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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
i've started to absolutely loath these shifts at Oxford...
for one: compared we're talking about a league one side...
the ****** stadium is one thing
but... just the drive there: and back...
out of the house from 1pm until 12:30am...
and for what? there's that coughing up for fuel
which has increased from £10 to £15... hell: my pay
hasn't risen...
   on topic: i was talking with my father about this...
inflation... the prices of commodities increases,
but the wages do not...
    fair enough: i might seem gullible at times...
given my grandfather was a member of the communist
party... but then communism in Poland
(a satellite state) wasn't the same as it was
in the actual Soviet Union... i'm no romantic of communism...
but surely if there's a concept of inflation:
there ought to be a logic around a concept of deflation...
but there isn't one in economics,
i.e. when wages go up: but the price of commodities
stays the same...
yet... the work of dairy farmers is the same: quality
and quantity-wise... economics it not my strong point...
i'm just thinking out-loud...
and i like thinking-dumb...
              my recent fascination comes in the form
of Confucius < Mozi < Mencius < Zhuangzi | Huizi
i.e. Kong Qui < Mo Di < Meng Ke < Zhu7ang Zhou |Hui ****...

i leave the house for roughly 10 hours and bring
back about £35... sure... it's the easiest shift on my list...
i get paid £35 to watch a football match...
but? today... the sky above Oxford looked more
entertaining than the football match... so? for the majority
of the time while the sun was still clinging
to reign over the sky: i was just looking at very pretty
clouds in the distance... i sometimes can't stomach
these base human foundations for society:
entertainment... i'd rather drink a bottle of wine
and just watch clouds behave like sloths...
or... perhaps not sloths... more like when a jellyfish
****** a cauliflower....

at least there was banter with my "manager"
en route toward Oxford... i ate a McDonald's in the alley
while waiting for him to pick me up...
banter... oh right: code words...
we call them the PLATOON... there's about 40 or so
"banana boat" folk... Daniel is the guy who conjured
up the expression: black don't crack...
what does that mean? you can't tell a black person's
real age... since you can be looking at a black
person who's 50... and you'd guess their age
to be 30... black don't crack...
i really think cosmetic industries should look into
the genome of both black people and people
with downs syndrome: those ******* hardly age...
you can't tell if there's a wrinkle on them...
seriously!
                  white boy humour... white boy
British humour... i'm writing this in complete earnest...
it's not even a joke: well... it's funny in a conversation
when you can crack jokes without a CCTV crow
on your shoulder...
so we cracked jokes about the PLATOON...

Daniel played that famous video of the ventriloquist
with that Ahmed the dead suicide bomber
puppet: I **** YOU...
i laughed on the verge of tears...
it's almost like that Dave Chapel sketch about
uniforms: a woman all tarts and no choux pastry
stuff... and Dave's like: pretending to be a police officer:
excuse me, ma'am... i may be dressed as a police officer!
but it doesn't mean that i am, a police officer!
or Team American's Durka Durka: Muhammad Jihad...
i just said to Daniel: are any of these ***** from
Rotherham? where? oh you know...
that Rotherham grooming gang scandal...
i'd love to get my hands on one of those *****...

a former prisoner officer talking to a former
chemistry student... seriously... those organic chemistry
schematics of electron migration were a bit pointless:
until i realised: they showed me loopholes in
the language... call it the rearrangement of vowels
and consonants... absolutely ridiculous:
since all theory and very little practice...

oh sure... the PLATOON was there...
i started it calling it SLOW-IQ from cousin-*******...
which is true... you have to start calling out
taboos at some point...
i mean: these guys were slow...
Ha-HMED! hark the H... draw a longer breath
and forget that the R was ever associated with a trill
of a rattlesnake...
oh sure... we get sold that puny story-detail
of low testosterone levels in European men....
these days? i was signing them in...
i had to ask 2 or 3 times for them to repeat their names:
they spoke their names so delicately
i couldn't understand them...
and i'm the one who picks up sounds...
my auditory hallucinations sometimes speak louder
than these people, "these people"...

i checked up on some theory...
the length ratio of the index finger to the ring finger...
i look at my left hand... then at my right hand...
oh **** me... no wonder...
i'm a *******... a promiscuous *******...
my ring finger is much longer than my index finger:
much longer on my left hand than my right hand...
ergo? a shorter index finger implies higher levels
of testosterone...
   am i to be, now, what? self-congratulatory...
no... it's intrinsic ontology: i can't help what i am...
just like i can't help with being a raw-red Caucasian
in mentality that's deviant from the British-compact
model...

i cleaned the house in the morning really focusing
on repeating the song My Friends by
the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
hey... listen... if these ******* have the audacity to
march in with their mosques... blow themselves up for
no grand attaching reason to further each and every one
of our plights: again... life isn't that terrible...
reality isn't unshakeable: unmoveable...
only people unto people make this life difficult:
usually out of complacency... laziness...
a solipsism that doesn't begin to factor in a fact
that solipsism could be a theory: a testing ground
of understanding autism...

but i abhor these Oxford shifts...
i leave them spent... the egress is magic though...
i'm more time-wasting than time-investing...
i still don't understand how inflation works
and i still don't understand why deflation doesn't exist...
the worth of goods increases:
but the method of producing these goods stays
the same... i have to admit...
i'm thinking about going out of my comfort zone...
looking into the thinking of economists
and not philosophers...
after all, my name was once allocated
to one famous tax-collector...
                     mind you: i like thinking about money...
not that i have a stash of it...
just enough to enjoy thinking about it...
i like thinking about money because i don't think
about spending it like most people do:
like most people who spend it frivolously and therefore
don't have enough of it and therefore
are in debt: these people are in debt because
they spend money on credit...
i have money, because i spend money on debit...

i couldn't never allow myself to accept a credit based
system of expenditures...
it made no sense to me: sure, you have more protection
using a credit card than a debit card...
after all the current system focuses more on creditors
than it does on debtors... then again: like for like...
you need less creditors than debtors:
you actually require more people in debt than
those willing to provide credit...
but then there are people like me who hyper-focus
on an earning-spending dynamic who
avoid building up too much credit:
by not building too much credit...
you can't exactly build up your... "debit score rating":
there's no "debit score" rating...
money turns into water...
you behave like your wallet if a dam...
that's a "metaphor" for savings and expenditure...

it's impossible for me to spend on credit...
why? i can't earn on credit:
well... i can earn on credit of my performance:
but that's a different sort of credit:
it's a credit i earn... rather than spend...
but i spend exclusively on debit...
on the basis of a debt i'm owned for my work...
i like money...
in philosophy there's that scared word: THING...
and NOTHING...
in economics there's that word too: MONEY...
and NO-MONEY...
oddly enough nothing is a categorised as a pronoun
while thing is categorised as a noun...
ergo? money is a noun and no-money
is a pronoun...

                    it's not even about being poor...
broke-***... it's about having enough money to do...
whatever the hell you want...
without a co-dependant... no woman: no children...
i can ******* from a shift... ask to be dropped
off at a petrol station... rather than the usual pick-up
spot... buy a £3 platter of sushi...
three ciders... a 10 packet of cigarettes...
eat... smoke a cigarette... then take at least two
bottles of cider dancing into the night...
i used to love swimming... now? if it's not cycling
it's walking... esp. come the night...

there's nothing quiet like it...
i hate these Oxford shifts... if it wasn't for the humour
i don't think i would have ever bothered...
focus on perception...
it's all about the TILT of the EARTH...
from the winter months and the summer months...
i was admiring the night thinking about
just that... this one... constellation...
in the summer months she's up-close...
you can see her enlarged (yeah?
things in English are generally asexual...
but you can ascribe *** to them...
like in most sensible tongues of the European
continent, there can be a sense of
the masculine and the feminine in nouns...
there's no need for gender-neutral pronouns...
there can exist gender-provocative nouns...
constellations are feminine)

   right... so there's this one jaw-dropper
of a constellation...
it's massive in the summer-time...
can't miss it... what the naked eye can't miss:
the mind ought to write about...

you know the constellation i'm talking about:
during the summer months it's enlarged...
but during the winter months it's squeezed into
its compact representation:
it's the same ******* constellation...
but since the earth is tilted on its axis...
that tilt generates a "disparity" of vision...
it's microscopically viewed in the summer months
and macroscopically viewed in the winter
months... when you sometimes walk the night
streets... tilt your head left to right...
and watch a bonanza of frost settling on the pavement
like it might be the glitter of paparazzi's cameras
eventing a strobe light effect of frost
glitter paving your honoured walk back
to a cold bed where only you or perhaps a cat might
be sleeping in...

no... it's not the constellation of cancer:
it's the constellation of scorpio:

                    •
                •
            •

­                   •
                      •
                          .
           ­                                  •

    •

that's most definitely a scorpion...
the tail... the torso... and the two pincers
extending...
but i'm not referring to the constellation
of scorpio... i'm refferering
to...the trapezium with a tail...

the big and little wheelbarrow constellation are
one and the same...


                        •


                                                                ­            •
                                            •


                                                 •                  •


it just depends on how the earth tilts...
call it her the little and big wheelbarrow...
microscopic in the realm of summer:
macroscopic in the realm of winter...
not a rhombus with a tail?
and what about the constellation of
scorpio...

three days by: Jane's Addiction...
always with the bass guitar that gets me...
now admire the tilt of the earth as this one constellation
all the same moves in and out to to an even greater
focus... "flat earth" expert as myself
ought to know... knowing one's own geometrics of
not having the luxury of parodying
movements that
demand the rigours of traffic...
such is a man's luxury of trailing behind night...
trailing behind dreams:
behind dreaming...
such is this world: that affords me so much
luxury... so little mediocracy...
            
tonight i brought back an acorn...
no... i wish i brought back an albino mulberry...
then again: i wish i brought back an oak conker...
but i prefer acorns more...
those hatted pebbles... oak? chestnut...
a corn that's not corns... that's acorn?
conker then... no? a nut with thoughts of
pirate X-marks-the-spot-chests?!
etymological tested grounds of frequented nouns...
hammer... table... mosquito...
            sun and moon...
                        sun as a he and moon:
although however stressed asexually: will be a she
in Ing-Leash.
nivek May 2014
when all has been pared down-
wants and addictions;
love remains solid waiting
unmoveable at the bottom
Sam WG Jul 2015
Calm King Crimson
On a sweet slow saunter
Sibling whistles to his self
Hound sniffs and wolves whistle
Leaps and bounds
Across the cool green ground

Ambiance is here
Lying all around
Lingering there before we met her here
Eagerly waiting to be found

Take her to bed
Or let her lead the way
Tonight there's no debating
She's already had her say

What's greater,
The living or the unlovable?
The unmoveable or those who can't stay?
Who's to say we're not all equal?
Who's to say that they're great?

