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Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.*

and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
unlike painters, poetic sketches
are rarely written down,
they're spoken,
it's not necessarily a psychiatric
worthy evaluation of a lack of health,
poets levy all the possibilities
of anti-matter (the compromise)
to sketch - you can spot them
incur constant defeat, writing on
a sheath with their inky sword,
on a colour of defeat, warring with
the word, but to no avail,
yet still ram-persistent-ignorance
remaining to be utilised;
learning the english language
from the age of 8,
i meet a Cypriot in a pub in the
irish "quarter" of greater london,
and he tells me i'm posh -
self-taught elocution that
allows me to slur posh when drinking,
i had it coming, learn from scratch,
scratch your way in to the aristocratic
heights, but have a stiff-left **** cheek
and the whole cheek affair will
bubble-foam through;
aspiring Sadduccee said:
'but not because of the babylonians
or the egyptians had we such
a massive influx of religious debate
and religious intellectualism,
as under the romans...
their image-engraving system
serves the polity, they ignore
the engravings, but do so nonetheless
for some odd principle,
there's the point of gesticulation
amiss, only the ****** females
gesticulate with incense and ****** -
none dare cross the threshold of
argument, unless they head to the
undiscovered lands of the north,
by such distance allowed to be crossed,
a crucifixion would seem but a torturous
tickle, compared to the blood eagle execution.'
indeed the northern numbness of the heart,
lest anything else prevail, this alone will...
but the larger the society, the less chance
of tribalism and justice eager to sentence
culprits... more thieves and cowards...
a thief will not steal your arm or leg,
but the by-product of your arm's or leg's labour,
cowards and thieves rampant.
so indeed, the poet sketches, but sketches
with his mouth, onto the canvas of clouded
skies, bird cries and howling foxes,
he sketches like a painter might,
although respectably announcing the numbers;
a Pharisee said:
'we invented this mode of communication,
these letters these numbers for only
one monumental reason, stationed
in the Bastille, envisioned our fate we did,
we crafted this little abstracts into
as many units as there are,
for the sole reason as to complicate
our imagining of things...
strain the mind to read, un-strain it to
imagine a higher reality of a child's impromptu -
for we crafted these symbols of curbed sound
to craft incision upon incision
and create the only anatomy of the mouth:
one H fills the vowels, one H to hollow them out,
and there you have a W like a crimean tatar piñata,
god's fat **** sitting on a naked alphabet
reveals diacritical geometrics ascribed to
the four letters.... the Y?
that's a bit like:

          scythe                     cyst



                       cauldron

it's technically chiral, s, k, c....
but then they interchange like some quantum
physics explanation, the odd affair.'
indeed socrates or jesus couldn't show you that,
they only wrote an ancient form of signature
of being present (X), and with their death a full-stop...
but in times when only a minority where literate
it was rather becoming, rather expected:
to shout into the tier of the literate ones,
a message, so profound, it would take
enforced suicide or torture to get something across...
but now we're all literate... i guess the only way
to shout a message is to shut up...
a glorious time to think, by my standard of interpretation.
so in terms of sketching poetically,
leave the would-be haiku-upon-haiku aside...
europeans can't write a haiku,
they don't write them drunk...
you get a chinese drunk on your dosage of whiskey
by the first round... he'll write you a depth
of philosophy parallel to the oddity of
spring blossoms blooming throughout winter
on the border between a home county (essex)
and east anglia (capital norwich);
glutton glob gob tearing in argument,
which is a heated discussion;
so when you see a "madman" talking,
he's not addressing his self (himself),
you obviously only read in the enclosure of fiction,
so you divide it into a third party associate (the narrator)
and imaginary friends of the narrator (characters,
first person heroes, second person: people
speaking about the heroes)... and by that definition
you haven't touched a single philosophical novel...
yes, those books... written by pedants wondering
how best to syllable a little pause...
how to stress, de-stress, including over provisions
of optics.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
i love winter for the sole fact
i can invent living
in alaska or honningsvåg,
and never see the sun for four
months - it helps that in england
the skies are blissfully gray
at sunrise in this ideal season;
i'm adding to the cult of the moon,
a subplot of islam you might
call what i'm doing - no cult
of the sun, copper skin and
the cliché holiday in the bahamas,
no dream of all-you-can-eat buffets
at a holiday resort - tatar steak
for me and a chance conversation
over hákarl (kefir meat) watching
a volcano errupt in the night.

p.p.s. (pedantic post-scriptum):
the diacritic a in hákarl
is a sign of elevating the k, or at
least prolonging / exfoliating it,
stressing the two syllables -
well at least in my optic theory
of interpretation; or interpreted
to ensure the first syllable acts
like a definite article (the) in hebrew,
e.g. ha shem (the name) - not that
it does act like a definite article,
i'm sure in icelandic the definite article
is not spelled like the hebrew articulation,
but it's about the distinction in
the presented syllable compound
with the diacritic mark over a - also
inverted using a different notation
akin to compounded words,
id est ha-karl.
Ruslan Oct 31
**** boy it's back you can sleep to a go,
You made picture you underdog.
Came wake cool it's o you all bi back,
You conse sleep it's the boys and the girls.

Oldandayul turgan zaman,
It's long to you are it's skull.
Tatar bulgan it's a solon,
Altotogether come back it's you.

Go mather ***** it's this a boy,
You understand in Tatarlar.
Language Tatar Altyn Urda,
It's Tamerlan it's this the me.

I'm old of skull go to tge rate,
I'm go to me my of you skin.
Going to boy old to all me,
Maiden in Russia olof you dead.

Kisses me ****** olgan zaman,
It's this Zaman in english the time.
Time it's zaman akhyr bulgan,
Akhyr it's letter go zamanda.

Hundred a letter nineteen sixteen,
Old you Tatar turgan zaman.
It's this a time colong to me,
Mi to the break you go to rate.

Ol tuyalgan it's this tatar,
Thank you my bebe olof to me.
You go the sleep old you can see,
Go to the boy wake up to go.

