and corruption
andante wits dance in tempo
each a facsimile of vapid
in senseless storms

the lives they lead unchallenging
come easy go easy to miss
the wit and wisdom
of tails on dogs

no holding breath for the breathless
sprinters in misdirection choke
feeding on their offal's
killing themselves
to survive

and in pity they see what's not there
and swear they hear fishes sing
in Demos they cry freedom
in Acropolis they are
pathetic ruins

— The End —