In the shadow of a leaning tree
Older than all of those I know
It says nothing but I speak for it
As a wood splinter in a forest
In this case
My whispering impact is up for debate
Started out as an observational poem, turned into full blown existential questioning when I started floating off
Francie Lynch Jul 2019
You can be a boulder,
Unmoveable, hard, stoic;
But every stone is permeable,
And the water gets in
To make the rock sand...
Soft, malleable,
With indistinguishable grains.

I know others who swim
Against adversity to spawn in the current.
They believe destination is destiny;
Focussed, driven with tunnel vision.

Some face adversity like a roller-coaster.
When things are going north, all is good;
But they throw up their arms and scream
When going south.

I will catch the west wind,
Change course if necessary,
Tack across the white caps of roiling waters.
I will steer the rudder towards my East.
mark john junor Dec 2016
her empty heart keeps beating...
her empty gaze still sees
her voice a shell filled with the cold sand
sluggish monotone wet
of a violent empty sea....
she romances the dark masterpiece
of your voiceless screaming....
she sits with you in the gray room
her fists balled up in limp rage...
she is the daughter of her cherished heartbreak
the end result of her old lover dark and bittersweet...
a tasty gem all bright and beautiful
wrapped up in the bandages
of her battlefield romances...
her empty heart keeps beating...
her empty gaze still sees...
her warm hand still gives comfort
she is still the life behind your unmoveable force
she is a woman of these modern days
strong in ways not even she can see
beautiful beyond what any mirror can see
her heart will find its way
the love will return to eyes
her voice will grow strong once again
await her heart's spring
await her and she will see
you are the man
that was meant to be
CasiDia Sep 2017
All Understanding uncovers
ugliness, usury.
Unifying utopians
uncorruptable,
unmoveable.

Dashing Prophets promoted
promiscuous personalities.
Promethus’s powers
persisted
purposelessness.

Do Postmodern proletariats
protest phantoms?
Puckering proudly,
pondering
paraphrases?

If Egyptians engineered
excessive egoists,
Englishmen evolved
ethical
endgames.

Tradition Rules reformed
rednecks, remobilizing,
romanticizing, recursions
rose
remarkably.

If Caesar costumed
cabals crafted carefully,
Christianity calibrated
circumferential
conflicts.

Vigilantism Unveils unlucky
usurper, undoes underachieving,
unemotional, unconsciousness
unlearning
unhumanness.
  
Every Tadpole’s talents
triumphs titan’s tricks
tip toeing
towards
truth.
Jake Sims Oct 2018
I am a ballpark moth.
a buzzing light is made my home tonight

in time it dries my wings and takes my flight
but for now i live aloft a peacetime game all
shouts and metal.

If i could say,
i know i can’t,
Like a broken arm cast in sound aluminum,
Unmoveable
                                        but highly mobile.

Soon enough you’ll hear a mother’s admiration,
pride by proxy someone taught me:
Aggression   in sublimation.

What makes a mother fly i’ll never know.
I refuse to help mythmake America’s obsessions.

smoke or dirt or metal war

mythologize

and I’ll wait forever for these wings to dry.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2020
from under the iron curtain... not quite though:
in a study of the form of: immediacy...
a spare 30 years (circa)...
    from under the iron curtain thrown
under: the silicon curtain...

                 what science fiction ambitions:
what new worlds: new species of interest?
          concerning some "here"... and
                                obviously some "there"...
glued together, by -
                        the already mentioned study
of the form of: immediacy -
            i.e. more broadly known as the word
being...
          more broadly known as the word:
                                                           being...
for what is... and in that: the suspicious
utterance of "what" in conjunction with: is...

but it's hardly a book burning...
        i once cited a myself in transit...
        i once cited my self:
                            in the reflective sence...
not compounded in the reflexive immediacy
of myself... that...
    writing is not an invitation to speak...
it is an extension of thinking -
            i too have... had... avenues closed off...
for a while...
        as long as the substance is tame...
         but writing was never an invitation
to speak... it was always an extension of thought...
i privy the wanting ****** to entertain
his or her: caged tongue...
to labour with insane dignity to...
have that freedom of breath:
   without a single word being uttered:
   a feast for the eyes...

    of freedom of speech though:
  is... speeking freely... an invitation to... think?
what "book burning"?
             video-mash-up and a ******
variation of "*****": misnomer alley...
           no rigid lexicon for a... stalemate...
some grand unmoveable object of the tongue
to lick...
   to write is to extend thinking:
it is never to script someone...
   however... to speak doesn't invite me to
think... i would be too gullible for that
to be true... too forcefed a bulimic "rhetoric" /
and question to tow...

i have yet to find that speaking freely
allowed a chiral complexity of thinking freely...
as a reply... antonym...
     book burning: audio book... burning?
for the privacy of the eyes...
less this... feeding of echo... and more... echo...
speaking freely is not an invitation
to think freely...
                     i hope writing has
enshrined this facet of distinction...
                    it's such: oh such a "minor" technicality...

but i've used this phrase before...
from under the iron curtain we came...
and enjoyed the remains of the free world...
for a circa of 30 years...
                from under the iron curtain ******
under... the silicon curtain...
                  
/ / / / / interlude... of a soft-core existential nature:

  well the absolute joy of... shaving...
i perhaps did that once...
concerning as most would have called it:
on the face of a late-teen and early 20s colt...
***-fluff...

       as one had to... since the hairs resembled
the crop of cranium...
and weren't stiff enough: ***** enough...
for the guillotine of all ******* drops...
to form a beard...

   oh i had ambitions! i had ambitions
like you've never seen!
to add to a full crown of hair... allowed
to grow long enough and gear up for...
a 14 year old girl's wet-dream in school
of a french braid...
          i had such ambitions for a beard
so long... so long... it would...
tease the length of the whole torso...
from chin down and down to...
the bellybutton!
    in a thick iraqi braid...
       i wasn't so lucky on the face as i was
on the 'ed...
     bets are in... chances of me...
going bald?
   chances of me... having hair on my...
stomach region... my chest...
and patches of my back?
         bets are on... the horses are funny...
sorta running... mildly giggling and
playing: goof... shimmering...
the size of their teeth... as big as their *******
hoofs!

my idea of a haircut?
                      grow it to about bearable...
a comb to the left... a cut on the side...
to comb (hand brush) to the sides...
  and then... cut it down to a bare minimum...
not a skinhead...
   my head isn't best shaped for a king skin...
as one girl told me in high school...
i don't have the...
    well formed pariental / occipital coupling...
one of these bones is diminished in:
curves...
   i curious observation...
i guess that's called an invitation to:
pressure...
        a side-project of the occipital bone
being less protruding...
                          a schlawic shorta shin-diggy-oh...
girl spoke like a confirmed:
proselyte of the soul...
                       of language i can confirm...
it didn't matter it was...
a roman catholic school... in england...
some... confirmation... bias?
then i'd have a confirmation name
to boot with my two already given and a surf-name
surprise!
but i'm still: e = mc...
                     a horrid acronym...
                         eschlert = matthias ck-on-rad...
oh... god! yes!
i love the sound of my own voice so much...
i'm a gifted orator... frequently...
at... some ****-poor party revival
once a year... at... Nuremberg...
    yeah... i love my voice so much...
    i've ejected it from imitation thinking:
internal "monologue" and "air"...
i like it so much: i like it most when
it shuts the **** up...

itchy fingers and pervert eyes...
and domineering eyes...
the kind of eyes that... see...
your and you're...
       the apostrophe and the A like a halo...
hovering above: giggling...
infantile joys...
   never to be revised... but such...
pitiable domineering affairs...
no wonder i never advanced into
the realm of b.d.s.m. of adult joys and
advanced cinematic arena hard-ons:
        
  this one time i can don a hugo boss...
adventure... im grau oder schwarz     (ц)...
                                             (ш)...

all the other letters are kosher...
     but that dream... of a beard... as long...
as the king's hair...
gone... in an instact...
it takes about a month...
  before... everything return to: shabby...
the unkept beard... the irritating moustasche...
and then...
a miracle of having sat at a turkish barber's
with my eyes closed: as one does...
before a mirror... when someone is being
invasive...
      and feeling each and every snippet...
i should have taken
a before & after of my... "vlad the impaler"
deeds with every contort: matter...
a sense of making a rhombus into a sq.
or a sq. into a rhombus...
     oh... hair is easy... cut to a minimum...
a month passes... some jelly is used
in the last 3 weeks of extension...
and then... back to canvas (a) exhibit (0)...

       no point asked for a barber...
the man can cook, the man can bake...
the man has enough fudge muscle to shift
2 tonnes of soil in under 4 hours...
enough leg for 14sqm of experimental golf green
addition to a garden...
otherwise littered with patch-works of
gravel and project: drainage... another tonne
of shingles and pebbles...

    couple that with... a keen insight into...
the barber project... and arrivederci
                                migliore "tenuta"
    correttezza / bellezza: "mississippi"...
          cappoh: cchinno...
                           marble... cake...
                      gas-tap: top-off: shh!
                                      it's a lean...
              a leen in a lean in a: gwan-pazzio!
sounds sounds... suoni! su'oni!
                                      sounds sounds...
there is a morbid sense of meaning... but...
it's all lost to the interlude!

                 there is nothing more gratifying...
than being able to curate your own beard...
and find the sort of cranium crop top
to count the months in a year...
                       never working from:
                                       pelzkopf...
a dream of... roman brush... mochicans...
dipped in... woad blue / purple... / / / / /              

in the democracy of poets...
        in the republic of philosophers...
it has always been like so...
that philosophers dictated a republic...
that the poets... would have to...
somehow... dictate... a democracy...