It's of you dead it's me a long,
You go me fix and washin go.
Oldan it's rate in tomorrow biggin,
That of you spring go to the boy.

You understand it's you go to the boy.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
jak to brzmi polski na wygnaniu, a urkaina w płomieniach? tak samo jak rosysjkie sumienie starannie nad mongoł (czyli tatar)?*

nawet z garbem
ja atlas, czyli
ja garbaty, ja atlas;
o ta młoda muzyka
bębni staro -
jakby jam rumcajs czy też żyd:
szewc i kark,
gluton i złodziej,
wnet i ta polonka na smak ozór byka
w zapamięci na niepamieć!
szyfr więc, dumka bohuna!
szyfr więc na to koło iglastych palcy
do twego domu
by było otwarte                  a
ja w cieple              połorzył głowe w sen
                          niż w życie.
Can Jul 2014
yine uzaklaşasım var şu mahalleden
balkonuma zeplinimi indirip,
uçan balkonuma atlayıp,
yükselesim, gözden kaybolasım.
bırak beni tatar, uçayım
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
that history happens in america -
it's hardly a history as: historicity and more
showbiz...
        such that there's a trickling down...
it must be a dilution...
            nothing as spectacular
as: all eyes on h'america...
                                and elsewhere:
"elsewhere" the hobbits as such:
the whittle people of whipped cream
and croissants...
                   even france in the anglophone
context looks like a pompous,
powdered and pampered cuckoo and ape...
or germany... a somewhat feral
elevation...
             but it's not like in the realm
of the english-speaker there's any outside
influence...
          say... reading an essay by
milan kundera -
                              the: this, that and the other...
for a spectator - it's hardly
belittling pointers...
            after all... to expect a harvest
of something irish...
                         dunces and collateral...
not the irish...
     the figment of my imagination people...
the sub-membrane of tick-tock
glue and societal prospects of oiling and gluing
together...
       in the advent of the current "crisis":
but since this is not ancient rome...
  but it is given the replica coliseums of football
events...
    hardly a concern for: bread & circuses...
oh the bread, the bread is plentiful...
the circuses... well...
              fear is mighty entertaining...
as i walked through the labyrinth of outer-suburban
streets at night i had a thought:
which didn't evolve into a narrative...
or a river or how... the very large
could ever fit into the very small...
that there could be some mundane pickpocket
of detail...
     it was only a grand:
how best to return to our own little hell...
   to the pickled juices...
to the softened tendons and cartilage...
to edible sinew...
  to ****** at marrow cooked tender...
                 this personal little hell...
with a heaven a grand scheme of loosely
associated democratic pillars...
kept in tow like apparitions of formerly
used dog leash and muzzle...
   however: to be best reminded
about the disparity between the french
and the talk of ***...
                   the english and...
                                    the puritans...
but moi humpty-dumpty...
          sitz on zee fences among the whittle
people making concessions
to the: beside the altar...
              rather... the confessional cubicle
of mother russia's 'oomb: dangle the W
or the apostrophe and: extension...
  i.e.       wording: 'omega...
                      or... 'omicronomicron...
         woe in the wooing wool tangle...
   or at best: label everything erotica!
             call arachnophobia... erotica!
                the clickbait cider bubbling style...
mania-tripping at seeing numbers
from a grand void of 0 views
prop themselves like... elder judges
of the republic of mushrooms...
              teasing the project of investing
in hallucinogenic-will gangrene of
ingested: soap-water gurgle...
                    passing into the aether!

words more words and no great story...
hell... bordering on borrowing
a greek letter / two...
culmination?
          to have to jest at america...
given... the predisposition of knee-****
reaction of the upcoming event...
it's a teasing...
            in summary:
i believe that there's an america...
that only happens... in america...

i have to reiterate this...

i believe that there's an america...
that only happens... in america...
   which is: beside the cultural export
machinery of the film...
and the... well... perhaps the music...
perhaps a book... or poem...
but not really...
            the film... most certainly...
ford & film...
                   but it's hardly a mercedes
and a heidegger...

forever america: the church burden...
    and for such a protestant sensibility...
nearing a return to the outdated
               catholicism...
because not of the ritual... to be taken seriously...
it's that the ritual is a prop...
so to... take thinking seriously...
which is a complete inversion
of values of the protestant guise...

the lack of pompous rituals to make
thinking a serious affectionate prefix
with no real borrowing of a definite noun definition...
that the protestant has no...
lax in the ritual: sleeze out a seriousness
of "thought" - or rather...
this overt self-consciousness
introspect...
                     but to hide behind
the "taking it seriously" eucharist...
this blanket of metaphor...

       or... american high schools...
                   casual clothing...
                          otherwise in england...
a "catholicism" of...
less the schooling and more...
       uniform binding "******" & "bistro"...
metaphors no metaphors...
best: misnomers...

                              in between:
a solo and cross-"country" roadtrips of
the american youth...
                     from the outside in...
well... it's hardly a country...
         croatia the size of Illinois:
hypothetically...
            cross-continental...
and leading toward borrowing something
from... so anywhere to go...
anywhere to be...
it's hardly reverting back
to some proto-lingual dutch... lisp...

all the world in the cusp
of your hand...
but the inability to revert and find
a return to... the zenith period
of ol' merry england... dickens...
here outlasting the empire: morphed...
barren land with a continuum
of a loot of souls...
once the barbarian local have dried up...
which is... unlike the story
of the spanish tongue...
which was never going to be
a competition with the french...
who merely nibbled at some variation
of elsewhere...

         of the little people and the little
places...
beside the whole mongol-esque
landmass of russia...
                  which is a quickly equipped
revision of mc'edonia...
            
the odd promise of: only via new york...
we congested european rats...
but in the open country...
and to travel to america for the fetish
of a road-trip?