i have in my possession...
a very strange book... "strange" that it is...
or was part...
of a 20th century curriculum...
a standard of pedagogy from 1967...
   O-level standards...
             we were taught latin: once...
cicero was a go to... beginning
with latin grammar...
first came latin grammar...
then... anglo-saxon shrapnel: "grammar"...
evne the term...

asyndenton... definition?
               this is the absence of conjunctions
between co-ordinate clauses, phrases,
     or "words"... the precise connection
              being inferred from the order of words
and the general sense....

      cicero's "modus operandi" of style...
      -que / et or....         and / and...
              or? speedy gonzales:
   que: what / and...

                   this the "copulative" sense of...
"missing" in-and-between...
                          nouns, adjectives, verbs...
   "words"... synonym pirrouete peacock fest
of grammar "technicality"...
        a "word" for a philologist
                    is a "thing" for a philosopher...

i will not... equip myself with...
what latin grammar i might have...
learned... to have studied such a book...
and its zenith of the year 1967... in a catholic school...
at least a catholic school said:
perhaps - "perhaps" insinuated back then...
latin grammar first...
christian dogma... second!

                adversarities: conjunctions:
                     sed, autem, vero...
example?
                   no example... contrasting clauses...

what of the conjunction: qua - i.e. as being?
or quo?
              privy: quid pro quo...
and one wonders...
the notion of "ego": had to became...
elaborated... isolated...
     given the asyndenton(s) of descartes...
i.e. (ego) cogito ergo (ego) sum...
well then! so much free room and reins!
to isolate the supposed "abstract" he-oi!oi!oink!
"says" so!

we pretend to move forward within cicero's
confines... back in 1967... this was standard
pedagogy!
latin grammar... what am i working with:
said the plastic surgeon to
the jack nicholson joker in that: Dt: fat...
Boatman: a tool a crude scalpel
of grafitti...               ahoy! ahoy! spare island!
Fwyday! vitch iz Velsh! i say!
oi oi!     hell-oooooooooooh!

             almost a sanskrit word...
so it must be!
    hendiadys and the asyndenton...
         the first... in sanskrit...
      please...
                हएनदऌअदईस
           ­       HENDIADYS...
that's as far as i will ever get...
no amount of diacritical marker excavations
will keep track of this:
experiment B'ah-Bel...
              yes... a drying up on the first
conjunction: the natives still speak:
Bay-Bel...
            B'ah-Bel'...

  the pashtun language... afghan women...
landay... something beside the ebb
of the strict skeleton of syllable
count of of a haiku...
or... i'm still token best **** in town
when it comes to:
misnomer: freely open noun usage...

the use of the pronoun IS
implies... there's no pronoun associate
worth a gender neutrality...
          IS is a pronoun...
              how can... IT... also a pronoun...
be... made... double neutral:
when "it" is already facing a neutrality
focus of quiz?

       an abstract noun... though?
to a cicero... an abstract noun...
with... hindsight... would be...
a... microscope...
   an adjective prefix...
   and a bypass of nouns into the verb...
prefix dear verb...
when will that suffix become
a noun and not a doubling of a verb?
of what? of scope!

     to denote an act rather than engage
in it!
          ******* scissor sisters grammar
of the modern age...
they should have taught me latin grammar
than given me
abortion conundrums to begin with:
failure! best kept secret!
aged 16... would make the vatican
proud!
      it's not that i own a baseball cap
that i can flirt with a "noah"
of n.e.w.s. with...
              it's not that...
so much for education...
in 1967 a catholic school would do...
the nun's project proud...
2004? what nun?!

                solitudo erat ea quam voluerasmus...
there was just that seclusion we had wanted...

an "antecedent" noun...
                    i much prefer an "antecedent" verb...
a variation of hammering...
or ******* in "fixes"...
   when there was once...
a turmoil of the jist of knee-armed...
and then... electric: sorrow-sowing of...
the nearby: "fix"...

          this language is best be forgotten...
the otherwise fictive rigour of teaching...
barbarians... a quick-and-easy...
acquisition of... latin: my dear... sir...
because... the english are the afghani sort...
first served: first come... though... last
to topple... anything... worth remembering
a past with 'em: therein!

i call sir! my immediacy...
funny thing... calling "my" in a borrowed...
body... which you... also... cling to...
with a tongue of transcendence...
and... a body's worth of an anchor:
and so! in reverse!
this body of no transcendence!
the old empire...
and this... jailor quizz...
the "asyndenton" of the hebrew...
in... how niqab is your...
                                             niqqud?!
ah!
               שׁ (š)... translated:
                             szkoda: shame...

and שׂ (ś)...       ślizg: slide...

that the hebrews... kept the ancient latin...
play on an asyndenton...
but kept it: vowel primo-intact...
   beside... a mere play on conjunction words...

i giggle... what have i to add?
beside a... ha ha?!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
a many a great things have happened recently...
hmm (insert a weasle's snigger)...
i was watching a russian production of...
the escape from sobibor...
yes... i know that rutger hauer is dead...
but not unless listening to some vex'd...
citations from blade runner:

    firey the angels fell - leaping thunder rolled
around their shoulders -
burning with the fires of orc...

at least that's what i heard...

    i want, more: life... ******... which echoes...
no not that 1987 tv flick...
the russian produiction...
      of recent years...
          upon this the god's green earth...
        i could watch... schindrel's list two times
in a row... before being subjected to...
escape from sobibor...
                if only i had a toothpick handy
and pickles and some martini and god forbid
the onslaught of yawns...
         only one aspect of the film stood out...
a sort of:

    the death of Matti Nykanen...
the finnish ski-jumper who ended up being
a stripper...

    i didn't recognize him at first...
or "at last" i'm usually good with faces...
esp. those on film...

         i think the film itself was supposed to
be... the need to capture "the look"!
      oh believe me... a cary grant or
a gregory peck would never...
                                a rock hudson?
a john wayne: drawl... yep: that six-a-piece
sharp shooter...
guns 'n' roses: civil war...
opening citation: from cool hand luke...
paul newman eating all those... hard-boiled eggs...
paul newman couldn't give "the look"...
that antithesis of roxette's pop stamp...
the verb that is actually a noun...
when there's someone worth it...

no... they could never convince me of ever
having: "the look"... these major actors...
paul newman or a robert redford...
i'm counting only the men...
this one's spezial...

        from first hearing queen... to seeing the movie...
Karl Frenzel...
   that same tortured soul
of a Ralph Fiennes playing Amon Göth...
i had to wonder...
did they decide upon psychopaths...
or was it already a priori from the words
first uttered in the hitlerjunge?

nope... completely amiss...
is that really christopher lambert?
raiden from mortal combat...
connor macleod...
                 hell: if this be the fate of skin
to be a much later devised
disguise in stretch-armstrong of leather...

but it was all about "the look"...
it was so intimidating in it being intimate...
"do you still remember me"...
i don't think i had such trouble
with val kilmer...
then again: who's the busy body
in my receding memory loop-hole to loot
from?

  they must have used dubbing...
otherwise it would seem that christopher lambert
spoke the very base of german
like a puppet of a ghost...
most certainly a changed man...

he had that look in his eyes that read:
i don't remember myself...
this face is no good: for you... either...
and it truly wasn't...
truly petrifying this enigmatic cloak
of ****** features...
but those two voids like a lemniscate (∞)...

i can X with my eyes when concentrating
on the egoism of the tip of my nose
and see the water inside the aquarium
all blurry and salty and mirage prone...
but not this...
this was a sensation of...
seeing an unrecognisable face...

again: i'd sooner revisit watching schindler's
list: because of it being in black & white...
otherwise cudos for the work
by a yanuš kamińци... that red dress:
"here" and... "there"...

for a russian the poles are traitors...
but thank god for the bulgarians
being the bell-boys of their whole
affair of wounded pride...
given the bulgars frequent the aisles
of st. cyril...
             but it looks like... the mongolians
are having... "counter-productive"
thoughts: themselves... good for them!

so close to the germans:
is it eastern europe west of kiev?
is it?
  traitors... oh god... those minor
denominations of the baltic states...
   perhaps... once upon... a time...
prussia would have been just a pocket of influence
akin to estonia... or latvia...
let's not mention lithuania...

it was a christopher lambert... by god...
sure... he was suited to age...
isn't everyone? but not like this...
in a positive way, though...
incomprehensibly unrecognizable...
a loot of enigmas...
well... if gérard depardieu a citizen
of ol' mother russia...
what doesn't stop a christopher lambert...
being dubbed when speaking german
like a manakin does running...
eyes that scream rather than peer...

it's one of those sad affairs of appreciating...
beside theatre... acting...
of course everything is in the detail
of the edit and the production of the end
product: with at very little hiccups as is to be
avoided...
it's a russian production: nonetheless...

but thoese eyes...
i didn't remember him...
was it perhaps donning the uniform...
or was it perhaps... perhaps of:
    seymour hoffman?
   but why couldn't i pick out...
a b-list actor... look at me... mr. hierarchical prone...
but no?
    chris cooper... bruce greenwood...
sure... no problem...
always the general, the "protagonist" of
"real" life... somehow along the line:
hardly a basis of a shadow meets shadow
compromise...

i think i saw a human being that became
unrecognizable from the burden of life
off-screen! i actually found a conviction from
a thespian... i saw two blinding cauldrons
of ire... which was...
ire... it wasn't fire...
    two blinding cauldrons of ire: i saw...
a blue tinge of flame... i saw tears...
it wasn't a purity of fire that will be later
made into a recycling power...
it was...

a fire that keeps intact a status quo...
that unfathomable perspetive
and an unmoveable object:
even if armed with the binding will
of a sisyphean determination:
where are the demons whipping him
to comply?!

   i was two blinding cauldrons of ire...
i saw fluorescent blue of glowing squid and less
revealing monsters of the deep...
i saw... a face disguised as a mask...
i saw a face from beneath a donned niqab...
more clearer than the glee of smile...
the chubby moon-clip
or the scythe of reasons behind...
the bulging shadow of harvests pending...

all this... and not much more...
  i'm good with faces...
   apparently not good enough...
was it really christopher lambert playing
karl frenzel in escape from sobibor?
i try to bypass the glamour and all that dry
artifact affair of keeping score...
to denounce all actors as...
the last and the least obliged to put pressure
and fathomability of the concern
for human... "things"....