       what about pablo coelho...
notably... it would take... a bilingual...
knowledge of dickens and cervantes...
and laughing at aztec bones talking
backwards... rattling...
then the pristine "impossibility" of not
moving anywhere... expecting...
telekinesis and telepathy in a *******
town... aspiring to a prayer to IT...

        i'm a very simple person...
notably when i speak...
but when i write?
language tends to... over-complicate itself
without my wish...
perhaps i would like to tame...
expand... peer at a pop-sized audience
of a harlequin romance novel...

i've been to russia...
trains...             trains...
all the way from st. petersburg to moscow...
there's no concept of a car...
there's the train...
siberia is allocated a mention
of a train artery...
   i'd like to visit the faroe islands...
and... the kamchatka peninsula...
             alaska...
          given: what is stockholm, venice...
paris... athens... barcelona...
tying myself to a source of story-making...
story-constipation...
       cosmopolitan bravado...
              but... in the giggling recluse daydream...
of somewhere like...
            
     why this forever not... settled...
tongue tangle of lost geographic extension of detail:
to the ******* moon?!
now: nearing the impossible...
no wonder the nickname of english cricketers
is... tourists...
which they are...
                      but not for the love of god...
would i want to start of
a railway line to replica artery and veins
in africa...
      this... malevolent philanthropy auspice...
tour two:
i have more regard for
a misanthrope than
a philanthrope... given the categorical
imperative: Kant mingles with Tao:

maxim: the best way you can aid the world...
is for the world to forget you...
and for you to forget the world...
which is somewhat a conundrum...
                i.e. by some famous taoist...

i much prefer: tease at the world...
to play a commitment to a body
with a toying of an overburdening shadow
"suitcase": thoughts bent toward
hades...

  how the russians never invented
a narrative tied with a car...
or a horse... or a train...
given... that "enough" of siberia...
i guess... the nature of english...
it has to be exhausted prematurely
with inhibitions of...
island genesis...

             ants in your pants:
to the moon and back...
by way of bystanding...
the hebrews are shy nomads...
the arabs are wannabe and camel jockeys...
the hebrews are shy nomads
and the english... am i to be guilt
riddled by learning / borrowing /
not speaking in tongues / accents...
anglo-whale and the hebrew glitterbox
of details...

and i too took to a road-trip in
an adventure bias of taming the impersonality
of the ego: that automaton
of grieving a collected
           shy and shadow fancy of spew
my numb prospect of the disused
muscle... stiff coming
as with the prospect of a snake making
me be startled...

            always darwinian a priori...
like some copernican heliocentric primordial...
SONST-WOHIN

      some variation of the fwench "other"....
sonstwohin is a dasein...
beside a fixation on the golgotha...
  mirrors and mirages...
frogs and testickles...
                           tatar stakes and Kiev
contested between proud Muscovites
and sorrow-riddled-Pruß...

who could have been traced back
to the concept of shoelaces
with the Lithuanians, the Estonians...
the Latvians...
if there was a lessening of pressure
from the Scandinavian tribes
to excavate a modern presence...

can't we call the english the ulterior
semites?
if one prefix is in play...
toying with a definition of semite:
anti-: an argument against
heb' marx or some arab tailor...
  but the island dwelling folk...
the ulterior-          prefix beginning with
the atlantic sea: and the myth of atlantis...
lend me your rubber ear...
lend me having invested in...
the precursor...
having from an invested rome...
some wouldn't question...
metaphor celtic england an Afghanistan...
that Rome teased the germanic
people...

but because of the Huns...
and i am somewhat...
borrowing a sorrow with a term
like etymology... vandal?
it has to be so cheap and so easily
stolen...
             for the worth of goth
and spain and later... north africa...
a people and a "place"...
                
         greek seems unchanged...
tickling a sound akin to spanish...
but that... latin is... dead...
and how italian isn't... nowhere near...
the ordeal of concubine and church
monstrosity...
          well...
                 i must be! new h'american!
              and the old...
                        in that... perhaps i could
visit these colonies and never...
      best second attempt expat stature
within a combat of Tokyo...
                        