what sort of a man is a christopher lambert
wearing.. if his eyes are...
pencils and needles piercing me...
that i can't recognise his face?
have i been gorging on too many
digestive biscuits... or something?

    by faking it... but i didn't see a slouch
of wanting to fake it...
given the numbers...
          what are the puny rhymes...
                   i want to see a rhyme
that riddled a blunt hammer-axe at the end
of this... foreboding of "contemplation"...
i want to find it soothing
for man to justify the antics of a slaughterhouse
concerning the wailing pigs
and the... cowering aum litany of the...
sanctity of beef...
            or the lesser kind via
the goat of the graces of riccota...

          i don't exactly know what i saw
in those eyes...
    but i saw enough to make me forget
a face.... i would most, be assured to...
have a memory of...
i was drawn into the eyes...
it's not like brian may aged so badly...

i did see the flabby skin of a pig become
stretched... then contracted...
over a square mile of a Berliner's post-code
"hum and oops"...
    little ******* good that would ever
do me!

              these tires need to be burned...
this soil needs to be shovelled...
this butter needs to be spread on
oozing warmth toast...
this rootweiler requires a leash:
are you the sort of walker
to allow a lessening of tension...
mind you: this "hanz" and "heinrich"
tends to tug along like
a pirañha on a diet...

                 the other head
of... the clamour fest... of feeding of...
cerberus... this night-walker this...
shadow-thief...
                   this... burden of my pride...
synonym coupled with ego...
rottweiler to the east...
       dobermann-pinscher to the west...
get this...
a ******* pop-up head of
a dachshund heading south:
                                        in lombardy!
hey presto...
                    my luvvie-dubbie companion!

for me... give me a harem of 72 dogs...
i'll sooner dog-wrestle bit
and chow-mein
and clash with teeth before...
         don't make me...
preside over the gratification of having
72 virgins: that same number
of the names ascribed to the hebrew god:
you and not you...
"you" hairy-hey-rab! ibin!

there's a barking... i'm pretty sure i don't
hear anything worth biting into?!
i'm quiet unamused hearing barking...
when i'm not entertaining
the convinction to suma summarum
it with: chewing...

              i would most certainly like
to hear less barking...
****** punctures of flesh...
i'd like that very much...

              i'd like filled stomachs of dogs
to be the only precursors...
the wolves are at the gates...
    
           words like daffodils easily
plucked up...
                  is that serious enough of "us"
to have these minor griefs...
as... vectors for what's to become
of the unfolding rest?
Renae Nov 2014
You will never lose my love
O Jehovah
Your's is an enduring love
Humility is your cup
For you have allowed
The most rebellious
To stand in your rightful place
Teaching us consequences
realities
You love truth & justice
You love what is good
You hate what is bad
You have shown your strength
in the face of adversity
Independent of you
Mankind will always fail
Setting up walls for greed to enter
Men destroy themselves
In war, injustice,
Tearing apart the family bond

Boundaries
are what you will tear away
From the earth
A human family is your desire
Your stand is strong as stone
Your decisions are unmoveable
Trustworthy are your ways
The right belongs to you
You are merciful beyond the meaning
In the end all will bow low
All will understand
You have made life
You have sacrificed
More than any being could imagine
You are worthy to rule
You are the rightful owner
I love you Jehovah God
Mary Alexander May 2018
I wanted to speak of the infinite
To chase the stars and lose
myself in the waves.
I wanted to scream of the unheard.
To challenge the unmoveable and
Rise through winds laced with flame.
I wanted to keep moving.
But you always preferred standing still.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2020
better than a poem.... a promenade...
          not the noun "vs." noun...
in the realm of verbs...
it's one "thing" to call a tomato a fruit...
a cucumber a vegetable...

salmon pink moon hue
with an air tonight
so crisp: it deserves discovering INXS
for the first time...

this mighty biscuit of the moon...
hardly shipwrecked against
some distant constellation...
or itching rooftops or
teasing mountains...

everything was so alive
in the cool breeze...
no gods were summoned
to explain... this solipsistic adventure...

teased by the senses
with a leverage to tickle the extremes...
and bubbles towed...

such an icy prized briefing
of locality:
towing a mind like an anchor...
before the altar of
what two feet spine erectus...
became a cinema of
the centipede...

    better than a poem...
a promenade...
hell... this deserves a mathematical
sharpening:

crude...
   a poem < a promenade...
and i passed one of these two or three...
restaurants...
the schizophrenic riddled:
futuristic no flying cars though...
no neon strobe epileptic lighting
worth a tomorrow...

   a poem < a promenade...
    the air was electric... it was...
stealth in giving juice...
even the pavement seemed to
be clapping...
with each ninja step placed
with imitation of the stealth cat
passing by gravitating toward
the concept of ghosts...

a poem < a promenade...
          what seemed intact...
and what was already bound
to outer-urban decay:
the differential scrutiny didn't
bother me...

almost two weeks freed from...
medication that aimed
to make me better...
herr schwachkopf...
and this is somehow...
not "challenged"... somehow...
the hippocratic oath
in the realm of psychiatry...

           extensions of a willingness
come: falling asleep today...
if only it came down to the crux:
of becoming: debilitated by
a heartbreak...

ghost buses... tonne load of shadows
and freak-out...
constrict imitation glue...
random words:
borrowed lexicon-bombs...

a poem < a promenade...
    <
            <           <     <

i see the symbol... and i know the words
hidden within them...
a poem <is less than> a promenade...
unlike diacritical marks...
or the critique of punctuation:
     colon no italics...
because... colon = italics...

outside of the claustrophobia /
myopia of a prosaic paragraph and...
staging a fake *** dialogue?
              < contra... š...
                                  ж (fwench je suis)...
                   ш...     SHape of... ****...
                       >            hôpital ...
           <š
                             ô>:
   let's just pretend...     H is a surd in english
too...        the apostrophe could be
more frequently used...
causing revelation when it
and it would always come down
to... a...     'ammering...

   (best plugged in...)

rock-cho'-kim-ouch-and-then-the-chewing...
like... bargain busting
an ape *** from moor-yokko-coco-solo-oh-no!
straight up to the moon...
for a telescope riddle-me-this...
sorting session...

japanese gravure... idols...
**** as an insinuation...
because... i have a **** the equivalent
of a prized bull...
and she has a face and a mouth...
like any... porcelain doll might...
unequivocally: lambasting... a concept
of... a tired old grenade...

   teeth like double-dodgers...
of a... corn-flake smiley...
                
     2 < 3...
                 4 > 3...
                              a vowel < a consonant...
but no "lost" meaning...
                      when borrowed...
forbidden pleasures...
the forbidding: a mere thought of...
having to not grieve...
all the already in tow... restrictions...
sensible pleasures...
            
    the theatre of thought...
marquis de sade's ******...
                        "vs." nabokov's ******....

daddy issues...
mummy issues: ed gein...
                             subconsciously...
unconsciously... and...
                   all these ******* dreams...

power-pill mode...
                 my own little escapade of...
rummaging in lost details...
     word-bombs of spontaneity...
a poem < than...
    < it comes from its own... demand...
the word: than...
   a poem <
                 is, less, than...
                                      a promenade...
this evening of... slow-coach and
loitering for the moon... hued with a tinge
of teasing smoken salmon...
hanging low...
  шut up! i too thought about...
                   suit... the mingled with rugby posts
of a H...
  not AN h...
                              
                       a solipsism is not autism...
it's... oscar winning performances
of winging-it... simulation practices...
   wouldn't anyone not tire...
of all those *******... formal cameo
conversations to degrease the cognitive loop
of animation imitating inanimate objects...

like... walking into a store...
like a painting...
and... "suddenly"...
a person is presribed to your presence...
since... he alone can move...
those unmoveable objects...
onto the counter of you making
a transaction...

         i abhor faking those
formal cameo conversations...
of shopping for essentials...
     when i know the money i will spend...
is not the money i need conversation /
extra attention for...
if i were walking into a shop...
unexpected in somehow spending more...
than i expected...
   i walk in to buy a skeleton...
or some muscular mush since i already
own an exoskeleton...
    
          as i am about to solve the "mystery"
of cow-towed europe...
with count of 3 rotten teeth...
1 of mine... 2 of my father...
                 it's that blessed presumption
of democracy in the great western slavic
enterprise of: what once was...
the brothel of kings that's currently:
in situ with a synonym: poland...
     or: king john's nickname...
lackland...
   ******'and!
        laugh out loud: when living strapped
to a people with a clarity of border...
sea! to the north! of us!
sea! to the east! of us!
sea! to the west! of us!
sea! to the south! of us!
   oi! geoffrey! oi! paddle!
we're getting from this ****** perspective
of: island... we're... heading... straight...
to the moon... to **** around
with hans christine andersen....

         dream big! no ottomans or mongols
are or will ever be at... our doorstep...
from the period of the norman invasion...
from the romans... such pride...
the last usurper of peace...
was a... 20th century zeppelin...
  and... that's about it...

i like living the basic truth of being
a historical continuum unit...
true... not children... i'll foster some...
one is bound to foster some...
in the end...
hell... i'll give up my mind to foster them...
so much less heart...
when it comes to investing in a future...
i was always prescribed a future:
i wrote for the present...
a "circa"...
                          because i never believed
in children with a personal
investment on the cards...
i can't imagine...
i tried a placebo once...
a distant cousin of mine...
aged... toddler-weight...
i was frankenstein: he was...
again: i was the monster...
what i fiddled with was...
a ***** of glue...
glue and mortar...
        details of bone...
breath... later invested in brat...
and... precursor details of a budding
physiognomy: a detail of...
prejudice... etc.          etc.

i know i would be a terrible father...
i'd be a father that wouldn't...
speak to its child...
i'd treat it like...
that experiment... prescribed by...
   frederick (II) hohenstaufen...
what tongue came first: budding...
from the downfall of babel...
and the resurrection...
a babel for a tower... a pyramid scheme...
for all loss of reins...

i don't know how i should suffer...
not having a child in that...
i don't know how...
i would not abound in glee...
having prescribed him or her...
my signature of mistakes to replica...
unique signature... sure...
but still... somehow...
a detailed study of a clone in...
"will"... in "free will"...
                
       i own a bed... but i rather sleep on
the floor... bone breaking experience:
call for dog... on the clarity of wood...
i own a bed... but i rather sleep on
the floor....

             brothels... oh the scents...
bourbon... mostly... sickly sweet whiskey...
brothels and bourbon...
i went to them to excavate...
an amnesia...
if came back... riddling that...
lost and last pride of....
   after we ****: we kiss...
sleeping with glued pucker ties
to: the kisser...
of them: making a signature
with a tease of a... crow-hark...
     signature... crease..
                    an extension exclaiming:
pardon! pardon! signature...
    the pause...
                         a signature weaving...
braid teasing...
**** with a mohawk or...
a real trim-razor funk of...
         the 80's hype of... mr. mullet...
big fig in new zealand and
              alpha male rugby boyo...

how her eyes softened when i closed
them with a kiss...
of course we retired from pistons and ferrari
buckaroo...
                  i come to retire my mind
with a cinema of a brothel...
i come to... desire less and less
of a memory: knowing that there's
a serenity of having invested in...

           i tend to use two mirrors to have
to concentrate on being...
debased by a selfie...
or what once was...
   the missing ******... narrator...
  i need two mirrors to take a "selfie"...
ever wonder and bewilder yourself
with the days...
when people took photographs of you...
unsuspecting?!
nivek Sep 2014
not all unmoveable objects need to be circumvented
some are telling you try a different way entirely
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
I'm not a poet... just a blah-blah machine... intellectual stuttering does involve: searching for... the best choice of words: which do not necessarily add, toward a nomination of intellectual girth... delayed stature... a Pole, like Jew, is more himself in exile, than with a stubborn claim of "origin", or rather, past... a people who have truly understood themselves, among themselves, are the ones without a heritage of a land... which is an ultra-form of democracy: the people have already spoken... the people, having no obligation for: a people... have no necessity for: a land... the Germans are infants in this line of argument, given: der VOLK... 2nd nomadic participation of a secularised people are the Poles... least because the most vocal among the throng of Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians... grind teeth and say Crimea is not Ukrainian... where land and people are synonymous, in development.

it's sometimes hard to envision the democratised voice as not being either: too personally "impractical", or too "impersonally" practical; of which, politicians fall into the latter category... hence democrscy's shadow dictator, known as the status quo... mind you... even Sisyphus wasn't allocated the task of moving an unmoveable stone... that being said, i feel no need to bask in some intellectual tectonic shift observation, as this is, quite simply, the most unnecessary allocation of words that, needless to say, are said, without encompassing a motivation for any subsequent dynamo expression... lazily rolling a cigarette as precursor, and... a serpentine of rattling skeletons like playing a magician's, xylophone.

       a cold shot of 100ml of żołądkowa gorzka, followed by a rolled sweet Virginia tobacco cigarette... and a walk in a park... high spring scents... and that perfect companion readied for mirror and introversion: there are two, shadow at my most nihilistic, and "loneliness"... at my zenith, which is a gratitude, resembling the closest excavation of the truth bound to carpe diem: a sunset... was it ever going to be a day worth
completing?

     the conundrum of a stiff 5am wake up call,
   some would call it, a stretch of the imagination
to craft a pivot on, that might realise a continuum...
    closer to the heart an empty stomach,
than a claustrophobic mind...
    for once in my life I imagine people
who find thinking unbearable,
   trying to measure their ails in the ethereal,
dissecting the mind entwined with
the soul, or what some would argue is
the sigma of the mechanisation of
the body... nibbling at love from
the unconscious rhythm of the heart,
prodding at desynchronised patterns,
aches of loving bound to
a scaffold without an executioner:
other than oneself...
      perpetually seeking a biography
spanning but two weeks,
    of Nabokov's counter-lollipop-16
frizz in goosebumps...
     my... am I so sterile as to dream-up
a cougar on a leash?!
                 porcelain beauty
before the altar of a bull and
the infuriating moorish -sculinity...
porcelain youth,
    hybrid came the minotaur...
somehow archetypes are stiff
as the introduction of the god
Solipssus into the parthenon...

   un-*******-believable:
    Fraiser's concept of self
some greenish 'reesh 'nome -
  can we do away with the surd letters?
there aren't that many after all,
given the english are famously
tingue-numb vowel impersonating
consonant "grievers' wounds"...
        'ockney 'acking 'ockney,
and some dame off her frrrrr'ah
  ick'ing         'ockers!
       hmm.... súm!
     anything to get past
old riveriera, *** Sinatra...  
   *** martini super dry with
a dupper-uber wet:
    snout of a mole in the caverns of
finding false teeth and
dangling ding-**** virginity...

in a brothel 'ardly the cherry picker...
if you've never been...
   you've never been,
                  and s much can be said
about that...
       what do you call an Arabian
leech?
        a minor European with a taste
for Bulgarian seconds...
   but of course, that white....
  dress is because we all took to
replica monogamy of certain animals
seriously...
          but that weight of
a ring finger,
     has me itching for the down-trodden
being mawled in my mouth
to later constitute pet food,
   almost seems familiar,
but not quiet,
    came those seeking fire and
were vigour prone,
came the necromancer and
tried to raise the dead,
before the living priesthood
began talking with the lead tongue
of mammon...

     the ones who do not monetary
authenticity in the following coins:
a pence, a two pence, ten, twenty,
fifty... perhaps a quid...
     a snippet of royal metal...
   why wham! and not aha!
                               ?
too much, eureka connotations?
bewildering, like 500ml bottle of *****
in Poland, and 25ml "shots" in England...
**** first of puke blood prior to
taking a ****?
        dunno! hence the tycoon
bonanza!
   a bit like asking a pirate parrot
for a quote only by pulling out
one of its feathers... to get the...
    mechanical parts: geared up to
Cucklington.... and that is by no means
a place i can associate, either drunk,
or sober.

   how the hell do people even find
the diem or the motive behind it,
to craft the sort of "1 + 1 = 2"
   momentum, that becomes carpe diem?!
I heard some say (well, I thought it
through):
     dzień ma zbyt wield małych "trosk" - - - - -
(wyroków by zważać na innych...
       tzn. rz pirdole skolną
    ortografie bez autobiograficznego
  zaparcia na: NEIN!
  szambo szfedzkie...
     wiwat!
                 F to finał...
  nad machaną rę(n)ką...
   czyli, tyczy to:
       wodą... e e e! goń ty sam
zza gównem...
                 pierdolonym Soviet
ma tylko bjet...
     bjet... ubogi nasz pan...
       twinie!
                     maciuk jet harciuk!
ble na nowo (Ь)
     i ble na start (Ъ)
                       to mi... kurwa... nowina!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
   (I lost the sense of paragraph
and punctuation)
       the world already knows
of those who shoved carpe diem
down the ***** of public figures,
and lived out
the motto of: carpe tutti...

  better english with none,
than Russian with.... pseudo
impressionism of diacritical marks
beside the geometrical
revisionists of the blank canvas...
    thing...
        nice post-Greek lettering,
shame about
the lack of... finesse...
           when teasing the third tier
of lieracy,
   spelling, grammar ****,
     punctuation, breathing ****,
and diacritical distinction:
**** thappy toad zee gwafrifrifritee!
B7LVARK...

         there is nothing grammatical
about spelling...
             there is simply an aesthetic
involved...
          an "orthography"...
minus the "grammar" Nazis comes...
   the people that say:
   I really don't see why literacy is a
necessary benchmark of education
for the sort of jobs,
    that really require nothing more
than consumer supervision of:
the minimum literacy of
reading advertisements...
         what else?
    if people are sour about an aesthetic
of the written word...
without concern for punctuation...
let alone diacritical application...

PEOPLE ARE SEMI-LITERATE...
     if grammar "nazis" exist,
then people are semi-literate...
   they equate thinking with speaking...
and then file "complaints"...
   as to how their thinking
diverges from speaking
because of sophistry,
    and how talking doesn't integrate
itself back into thinking
because of philosophy.

filozofia: zapał, i - las ~ zapałek.

I've seen carpe diem exhausted
on the shoulders of the routines
of retirees;
    better the life akin to the thrills
of a doormouse,
  or an intellectual,
than some, mythical Taj Mahal of
orgams, reduced,
   into a pale lighthouse insignia
of violent purple, namely black,
masquerading white,
in a sober, en masse, funeral yawn
grey.

   this can only become a "difficult"
reading, something that always seems
to excavate: primo uno...
     and nein auf omega...
   not as an insult this... "thing"
concerning a semi-literate people,
just concerning the people:
who have been taught to read
in order to "read enough"...
   and how much of that is focused
on punctuation?

       tilde contra macron.
just an idea of fathoming pause,
and the comma, ' from above...
     e.g.
                  czas ~ na mosty
   sound slightly different to
    czas - na mosty...

       in no defence and with no concern
for a rubric of populism,
   the half-forgotten:
  neue-punctuation: Saß...
              given the Oxford compound
of the attempt to break (-) away from
using shrapnel...

hence by "arrogant" claim concerning
the literacy of the genral populace...
these come as minor observations with
minor impetus being guaranteed
of populist dent...
          flimsy ******* gay
oops-e-daisy patchwork Adams sort
of reminders to begin a tomorrow
as brimming on: "resolve"...
   and above all: impetus!