a car...  a car... a crayon! a crayon!
my horse! my hoarse inability and...
shooting practice with debility angelic!
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
XVI
i fiddle with my beard,
    and all of a sudden i feel ticklish...
                     as is someone was nibbling
                                                   on my neck,
and, oh the exhilaration
i swear that's more than can be,
                                      if there ever could be,
      anything like that, as if i might have
said about dressing up in latex...
    come on... fiddling with your beard,
and you suppose someone is nibbling on your
                                      neck?
what then?     demonic invitation 2.0?
                               prrrr...   i'm a wet sparrow
shaking off the water...
                                well... there's room for ***
& ms. pepsi
...
              well it's a bit narcissus-prone,
but i just washed my beard, and it's super-soft,
so i'm fiddling with it like it might be a violin...
imagine it otherwise: some people bite their nails,
some people smoke cigarettes... some people
eat carrots... this is what you might call
the high-end of procrastination?
     i really was going to write 16th century
polish, wasn't i?
    i like it rough by lady gaga got in the way,
what put me off was the tissue thing...
                  in my experience you don't end up
giving a ******* an ****** by being rough...
all she said was: this is the second time,
                                that it's happened to me.
from what i remember? it's not like
                        i was ******* a mannequin;
what's this code in athenian strip-clubs
   where the strippers put a green chip in front of you...
i'm guessing that's what's called:
this "*******"? it's actually a brothel
                                            if you can afford it.
******* and prostitutes? you really don't get to
live up to lady gaga's sing-along standards
of expectation as,
                          what's necessarily to be fulfilled.
how does that song go? try a little bit of tenderness!
        pet a dog, caress a cat... **** a *******;
why? i'm done with western women being so ******
picky, finicky, that it has become a turn-off...
   i'd rather **** a chimpanzee if i'm going to be honest,
and then turn darwin's ego into a ******...
                       and **** it;
my phallus? oh, darwin's ego as a ****** would get
***** by my phallus that morphed into nothingness.
i'd rather stick around bulgarian prostitutes
than these, prancing english procelain-swans
of women...
         even a mongol would say... me? celibacy!
i'm not buying into this *******!
        daddy was rough, daddy was tough,
daddy was religious, daddy was conservative...
                       daddy's little girl ends up doing ****.
who the hell wants the end-result, if you're not a rock-star?
ok ok... XVI reinvestment in language of today -
     niezmożny             -         ogromny, nad-ludzki
which basically means: super-human... or akin
    to the colossus of rhodes; yes, that word in italics
with the ż, is straight out of the 16th century.
or another example...
       bachmat (you can say bach, right?
no, not batch... the baroque composer) -
           silny, krępy koń tatarski -
                          i.e. a strong, short-build tatar horse...
and that's the language from the 16th century,
or at least samples of it.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
if only with a sense of irony, if that word is
even remotely meaningful anymore -
what you, what is irony?
I was supposed to be writing this an our
early, far far away, in lil Charlie's kingdom
come, or whenever that old hag will
thrown in the towel and hip,
just itching, itchy winking spider starting
spinning a mandala on my rechthand...
fingers begging for the dough
or the copper strings und...
english-german
    english-polish-german...
polish-english-german
          polish-german...
my axis of the beyond,
russian would too be handy,
had not the orthodox Athenians
dug tunnels behind the Roman empire
and moved straight from Greek
to Cyrillic... alas... rigid Latin rubric,
german grammar engineering,
and a slavic hot head for drink,
     plus the Anglican lisp behind
a thespian: Y-tongue serpentine...
                     siamese kiss...
                                   on the 19th April,
jests... a bothersome headache...
the Warsaw ghetto uprising...
   never mind, upon return to Israel,
like and p.t.s.d. baptism, scolded and shunned,
apparently not rubber enough,
not eventually reaching the palms
and date trees of Tel Aviv...
      don't worry... grey Sarajevo was around
the corner, around the corner the deflated
Ottoman...
         to tell the truth: what I inherited
is, perhaps but a ditto, making me nothing
more than a Ditto Eddie...
                    like grating root veg for a clear
soup, instead, floating, murky floodgates
open...
           what are these names,
these mental tattoos supposed to do
to me? at least in England the are but two
dates summarising the 20th century,
11:11:11 (Armistice) and 1966...
                    and that's about the summary
of England, as given by pedagogy...
   only when watching Deutchland '83...
    beauty in the west is achieved by
creating an en masse consent of apathy...
which isn't exactly verbatim...
                    somehow quasi immersed,
a return of an "exiled" 8 year old...
westerplatte isn't exactly the story
  of thermopylae... but give it enough
time and there too will come a window
of necessary myth-making, id est:
exaggeration...
            i am i am a psyche-mongrel...
which transcends whatever the other
mongrel is...
            but the transcendental menu
changes...
   on a side, in philosophy:
in the phenomenological vernicular,
is a nation a phenomenon,
or a Kantian res per se, id est: noumenon?
apparently both...
        the Mongols became a phenomenon
of the golden horde, subsequently
some polished glass fatamorgana
                                      north of Gobi...
flatter than a Parisian pancake...
        a dry horse meat blood drinking boom,
Baghdad gambling houses
               were skulls were thrown with
painted one to sixes, blindly from a bag...
and whenever Islam thinks it stopped
the horde, and didn't assimilate them
into Crimea where Mongol became Tatar...
they'll cite the battle of ain jalut...
    and mamluk becomes synonym with
janissary, meaning,
probably one of those children from that
infamous Stephen of Cloyes expedition...
which I hardly think was a noble cause...
that ******* slave handler of orphans
I can add, to the wheel of Fortune of Dante's
inferno!
              a year from now on whatever
day or month, it will be 75 years from
the next kamikaze expedition...
        sure,  applause,
but on a lesser note...
in a tiny town like this,
come to think of it,
    i'm only 2nd generation urban...
my grandmother was born in the country
(or rather on the Front)
my great-grwndmother (who I still remember)
was born there...
     and you see these remnants,
after all, Ukraine the bread basin of Europe...
after all Poland und der Größer Pyr
    (Posen)...
                     ******* mental grafitti
everywhere, beg to differ if you think you're
walking on eggshells, relics,
      sacred ground, schloß...
    or Hegel's the philosophy of right...
seriously GDR had a problem with Shakespeare
over Marx?
    I have a problem with Marxism being
at once the Liverpool Project co. Engels
and as much, a critique of Hegel's lecture
notes...
I can feel England breathing on my neck,
the relentless misery beyond
the south east, the nibbling, nibbling,
scuttling vividness of the last east end rat
making it to Romford, as spotted
at the bus stop...
   ****... if the rats are leaving London
and moving further afield into Essex County,
what the hell does that tell ya' about Cockneys?
yesterday spring, today:
            these feral lands...
                if you want a sample of Ukraine,
head to the West Warsaw train station ***
bus station... even the signs are written in
Ukrainian...
        but alas, no Polish-Lithuanian romantic
heading to Donetsk...
because how far back does history become
revival,  when nostalgia becomes
less thought + sigh...
        and more... well, the ******* caliph
of Baghdad and the hidden gem miles
from Tripoli?
                            and should you know,
I think Assad is going on the Haj...
just shy off a slap-head, given the shaved
moustache...
                       at what point can we cut off
a the criminality of past events?
well, apparently inheritence is taxable
on two fronts... material goods,
and psst hush hush events of our ancestry...
but history as a criminal act not
perpetrated by future examples of
"said" peoples? mind boggling...
            looks like ol' Jack of Whitechapel,
the ghoul, is more in favour
than your everyday German...
                                       ah, no ancestry,
no inheritance... tax...
                 hence the romance with ol' Jack...
unless you compare that to
the reality of the mechanisation
of serial murders,  their frequency etc etc.,
but history as a crime,
               a little tapeworm spawn lying
dormant in some distant body...
keen whisper says to me...
what if anorexic women were to ingest
a tapeworm...
   how would a tapeworm react to
a body that didn't want to eat?
secrete some hallucinogenic?
after all, the idea is not far from the medieval
ages, and how leeches were used
to drain, bad blood (schlechtblut)...
      for all i know tapeworms are not
feral parasites, not worms in dog insestines...
they're clinal parasites,
like bacteria in yoghurts are clinical...
all it takes is one brave soul
suffering from anorexia to ingest a tapeworm
spawn...
                 evidently a hit and miss,
a parasite will know if the host body
is worth attaching itself to the small insestine wall,
after which, its evolutionary mechanism
will kick in... and the host will be "forced"
to eat...
              and that comes from a cul de sac
idea from a schizophrenic friend of mine...
   he had the delusion of being a tapeworm host...
but... he didn't exactly know what a tapeworm
could be used for... should Europe
return to the Dark Ages barbarism,
and using leeches...
                hey... it wasn't called west,
before it was called wild...
         at least a tapeworm has a mouth
at the head rather than a mouth
in its bellybutton...
                    oddly enough cancer,
that botanical translation with roots
in mistletoe has no known mouth...
pseudo fungus...
                              yes yes, let's play
normies... the antibiotics are just about
to run out... no wild ideas are going to save,
the niche markets of ailments, akin to
anorexia.
Ruslan Oct 30
You can see well dead to me,
Toy Turgan the book of cos.
Altogether old to you,
Thank you mather cool to you.

Then oy say to you of mem,
To you go of people go.
You cool back together soon,
You of people cool me back.

Say ol cool together ****,
Kiss me bebe in the good.
You cool me it's mather can,
Chalga shuck to you of cos.

Tegerman olgan zaman,
You old speak tatr language.
You cool me of bebe shut,
Toyalgan zaman bulgan.

Aha ha in cover me,
You can sleep together ****.
You can back to you of cos,
******* bebe cool of me.

Tegerel of people cos,
Thank you bebe ol of me.
Tuy aly tuya belgan,
****** people sundergan.

Shul yazyk tatar language,
Its in living Russia day.
Old you speak of cos to me,
I'm its me tatar to man.

I'm its boy go ****** bic,
Altogether mather sleep.
You consort to you of ned,
Thanks you boys to you of me.

Kiss me bebe i love you.
Let's say corona
Do not say corona
What a puzzle!

The brain in the puzzle
The world has a muzzle
They searched for a goal

They were at war
The increase is in struggle
Against the clear and virtual
They told the virtue is the liar

From the ancient that was a gaggle
Laughter and mock of pure
They insist the laws Tatar
Go through

The upper ability was here
Her responsibility must appear
The punish will survival

As we are like the Jesus talked
If one has no iniquity
Throw it with a stone

The world has a sin
The world does not the deserved
Who had a great fault

The do not prevent the oppressive
He throws only the weak and clear
The sins must be wide
The vice must be beyond
Our vision, land and mind
the corona antivirus increases and the world became in danger.
Ruslan Nov 5
You need to go, my in the world.

Its you okay, then its my break,
You so begin, then to my skin.
Shuck go to break, its you okay,
Then to all me, then go so much.

You need of cos, go to the right,
Six months again, you can see sleep.
That to you go, my break again,
To much a know, ****** to you.

That my to break, its for to you,
Go mather ****, its okay you.
You understand, ******* to go,
Its motherland, my its for you.

No no yours break, its go to me,
You understand, ******* off you.
You for the boys, think you to need,
That begin, fatherland my.

Old you a spring, to go to much,
That you to go, understand you.
That you a clock, to go to you,
*** you again need it for you!!!

Yes its boys to you need forever to skin, thit's my begin.

This is my book, to the my screen
Its you okay, to much begin
That to you need, then to you go
That's you so much, in the to go
You understand, that to you need
Six months again , then to you go
That to you go, its you are sin
*** of you need, it's oh you then
That end to my break, you off you need
Thank to my much, fox news begin
Its you okay, then nice to you
*** my of spring , that  you oh know  
*** you a square, old neen to you
Then go to me, sen to you need
**** is my dear, thank you so lone
That off you spreak, that to my much
Thank you begin
05.11.2024

Then to you need for my breaking 💔, its alright to much born. That a begin.

You its the clock
It my the break
I love to me
you go so lone
its my begin
that is okay
that's what you
need
1981.02 September
09:00 am

«Tegerman»
«Mill» — from Tatar language.
05.11.2024 – 08:25 pm.
That a begin, all you a sleep
To so to much , fox news  the  speak
You go so  lone , in the its break
You so to you, off you the need

That you a square , fon to so much
You need to go , to old the spring
Thank you my friend, in the the go
End understand, you need off clock

Second to you, in the the room
I love  to me, in the begin
Fun to so much, that to you go
Its a to break, in the to me

You consperate, old mather ****
You so to go, understand me
Sen to you boy, off in the ship
All be be back, altogether

If you a need, thank you so much
That you a go, mather *****
You go to me, in the to right
Wake you so much, altogether

Then to you go, all don't a know
****** you square, altogether
Thit's all alright , you understand
******* my soul, altogether

Second to me, in the this break
I love you dead, altogether
Then in my sleep, you concerat
Six months to you, altogether

Then you my bye, ******* you go
To so to much , ****** breaking
It's you okay, then to so much
******* so lone, all be back you

Go to the right, ******* again
Sen to my break, all be back you
Six is months teen, **** of you go
To the to much, altogether

In the the sleep, you so begin
In the ******, you together
Came back to me, you go so lone
That you a spring, fax a you so

There's begin, all you the need
Fun to my break, all be back you
Six a month teens, go motherland
Old you to go, altogether

In understand, go to my break
You consperate, the break world
Its you okay, then in the sleep
You to the go, motherland your

******* the need, its you okay
Niya sinde ul bulgan ul
That you so much, all to you screen
Then in Tatar, all be back you

So to the much, go but to me
You can see sleep, to the gedo
In you begin, song its you go
To the to boy, all be back you