      the men should join the army...
Bratislava quarter limbed voters
and the crab eating fetish
reaching its penultimate lap...
for some reason,
I haven't been given the Darwinian
drive,
   somehow lost with
the remainder of my inheritance,
ha ha! slumped into
a canvas remindful of a:
cinemagoers' jerking off screenplay.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2018
against Wittgeinstein: better than writing
a book of philosophy acquiring a focus
on a joke - write one that is a "symptom"-free
of possessing too many nouns...
for what is best ascribed of a fluidity
of conversation if not having to:
look for a word?
                               i'd like to escort myself
through what's otherwise a clutter -
to have so many nouns and to utilise
so few... to allow a "caustrophobia" to creep
in and only allow myself with a: "confrontation"
of "my" inability to secure myself
a focus on competent mushroom-picking:
to differentiate between
              the poisonous,
the hallucinogenic, the edible...
    is there a theory of everything?
unless there's a universal man...
and there is no universal man construct...
      would i like to live with the obligation
of a slaughterhouse "exam"?
          i suppose the vogue of vegeterianism
would ease the "obligation"...
see, there's this nuance of expression,
the antithesis of playing Sherlock with nouns...
what's the word? ah: nuance -
whatever word comes to acquisition -
   aired: or the duplicate of ditto in linear
rather than a vertical fathomable-
     (the hyphen indicates
an open question, or probe of the conclusive
word) - what? crest?!
   that's a retortion-question -
  it's not a question per se equivalent to a mere ?
because why would you need to
exclaim a point?
           language, i find, can be as simple
as it's necessarily used:
    and it can be used as there is a necessity
for it being used, which there is...
but there's also a form of language
that can't be used, with or without
a necessity of use...
            you can strip a man from
a realism of nationhood,
    but stripping him of grammatical
constructs: is more painful than
stripping him of a "nationhood":
in that the reply is: fight apathy with apathy...
i absolve myself from the ridicule
you placed in using your tongue:
let me tell you a line one above this:
i, don't, necessitate: to care...
      but you cannot bleach more than
the already enforced pronoun bleaching
your people fused...
   pro... noun... let me give you an example
of what happens when you're
"pro" nouns... if i took you into a forest
and asked you to name me the edible
mushrooms... would "you" be able to tell
me which ones i should pick?
you obviously haven't seen
the freedom of the exploring
   parasite known as mistelzweig on trees
in your native land? i have...
   then again: the Poles have a knack of
making "foreign" words incorporate -
the so-called lend words are actually
absorbed as: we said them first...
      i can't recite the examples...
   but i can say: schab is also
              schnycel -
            it's only tribalism if you don't
have a skin to embody...
        i can speak this tongue -
but i can also return to not speaking it
and being an avid radio listener...
               this, after all, being
a post-germanic entity...
       i can point out an afro-saxon and
an anglo-slav...
                   but then i'll always know
a Pict...
               what is apparent is that i was
not supposed to escape the
migrating economic gulag of workers...
        i was not supposed to express
such: "fancies"...
         or i was... but such was the astounded:
reception!
            so what was the "word" i was
looking for? ah... i forgot:
since i've named all things unimagined
and forgot to keep the ones i needed
having to regress into an authenticity
of household / vocab chores of a tidy
head...
                  trans-temporal fame seems to
arise from: not being read - or, being read:
being misunderstood...
       i am simply abhoring the
"punctuation marks" of a "lost"
                                       word equivalence...
even if political discourse abhors
centrism - a "central" government -
our politics certainly does...
     in everyday talk...
                 because why would you
cite an obscure source?
              why would you cite an
obscurity to fathom the collectivism of
the human race?
                     i.e. a collectivism of
what man could ever be: staged?
            who can obliterate himself to
cite Kant's reading list as read before
actually having read some of the author's
output?
      seems easier to climb a mountain -
and then again:
    the mountain seems like a grain of sand
compared with representation
of the human mind:              ? -
as the body is all:          !                  
                                    for what more?
yet whatever "reality" is implied by / with -
is that i lack a vocation of
an all-encompassing compass of
  coordinating ordinance -
   and that really is a focus of individualism:
with unanimous counter-arguments:
yes, inter-and-intra-speciem:
           there be a language -
and a language beyond any prayer -
to be agreeable to god...
         as written:
   without a care to usher in prayer -
but i, as an unfathomable force -
      breathing against an unmoveable object -
or rather: the most malleable subject -
a bowing shadow beneath a mountain
akin to the mountain casting shadow
   while bowing before the end of day...
   us akin: making wisdom not
the frivolity of poetry: or rather -
not allowing wisdom to become
  the frivolity of poetry...
              i will only allow the non-existence of
the most simplest artefact with
holding an emerald the size of my right
eye, if i meet a hafiz of all tongues -
       until that day: the concept of justice
of man is at once a cross:
            and a crooked shadow behind it.

p.s. better to write a philosophy book
making jokes is to allow oneself to...
               just bouncing off grammatical words
categorising differences is enough...
    i never learned the concept of a noun
without prior learning the fact that:
i could not encompass the category -
hence my "sudden" search for:
              a noun-neuter. i.e.:
                  thing, nothing -
oh, right: gender-neutrality is a current
"thing", isn't it?
   **** me! h'america in a tin of sardines!
eurecka! i've found it!
   wait wait... why is nothing a pronoun
and not a noun-neuter?
      i could topple the skyscrapper without
laying a single brick to see it
elevated, but still have the audacity to
say thing when "describing":"      
      mushroom, giraffe, aeroplane, mountain,
sputnik...
     noun-neutrality...
       i have yet to allow myself
learning the rigidity of a language supervised
by grammar...
     as far as i can follow a sequence
    of "events" that spell out:
    last saturday was hardly a memorable day
worth having a narrative extract for.
- and yes, a Scot taught me how to
avoid grammar - while at the same time
attacking it.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
if only it were a presupposition,
chicken and the egg,
i before the thought...
some say art and squiggly wriggly,
some say philosophy and crosswords
and establishing a rigid,
unmoveable vocabulary,
contending with: what if
the toils of Sisyphus were marred
by a ultra static boulder?
the toils of thought are hardly
the joys of rest, with authentic earning,
from physical labour,
but since the persistence of
slavery, the butterfly and the tornado...
i have to concede to the notion
of a vanity project...
         the proposition rests though
on cogito pre sum, non ergo...
not from a drop of rain
ever came a hurricane...
    wishful thinking...
    cogitatio est non ad continuum...
organic chemistry,
and the zenith of gastronomy...
because what is Roman bulimia?
men aside, boys and tiger moms...
came the leash an the gorilla
doubled-up on ape **** bonkers...
no Ottoman barber: nothing but
a mohican for: moi!
the comforts of a pension,
the doubled comforts of
the ***** and zizzy tele viz.
shtatwick 5pm Sunday bollocking
of: finally! the Everest of all things
                 mundane!
but it's not art when I say
that the proposition:
       I think, I doubt... I am...
counter?
   I think, I deny... others are...
    i "love"...
mizaru, kikazaru... iwazaru...
came a rigid vocabulary,
     strict and bite whipping
off of a cane...
                     yet the hot air balloon
terminology...
liberal this, conservative that...
hello my name if Bob...
  how did the world suddenly become
focused on a footnote
from the introduction
to Nietzsche's: human, all too human?
i. e.:
             the excavating proposition
aligns a precursor (thought)
with a cursor (probesein... statischsein),
yet the libra of extricates
lays foundation on:
    a cursor, without an authenticity
of a pre-cursor...
or rather, th cursor curates
stasis, rather than vehemence
of a said, definition ascribed to its
propagation...
potocznie:
when people say they are liberals,
or conservatives,
they do not express a thought
designated to satisfying an observable
liberal / conservative...
a mistrust in political agents
has become translated into
a mistrust of media agents...
and as such, both are byproducts
of a thespian over-saturation,
a mob-pop mono-kultur...
               sentences become like crosswords
when a rigid vocabulary is found...
the dust already settles,
on the rigidity of:
not the nostalgia of a time,
but that,  of a... naive idea...
counter to the delusion...
that the ontology of man...
is trans stasis...
                  as a proposition, within
the framework of the collected
arithmetic of ergo....
   cogito comes prior to sum...
         ergo, id est: subsequently....
but as a preposition...
      ▪cogito *** sum...
      thought comes *with
being,
in that the simultaneousness is
intra-changeable...
    mutually exclusive...
                  rather than inter-dependent...
mutually inclusive...
   for all the artists...
and why would I suddenly
write you a Slaughterhouse 5...
   had I not stuck to the complexity
of chemistry, allowing myself
the remnant of humanity in me,
to say: and this is how you think
about stupid ****,
rather than do, even more, stupid ****?
and to think,
close proximity wording,
Heidegger, german existentialism
above the french,
and... whatever the hell
the anglo-impetus implies...
          chiselling at Chiswick
a prefix battling over milimetres
of meaning...
     told apart...
                luckily with
hard copies of books...
  people don't have the audacity
to leave comments...
      unless other the phone,
and not anonymous...
perhaps as members of a book club...
   the best introduction to philosophy
still resides with Bertrand Russell's...
let's face it...
   the man died with
the sort of schoolboy stamina
to regurgitate.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
toward the death trap of religion,
or the life unbecome
in act, whether with the existence
or the non-existence of a god;
justices upon the the
of judaism, equating itself within
atheism...
imagine the matter fathomable
and moveable -
yet uncertain -
or a centrity of the unfathomable,
and the unmoveable;
i tire either side of the argument,
i am simply exhausted minding both
stages with both the cares for actors
staged...
           i'm tired...
            please reducue wording to
the basics of arithmetics: i.e.
spelling.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
Q vs. Q.

half Q:
is that: queue
or quiet (shh) or
quint... essential:
or quaint:
q: to a degree of
similarity:
as if: like:
quiet vs. quaint
and this word
in between: not quint...
KITE: Q-WHITE like...
"x"... ah!
in a small dosage:
quiet vs. quite!
cwy-yet vs. cwy't!
that's Velsh for
woe-yew-you-
woo!