Funk you so much, all be begin
You can see sleep, all be back you
Funk you so lone, that is my break
Go to the **** of, together

Min vakytta, yazam kitup
Shul zamannary bulgan ul
Эта тетрадь, будет служить
Вашим потомкам и дедам

Верность храню, знаю секрет
Но я для бога закрытый
Он меня взял, вам предложил
Тема моя не раскрыта!!!
06.11.2024 – 00:44 am.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
this isn't even my lowest ebb -
          walking into a shed, sitting down,
and smoking four cigarettes -
repenting for today's -
                                 on no account
of a promise - a buckle nonetheless -
for an hour just sitting there
waiting for the sun to go down without
actually seeing it...
picking up a wasp nest killer spray...
picking up a bottle of white spirit...
picking up a hammer...
             picking up a bunch of other
chemicals...
              hell: where's that kilogram of salt?
it's nothing new -
it's hardly pitiable -
                       there's no matrix of thought
behind it -
where there was once a labyrinth all
that has remained is some sawn-off-bits of
wood... some shrapnel in a puddle...
      my favorite: conversations with
an old "friend"... he's here lingering talking
in a language my shadow can clearly
hear and clearly understand...
        today is not a good day: no day is...
but clearly not today...
       today i discovered grey hairs just above
my beard: i knew i had two grey hairs
in my beard - but i never thought i'd have
grey hairs...
clogged up tupsy-turvy of "feelz"...
            unless this turtle of a heart will ease
out: just one more emotionally stunted rhythm...
for  whatever that might have been...
this heart will most certainly not father...
      there's just this bothersome interlude -
a romance of pain that could come from
a cocktail...
        in the end a summation -
                         life is, as such... worth living...
but only up to the point
of the certainty of dying -
        i can't imagine being old and dying
peacefully in my sleep...
         i'd call that being robbed of the most precious
artifact this world has to offer...
                that precious aeon of The Passing...
why would it all be necessarily morbid...
taboo... that somehow all thinking can
deviate from this monstrosity of reflection...
it has clearly been a mundane day -
                finding my first greys wasn't
spectacular enough... spring is coming...
and elizabeth II is still queen of england...
                        probably the two best reasons
to be alive...
    otherwise, what? faking it...
                                or "not getting it right"?
maiming myself into a vegetable state?
                  i have to visit him from time to time...
it's not he's going anywhere...
and i'm getting to him: one poppy-seed shuffle
of the knees at a time: per day, per week
month or year...
            i'll have to face something beside
the ignoble fact of mortality -
                i'll have to face that "other" question...
because such events probably only
happen on a whim - in that horror circus
of the mundane - the better part of a necessarily
forgotten day...
this has to become a sterile point of observation...
otherwise it will be hard to imagine:
what happens to the body under
the "protection" of a coroner...
               or a butcher... or: well a lion or a pack
of wolves i can imagine...
it would immediately turn into mana...
  rather than some scribbling on a page for stats...
or... worse: the doubly butchered
cut of beef - once by the butcher...
   second by someone who cooks it: well done...
mind you - i didn't cook dinner today...
there's an oddity when not dealing
with the process of cooking something raw...
and making it: cooked...
whether meat, vegetable - root or fruit...
instead dealing a portion of turkey *******
for two cats...
                    everything has an eerie contentment
of being left undisturbed...
the current pandemic is just background
noise -
          here's to looking for a moment and
a space to sacrifice an unwilling willingness -
dream big: it can only get better -
i hardly think i have the required capacity
to dream to begin with...

/
               in some scenarios there is a distinct
line between the north of england
and the south of england...
but not so much when it comes
to east england and west england...
unless in london: clearly there's an east
london - as there's a west london...
     but it's an island...
            there's clearly a south-east in poland...
the ****-show poor buggers' home:
nearing ukraine...
  but north? that's the goldmine of the window
to the world: access to the sea...
this, the, "bigger picture"...
                        west germany and east germany...
with berlin and warsaw being in the east...
pockets of bribes and other, sediments...  
                                                                       /

if it's not precious... then it is... precarious...
then again: perhaps both...
here's to not wearing face-masks or panic buying...
of the latter event...
            well... i was only really looking
for flour... sugar... and tomato puree...
reminder:
something from yesterday -
still not old enough to give me the ***** when it
comes to: sitting on one's laurel leaves...

two names that skip way way over me...
roger stone... isn't that, that film director?
lee rigby - well... there's not much in the name...
but the title: fusilier...
i just see him as part of the queen guard...
on parade... playing a ******* trumpet...
fusilier lee rigby...
     more like: lee rigby - the trumpeteer...

roger stone... i think of... oliver stone...
coming back from insomnia news reels...
is... roger stone equivalent to...
alastair cambell... well...
if it isn't a joseph goebbels...
it's that guy...
by "that" i am implying...
alastair cambell...
when the left in politics had someskin,
some bones in the matter of minding marrow;

for holy ****'s and ****'s sake!
the madonna over 'ere!
bow... look out! scouting for knighthood...
no... not really...i was... i woozy woz...
how many supermarkets did i visit?
5... i was looking for... tomato purée...
sugar... and plain flour...
i don't mind the eggs...
but i should mind...
the flour is "missing"...
the sugar... somewhat...
i have the yeast and i'll just bake
or fry up mexican / indian flat breads...

all the chicken did a runner...
the turkey for the cats is... once again:"missing"...
the shelves are empty and all that remains is the brute beef...
****, stake and parlour... but i was making...
tatar chebureki...
and of course yogurt cucumber shredded...
with tzatziki infused spices...
the raw ore of cuisine was missingalmost everywhere...

the sugar and the flour...
no one was looking for salt...
or the vinegar or the oil...
i'll be stocking up on whiskey in the impeding hours...
well... days... i have over 200 x 8 - worth ofcigarettes...
but enough of that sort of..."lepzig" / lowry...