she really should be throwing these empty promises during *******, this is the 2nd time she had this WILD idea when we were *******: she just comes out with it: ooh! i'm not working on this or that day: why don't we meet up?! first time round i tried to compromise by telling her: let's spend the day together, go to an art gallery, have dinner and i'll arrange a hotel room somewhere... that backfired... some excuse... this time round she said: can you come to mine for the night? it was supposed to be today, a new excuse: not enough girls are working in the brothel... i'm not even disappointed, not hung-up... how can i be? it's paradoxical for a ******* to somehow give up her earnings when you visit her... the second time she had this WILD (personally? stupid) idea she mentioned me going to her house: i broke it down to her... why suggest something like this, if you can't promise anything and: why wouldn't you be apprehensive, i would know where you live, i might be the sort of guy who'd enter a state of jealous frenzy, there are countless other possibilities, i could turn into a stalker, mind you: i'm paying to have *** with you in the brothel, but the default of you turning around and telling me that i could have it for free and for the whole night? of course i'd ******* like a Trojan cohort, all night long... but it doesn't make sense for you to devalue your position and giving it up like that... i would have to bring gifts instead of money, because outside of a brothel setting i wouldn't be paying you: i'd have to lavish you with something you yourself couldn't have the power to exchange... i just don't want to understand why she's having these wavering moments: either i'm that good in bed or she's... she's already talking to me about her perspective on life: she showed me her project back in Turkey: a 5 bedroom villa... if i could? sure... i'd probably move to Turkey... i don't think her past would interest me even then: mind you... as a single mother it would be a lot easier to foster a child given that child is a female: i have enough of an imagination having read Marquis de Sade's ****** to know that... it's best to stay away from a mother and her son... a single mother and her son... it's different with a single mother and her daughter... but i do hope she could finally make her mind up... stop fantasising... i know i have stopped being disappointed: it's just that i was ready to make plans for tonight and now my plans are shattered: no matter... i have a bottle of whiskey that i need to control my irritable bowels after yesterday's shitless day being strapped to a 12h shift... with no time to take a ****: i arrived home and only managed to squeeze out two little KAKASHKAS (little **** in Russian)... today the **** heavens opened and i was making up lost time that would have been spent on the throne of thrones... but i remember playing this game before... if it isn't with Khedra now: it was with Jemminah some other time (the girl who dried to spread rumours about me drinking on the job) - i saw her eyes initially glare up with glitter upon seeing me for the first time, then she sabotaged any prospects... but that's beside the point: she also invited me over to her house, i already knew where she was living, she invited me over, i pampered myself, decided to bring a bottle of wine of my own making for her to taste; well, if it's homemade it's going to be somewhat cloudy, i don't have industrial scale filtering machinery, so in order for to not think that she was drinking poison i brought with me a bottle of Franziskaner Weissbier with me: also cloudy... point being, she invited me... thankfully i turned my phone off (per usual) when travelling, i don't like being disturbed, i walked to her house and there she stood: surprised... apparently she sent me a text just after i left whereby she informed me about "being unwell"... like hell she was... the moment she started drinking my wine she was doing little dances and singing along to her favorite Dua Lipa songs... so i know the "game": but it's less a game and more the ontology of a woman... that wavering double-doubtful standard that women have: oh sure! they're so ****** confident initially! but when it comes to following up on her spontaneity she can't do it! i don't know if a woman needs an advocate to follow-up on her pursuits and wants... but like with Jemminah and like with Khedra i feel tired at all this wishy-washy talk of doing something and then backing out of actually doing it... how many times have i been apprehensive when thrown into the deep end of any given situation, having to overcome the initial nerves, adapting to the situation: meeting on the ***** of gradations and: sure as ****... whether walking up that ***** or walking down it... adapting with whatever comfort is allowed to muster! this game of female promises requires looking for appropriate music... DELTA KOMPLEX - darkside... never heard it before... but i'm just tired... i'll just have to distance myself from Khedra... i have some spare €90 that i will exchange and go back to the brothel and ignore Khedra... she already said it's alright that i go with some other girl when she's there... i guess i have to now, this little sadness: because i have to call it a little sadness is not some grand complex of depression... mind you: i'm already tired from a shift that truly pushed me, so it's a mixture of little sadness and exhaustion... i just don't want to be promised anything in the future...

a backlog in my writing habit... it has become very messy,
but the spontaneous occasion called for it...
ever since Thursday the 8th of September i haven't
been able to stick to my predictable habit...
anyone with a hyper-focus for habits will tell you
that breaking a certain, no, that breaking
a workaholic-alcoholic's habits is terribly lethargic:
a person like that: like me loses momentum...
becomes sloppy... boring; prosaic...
    like now: i don't know at what point i will rekindle
myself to my self-poetic... when i will i will feel
a sense of pleasure in my writing, until then i am merely
ploughing along: digging a trench...
but in order to find something spectacular (again)
i will have to write this mundane garbage
  of overt self-awareness...

Thursday 8th September 2022

she died on the dot just when we thought we would
be able to cancel the match between West Ham
and Steaua București... but the general admission doors
opened at 18:30... she died on the mark...
so it was too late... the whole shift felt surreal...

after the shift i headed to the brothel,
met an Afghan "Jamie" who gave me the best **** outside
of Amsterdam...
who did i **** that time round?
it wasn't Khedra? it was that blonde girl who didn't
want to have penetrative *** and instead
spent half an hour hyper-focused on *******...
but since the 8th i must have been at the brothel
another time... no... it was in the ante-chamber
where all the prostitutes sit like judges
rather than you as the person choosing which one
to take with you Marie's name-day birthday
(it used to happen in eastern Europe)
IMIENINY...
                          Khedra jumps up with a protest!
but it's my birthday on Saturday, i'll be 17 (again)!
o.k. i'll come on Saturday...
no! i did see her between the 8th and the 17th
at some point... i remember promising her that i would...
whichever day it was...

Wednesday 14th September 2022

a terrible shift at Charing Cross Station:
literally a ****-show...
a plan B in terms of organising crowd traffic...
so many rude people...
when she was moved from Buckingham Palace
to Westminster Hall...
the access to Charing Cross Station was
blocked at the top of Villiers St...
i was placed there... we had one jumper
over the fences... which was good...
but people were so ******* that they had
to walk the extra 500 or so metres to Adam St
and back onto Villiers St...
                        why were so many people buzzing
with that angry disorientation?
hell... 12 hours... i think that's when i saw Khedra
and promised her to come on Saturday...
it must have been: i wanted to relax by *******...

Friday 16th of September 2022

i took the Thursday, but promises being promises
i took the whole day to think about:
what will i give her? i can't give her a book...
or a music album... flowers?! eh... nah...
jewelry? Matthew: get stuffed: think! think!
it's "too early" for jewelry... it's not even "early" or
for that matter "late": it's just a simple NO...
she's a *******... i do take making "love" to her
seriously... but let's not go there...
she'll put a ring on her finger and admire it
she'll put a necklace around her neck and admire it
in a way that will make her feel like she has
dominion over me...
what else is there? something that i can benefit from?
d'uh! what did she sent you last time
you finished *** and were just talking?
a picture of herself in **** lingerie...
standing on tip-toes exposing her magnificent ****
of an ***!
well then! it's settled! you'll go and buy her lingerie...
mind you: it's not like you're stupid enough
to pay for the entire hour like you used to:
£120 is too much: those £60 half and hour sessions
are much better... because you can go more
frequently... mind you... if you went back
to those hour sessions... she would waste your time
for the second part of the hour...
or the first... however it works with them...
since then, i.e. figuring out the dynamics of the brothel:
i think i can afford to give her a lingerie piece
worth £50... and that's what i did...
i went into Ann Summers and leeched off the female
whims and fancies of the nerdy girl behind the counter...
i had to correct her when she chose a pink three piece...
she chose the most terrible shade of pink...
it was glaring almost fluorescent pink... shocking pink
i'd call it... i said i preferred the rose pink:
the toned down pink... oh... and the tights?
they have to be white... no... black would go terribly
with her Turkish complexion... they need to be white...
Khedra gave me her size... just bra size... 36B...
seeing how a bra looked on her after ***
i told the nerdy girl: she's exaggerating...
she's much smaller... more like 36A or 34B...
if that... 34A...
the nerdy girl asked how tall she was...
i eyed her up and down then took out a "measuring tape"
of comparisons and my four horsemen of the apocalypse
i.e. the index, middle, ring and pinky extended
and abstracting height to the height of Khedra
when we part and i kiss her on the forehead...
she's smaller than you... that's when she picked out
the *******...
**** it: it's a gift both of us will benefit from...
she'll feel **** and i'll be one step closer to buying
her a latex suit... or some **** like that...
it will be a feast for my eyes while she'll feel ****...
i saved up enough on going the 30minute routes
rather than the 1hour routes...

Saturday 17th September 2022

brought my gift to her... oh how she loved it...
while she was putting it on
she exclaimed: how did you! how did you
get the right size for me!
i always walk into a shop and never get the right
size lingerie!
i said nothing... i was just looking at her
looking at herself in the mirror...
she became so excited that she pulled out these
massive black stilettos and started prancing about
like a flamingo...
she took a few pictures and sent them to me...
legs crossed: legs uncrossed...
pink?! like for a girl... well: do you see any other
girl in my life, right now?
oh she loved it... i loved it too...
obviously we didn't have enough time for me
to ******... she gave me a line of *******...
i sniffed it... felt nothing...
i came too late to the party... give me coffee
and a cigarette and i'm happy:
then again... i quit caffeine...
since last time where i was doing all the work
arching over her in a *******...
thankfully this time round she wanted to be on
top: in the former instance she was biting me...
like my cats usually bite me when i purposively
**** them off... at my arteries...
this time round i was biting her...
and no: i am yet to see a pornographic flick
where the actors bite-tease... sure... ***-slapping...
mind you: when she slapped my face it wasn't
like the slap i received from Ilona when i visited
her in St. Petersburg: that slap of an "unfaithful" hello...
unfaithful with who? my ******* grandmother?!
i'm so happy i was only engaged to that witch
and she broke it off...
i like the idea of giving women the choice...
all the women in my life have always broken
off the relationship... i'm glad... it makes me feel like
the better person...
but that slap by Ilona, compared to the slap
on the face by Khedra... call the former Mt. Fuji
and the latter Mashiters Hill...
it was a slap and a cusp all at the same time...
the former: if it could be possible would have
spun my head right round...
fair *** my ***... women are cruel:
once the gateway to Darwinism became open:
it's a monkey-mantis we're dealing with...
hence? my grandfather's advice was appropriate:
keep your heart small... watch big things happen
while people remain small... as small as your heart...
that's the day she promised me:
i'll be off from the brothel on Tuesday...
during ******* she implored me to come and see
her in her house... stay for the night...
this is getting silly: my heart was somewhat sinking
into this promise but i knew she would pull out...
why? i already spelled it out for her:
but what if i turn into this stalking ****?
what if i become jealous blah blah...
how could i? i'm already sharing her with other men
it's not like i could seriously think about
keeping her: when she doesn't want to be kept
by a single man...
is it just me or is it that the more beautiful women
are like the beauties of nature?
they are selfless in how each and every man
is allowed to appreciate the beauty of nature?
i'm scratching my head thinking...
if these sort of women love ******* so much:
why refuse them that right?
and the women who are wedded and are child-rearing:
i'm sorry... but... having a ****** thought about
these women is near-almost-impossible...
i can't not because i don't want to: i simply can't...
me?! i'm a ******* Gargoyle...
i know my complexion is awry...
the best thing going for me is a full crop of hair...
a somewhat beard and a physique that
i actually worked for to attain...
i suppose my intellect: but then again i haven't
matched up with anyone on the sort of intellectual
i'd enjoy to reciprocate...
it's a beautiful world: but a daftly boring world...
there's no grand darkened poetic scheming against
the everyday language...
but she dressed up... rode me... i bit her this time round...
sure... great... i'm still tired from my Monday 19th Sept.
shift...
promises promises... no good to me this time round...