i was still scouting for flour...
i've stashed enough self-raising flour to never bother buying...
baking powder...
but even if it comes to thickening a sauce...
all out on the plain flour...
(you'd still be better off with cornflour...
or an egg yoke when it comes to soups)...

it's good to know that people know what's gold
in terms of crude details of shopping...
milk and all the dairy products are of no concern...
nor are the fresh vegetables or fruits...
let's talk about seasonal eating habits...
strawberries come in june... etc.
now, let me become truly honest...
i've been walking around in a vacuum of spring...
the scents and all those otheradditives...
floral patterns... walking like a peacock...
armed with a baboon's *** for a joke
and an ***** spine for comforts...
peacock... when all this... this...
rife propagandist tool-shed of "news"comes apparent...

suffocating... no new war:
       grinding the metal for a new rifle...
and a bullet with some nutritional additionsof shrapnel...
bite the curb bite the ****-up...
it's not like i've been waiting for the haitus of
the whole bread & circus affair...
i'm just starting to stock up on essentials...
well... "lake of fire": whiskey...
i am most welcome at the summit:
a wayne stastic dies from an overdose
of prescription drugs...
he's not married to a pornographic "stature"...
case... and jealousy doesn't simply suffocate him...

cool jimmy day'ohs... sure... it's true...
the winnings of a "winner" and the losses of a "loser" -
st. thanatos or mother death can curate the rest...
i am hardly about to win...
then again: what's there to be lost...
when the "prefigurations"of a scooped mortality are,
already...
pre-positioned... pre-supposed...
           elemental...                            

                      well... that was clearly a fathomable
yesterday... the balloon as metaphor
for the vitality of life has slowly been...
easing out a wet whizz blurp of vibrating lips...
it's going to be anything more than...
the inaccessible life...

                couch rug and chair accommodating...
kettle roof walls and coffee... also accommodating...
             but otherwise... an inaccessible "life"...

cohorts of marching meaning
              and all this life's due of "adventure"...
even as some priestly clad serpetine of:
the once fabbled metaphorical shepherds...
even by the grace of making progess to establish
an attention span for a summary
of "hobby" -
                                  the crushing depths of
air by one solo, endeavour...
   to breathe is a bit like drowning...
                to drown i imagine...
agony aunt of the tabloids to boot:
        is a bit like reinventing life's
forgone principles of: expanding attention
spans...

                        as ever: life in the adjacent...
hyperbolic "non-entity"...
            king of the vermin rattling shadows
of toes and insomnia glaring vivid screams of
blank white pixel paper screens...
huddling and... hardly with a check-mate
crescendo of: a litany of anecdotes...

               the kindly expected: non-mover
essential progress of: ex-instance...
out of... this and any other...
                  otherwise the sort of angst that
a pensioner would gladly succumb to...
in writing...
               to collect his affairs with life...
   but always too early: or never...
this sort of affair that's spewed from...
a splintered tongue and all those teeth lead
to rot... exegesis...

                      this body once had an ample
of limbs to create a canvas of vitality...
with these bones...
                 that these bones were once life...
now: leftover antique signature that
lives within the permutations...
this little crevice of intactness...

                                what a bundle of joy(s)!
Ruslan Oct 31
It's alright begin it's the cool *******,
You can back to go it's algan zaman.
You can sleep to boy my of President,
It's no ******* man olb of skull begin.

This is Vova **** old this mather ****,
Vova Putin **** olda ul tura.
It's tatar in say on the Butterfield,
No tomorrow screen it's okay in san.

Old to back my friend kisses boy the big,
Togargan yakta oldan zamanda.
Yashagan haman ul bulgan gandon,
It's my President old the ****** pig.

Cool to you of me altogether boy,
I'm it's our okay you can sleep to go.
That my President olgan pich it's wife,
Olgan it's tatar in the it's take it.

You and this my friend you consort to go,
Thanks it's ol alright you go mather ****.
To you go in you it's okay to go,
Thank yyou day to go olgan this zaman.
Ruslan Oct 30
Tegar tuga tyga
Can the people of cos
Song you diya to more
You of picture cos

You of milk to yugal
Tayger olg to of mi
Global ops you can dead
Cosme ofs you can mi

Global opzis you dead
Cool mi coseng to you
Kiss mi bebe oyo
There ayel turgan yul

Thes is saya tatar
Long to mather to mi
Set you gone tu yaly
Oldinda burgany

Com you bebe alga
To yaly burga tur
Aly yaly turgan
Zamany Tamerlan

GOTUDERAT
Ruslan Nov 6
Then say together to me,
Of you a boy but you to need.
Then to square that a to boy,
Sink to my break what you the need.

Six months again, fair to go.
That what a need, my mather friend.
Six a a go, go motherland.
Nine teen a go, you understand.

Tall me to boy, go mather ****,
That my begin, your understand.
Then to my ****, ******* the need,
Then to my break, i love you girl.

Then to my break, you of to me,
Six motherland, its old begin.
Then to you go, nine a sixteen,
Theemy begin.

What you the need, nine off cos,
That way because, then to the rate.
I love to break, go motherland,
Six months again, what you the need.

You cos to go, six Indian,
Then a you need, it so to good.
Then people cos, you understand,
Then to my break, needed for you.

That go to boy, my Nederland,
I'm you a know, sen to my break.
Then for being, its all alright,
Sen to you screen, my Indastan.

That way begin, i love to you,
Sen my you bread, fan to you go.
Then then to me, oy to my break,
Ahhh o to you, then to go need.

Its you okay? Then call to me,
Six months again, that what to you.
Cool to you skull, sen to you need,
Then in my break, going to go.

Six months again, you to the screen,
Then go my book, its you okay.
Then by again, to you my friend,
Then to you go, to the a spring.

Come back to need, i love again,
All be be back , all to you go.
Then my in sleep, you consperate,
Then my begin, i love you screen.

Call of me boy, my dear land,
Its break again, old you are dog.
Vaf-vaf, vaf-vaf, in the the dogs,
In you o six, months off you need.

Then to my break, old you are screen,
That way begin, to my to much.
Old your screen, that way begin ,
Kinder you boys, its you okay?

That way begin, to the my much,
Six months to you, of you the need.
Then To my break, i don't to square,
Then i begin, go motherland.

My father song, all be be back,
Go Indastan, in to the break.
I dint to go, my miss of Jew,
Its my to go, then to you speak.

Of you again, need to you go,
Then my i yes, old to the boys.
Go matherland, my kiss miss ***,
Succed *******.

Then old you screen, that my begin, go Nederland, all to you go.

Give up now!
Give up now!
*** full you to go,
Mather **** to go.

Inda yalgytyp,
Men turam Turgan.
Men bulam sezge,
Men bet Tamerlan.

This is cool be back,
You a need to boy.
That's alright begin,
Indian the goy.

Tegerman vakyt,
Ul kelgan monda.
Its Tatar language,
Mill that's old you skill .

Then to go my friend ,
Its  alright to boy.
Then you people need,
In forever goy.

Thank you very much,
Thits o you to go.
Came me back to you,
Its okay my boy.

Go my Indastan,
I'm you  so long .
That my President,
Its  of you my don't .

Get way to my much,
Then to you my screen.
Second you so good,
That i du you  need .

When i President,
Second victory.
On the understand,
You a need for you.

Are go my child,
Then to you my soul.
Sent to you go ****,
That to you so lone.

Kiss my dear to me,
Go the need for you.
Kiss me bebe come,
That alright a go.

I'm Spyder man,
Bakuganga come.
Aha ha its lol,
You my friend its joke.

I you need its lol,
Vaha-ha ha-ha.
Its alright its good,
Marvel o so long.

That's of needed ****,
Its a go to need.
Its you crazy man,
I'm its old to man.

Yes i go my break,
I'm to you my screen.
That okay to you,
My to fatherland.

Its alright begin,
To Go mather break.
What you song my kiss,
In the breaking for.

You my much to boy,
Bakuganga ga-ga.
Ha-ha-ha its go,
Mather ******* soul.

Then to boy my pip,
Theni screen fax you.
So to much begin ,
Its my break again.

Fatherland to go,
iIndastan to break.
At attack to much,
That way go to you .

You under attack ,
That for you so much.
Cool be back to you,
That forever go.

Indastan to break,
Its alright a joke.
Its melee its right,
Z to go my pip.

People fon to you,
Then my President.
Its so much begin,
Altogether you.

Sen to yul bulsyn,
Allah saklasyn.
That Way go in you,
Second President .

Its forever you,
The a needed soul.
You can back to me,
Its my Nederland.

Then you go to the land,
Then to you understand.
That way go to the boy,
Its alright to forever.

Alda yul tuzelgan,
Its you need for to go.
What you screen my begin,
Its okay my darling.

That a way to you soul.

Think to my break-in, you need forever to you, think to go motherland.
Ruslan Nov 1
This is are window you can the this speak,
You cancalot Isis ol you.
Altotogether you can see ball,
Take it of user ball of to me.

You concerat it's this ol back,
Altotogether ofin to you.
Ball al be back to you go me,
Thanks old of skull take it olgan.

It's this tatar me oldan bar,
I'm o together you consis speak.
To my together ofin o you,
Thits is o big olof you dead.

It's my this break olgan to me,
Yambar tugan it's this me and the boy.
Altotogether this is of me,
Come back to go a letter to you.

Come bebe come to go go bebe come,
You concrete it's this boy go old me.
My the of break to go to me,
This is o cos you go to go.

To yaltytyp to go in ****,
It's is alright to go to go.
Coygyrynda cold to gangan,
This it's Oo you boy toyaldy.

Can the it's sleep to go to me,
You can see boy old man to go.
I'm it's are bread you conci sleep,
Ttotomorrow you doing back.

It's me are break you conci sleep.
Ruslan Nov 8
That to you soul, to my much,
That way so good its begin.
Then IDI to my wrong to so good,
That way you so my much.

That to brick wall to get to you need,
Its alright to Moscow the begin.
Its you soul to my friend its alright,
That to get to you friend.

Then to much in the world,
A you screen the sou you.
Send to buick of to me,
Then my friend follow me.

Then to go Nederland,
Its alright what the boy.
To my mucn in the world,
Screen the right to much born.

Then begin its you need,
Frank to go its you dead.
That way so, in the sing,
Then my front to again.

Then it is wrong to go,
Then my soul to you.
Wrong to much is because,
Sen to user to brick.

Its so good in wall street,
That again to my much.
That you go in the sleep,
Its okay mather ****.

What you so England and,
So to much understand.
That alright to my born,
Its so good to my friend.

Its you need to the break,
A you go to my friend.
That alright to the boy's,
Then my friends to so lone.

Go you need to the school,
A you so much to born.
That way you its so much,
My beginning to need.

In the world in the square,
O to much in forever.
In the sleeping to need,
In this picture you bread.

What ago to you friend,
Its so much under cred.
That alright to begin,
What a you to the sin.

Then my dear to sou,
Then IQ my so lone.
That way sou so so lone,
It the felin to born.

Go to matches so good,
Its forever to end.
That way so to you need,
Its okey to you bread.

Then its no to again,
You my friend its okay.
Wall to working so good,
Its alright this my book?

In the bread i am soul,
I'm hungry so lone.
That my present to me,
Off in break to ago.

What i needed so much,
You a now to so teach.
That way soul you square,
Then my friendly so me.

Its all writing begin,
Its so good in believe.
That way so you a need,
That way say to my screen.

Then its nice to so much,
In the world in my teach.
That a way so so good,
In the world in my blood.

So again to you screen,
In believing to sin.
That way so to you square,
It the happy new year.

So so go its for you,
That my people to su.
What i soul again,
You and i yahoo hay.

Its my book what a ****,
My so much is Kutak.
Its yes **** understand,
Im Tatar President.
😉😈😈😈

— The End —