Sunday 18th Sept. 2022

i shouldn't be writing this right now,
my day started as early as 2:30am and i'm sitting here
trying to find some energy:
the three bottles of cider are sort of helping...
the extra nicotine is too: i've giving up caffeine:
i wouldn't say altogether but at least
in the coffee form... i don't think Pepsi is...
whatever it is... i went to bed at around 10pm yesterday
having come from a shift at the Romford ice-rink...
where the Raiders were thrashed by the Leeds' Knights
2 - 6...
i was so ****** nervous going into the shift...
why? i was going to be working with Emmy...
gorgeous girl: a gorgeous big girl: not fat: big...
a girl ideal for someone who's 6ft2...
all the decent postcards of what a woman ought
to be: thighs... *******...
i worked with her before at Basildon's Show Me Love
Garage festival: when i first spotted her:
ah! that classical English: Dagenham beauty...
i worked with her father: she bore no resemblance
to his ugly visage...
during the shift i asked her: so do you look like your
mother? can i see a picture, i'm just curious...
well... nope... she didn't even resemble
her mother... but i swear to god... i had to have a 330ml
can of indie ale before starting the shift... why?
my stomach was getting squeezed:
i needed to drink some alcohol in order
to puke some of it out before seeing her:
i felt like a teenager again...
she looked like the sort of English girl anyone might
want... a simple beauty:
just the right size for me... i'm guessing 5ft10...
but well rounded... probably taken...
but why i puked on the way to the shift i will never know...
i think i just built up this naturally Ancient Roman
need to regurgitate something
without having to put the index-middle tool down
my throat to agitate the throat to subsequently
agitate the oesophagus... it just comes naturally to me...
i start to crunch my stomach and torso muscles
and puke comes up... what relief...

Monday 19th September 2022

what was a Sunday...
today? Monday? i had to get up at 2:30am
to catch the N15 bus from Romford all the way
to Trafalgar Sq. for the Queen's Funeral...
i left the house around 3:10am... walked to the bus stop
and caught the most magical bus (trip) into central
London... sightseeing the whole of the East End...
from Dagenham... Barking... Upton Park...
Tower Hamlets... the bus didn't travel up to Trafalgar
Sq. because of the road closures for the occasion:
it stopped at a Thameslink interchange about 600m
beyond St. Paul's at Ludgate Circus...
the rest of the way i had to walk: about 20 minutes
to Charing Cross St. where the shift started...
again: supervising...

i must admit, i was planning a different route:
N86 then then N25...
from Romford to somewhere just after the A406
so the N86 could combine with a smooth
cross-over onto the N25... get to the vicinity
of Holborn and walk down to Charing Cross:
i never thought the N15 started off from Romford
and went all the way to Trafalgar Sq.
last minute changes: but i still had to wake up
at 2:30am to get in for a 5:30 start...
HERR GROG doesn't even summarise
what i was feeling... but thankfully it wasn't
a football match... to hell with getting up for
that sort of *******...
Wednesday the 14th taught us a lot...
this time round the crowd was better managed...
i didn't have to close off the Villiers St. entrance...
the crowd was flowing without any chance of
stampede or crushing... the two teams down the circle
route in fear of over-crowding were left:
pointless! i was supervising the entire flow into
Charing Cross underground station
and the Embankment station with the greatest
of ease: having only about 8 people "under" me...
at the debriefing the manager shook my hand first...
oh sure sure: "teacher's pet" *******:
no! it... just... ******* worked...
we were better arranged this time round...
no complaints... nothing... we had a river of
people and we didn't have to resort to PLAN B
because PLAN B was already tested on Wednesday
and "management" realised that it didn't work...
i must have robbed about 40+ people of
any consequence to work...
i too was a pawn... but they were super pawns...
unmoveable pawns... all the traffic came through
my position...
but **** me: compared to roofing? this is a ****-poor
job: sure... people's skills... you get a grumpy steward
from time to time: you talk them into comfort:
hey presto! this one Mark was giving me beef at first...
but i had enough sympathy to reel him in...
and? he reeled in...

at one point i attired myself in the clothing
of persuasion: i persuaded these two Sainsbury's
managers whether or not they had any free food
that was "just about" going out of date?
hey presto! of the 16 supervisors...
and 140+ staff... i was the only one walking around
with a Sainsbury's manager giving out
free sandwiches to the staff...
i did that once already: at Wembley...
i walked up to a burger kiosk and asked the seller:
so... these burgers... when the public stops buying them:
what do you do?
we throw them away... ooh! that's a shame...
you mind giving them out for free to my stewards?!
that's how the army works...
you know how you get compliant troops?!
you feed them: you clothe them...
those are the two sole prerequisites of
compliance... *** is too personal...
you feed them: you clothe them...
that's it...
    we did a round with the Sainsbury's managers
to all the positions and gave out free lunches...
hugs... fist-bumps... blah blah...
the manager didn't do that... i did that...
i kept everyone happy... well fed...
hmm... i try to imagine myself being in the army
sometimes... i think i could pull that KINK off...
i think i could... i have a third eye that's not about
some Hindu Shiva third eye of the mind:
i'm thinking: third eye CCTV crow...
third-person look-around...
i'm not even ego-tripping: i'm tripping on
the sort of authority that allows people to congregate
and loosen themselves onto and into the world...
hmm... this might just work...
unlike a busy-body female boss-***** supervisor
control freak... i decided to be male:
as males decide to be... hands-off approach...
an approach akin to: let's see what works and what doesn't...

she's send me photography of her face
like she's some "version" of the Greenwich Meat Time,
meridian: i always thought the Greenwich Time 0
was more important than the ******* "horizon"
of the EQUATOR... time... more than space...
is more important... ugh...
i'm willing to send her pictures of my hand
pointing at something, or the cat sleeping in my bed
with a wooden SHASHKA hanged upon my wall,
a branch of oak that looks like a sword...

o.k. fair enough: this death surprised me...
i'll only be content when i finally see Charles' visage
with a tenner i'll spend...
i'm ******* off to the brothel tomorrow...
today was a day of recovery... i'll need my usual diet
of whiskey and ****...
last time round: i tried performing a 69 position:
1. she didn't like the fact that
i "wasn't looking"... i was... but my sight was
obstructed...
she wanted to show me how **** the lingerie
looked almost tattooed onto her...
2. i blamed the *******...
it wasn't the *******...
we started going the 69er position:
i start tasting these nasty chemical:
snort a line of paracetamol...
  it's not *******... she said...
it's my anti-contraceptive pills...
i flush my nostrils... i gag at the mouth...
but lucky for me she explained...
well... if she offers to take me back home
for a nioght of ******* and then she's not willing?
i'll just take another girl! simple! no?!
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
ah, the romance, the man who learned the alphabet of chemistry, and turned out to be more eloquent than the man who learned the compounds of an english tongue... you have a sing-along, friar Tuck?! some Gregorian chant up your sleeve?!

let's get it over and done with,
i write a tattoo on your body,
i own part of it -
      in theory, sure,
i listen to some ****** pop
song i will keep to myself
than ask for the desirable ***
position, and find the latter
a more engaged: hue in cheek...
fine...
     but given the benzene ring...
meta- positioning is clearly dead...
the trans- positioning attracted
the gender "debate"...
sure... i''ll settle for that...
but there's still the" ortho-
direction...
                       chemistry
teaches: there's no fourth in
a north south east...
          i guess it was called
the West at some point...
            do what the transgender
kids are doing going crazy...
the islamic appearance of prayer
was always going to return to
****...
as the christian to a *******...
now i've been trying to
switch on the metaphysics gyrroscope
for some times...
thing's fidgety and the most
likely un-curious affair...
a bit like stroking a cow...
         there's but one answer
to the trans movement...
    the english language has been
alienated from the concept
of orthography...
   kept in the dark,
  strutting along on ****...
growing into a gargantuan Chernobyll
artefact...
            you want sanity:
let the trans freaks do their bit
in ****** the common consensus with
an anti-orthodox gospel of
thomas,
   who should be doubted as a saint...
stick to the clue of, language per se...
if only i could interest the english
into investigating the concept of
orθograφy...
        y the acute iota - morph dearest:
orθograφí - pretty please: epsilon.
   and why did they search in Iran
for an answer, and derive aryan?
simply to combat the greek undermining
of the roman?
me? i'm coordinate at (0,0) - a third
0 nullifies the history...
                  a movie called:
a roman revenge!
                 keep your greco-judeaic
"new" testament,
     the sort of account of god that's
cosmopolitan, and, agreeable to the fashionable
ladies...
              θ-φ,
   the quadruplet Siamese twins...
question is...
was it boy-girl boy-girl
                           or boy-boy girl-girl?
huh! myth! it un-writes the blandness of current
history being pulverising,
     additive,
           and journalism becoming
worse than a **** speech...
has anyone noticed how condescending
journalists have become?
    how puny in attire of, something or other...
has anyone noticed how
    authoritarian these word-pushers
are becoming, how the middle class is
agitating a shadow which answers
them without
journalists these days are nothing
short of a bunch prying brats...
     with or without a dictator,
they are beyond fashioning a revised
credibility... i trust listening to a ****
more than their ******* opinion.

  bellum perfectus est in status quo

i still lament the lack of an article in latin -
           i.e. a perfect war is the unmoveable
"object" of affairs,
  and the perpetuated concern of a subject
matter, that is solved by a mere, yawn.

war is perfected in a status quo -
which means: constant war,
    a war in which civilians are militarised,
to the point where women are willing
to conscript into the army,
  and hardly any desire work,
in the construction industry;
  for some reason army allows slack,
yet the construction industry, doesn't.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
a lot of -ism is biased within an etymological framework; coupled soon, how darwinism can never attain a suffix of logic, as can biology never become bioism; contemplating the impulses of boa constrictors seems more pleasing to both ear and eye to understand, as it always would have seemed to appear: it being said - without guilt, conscience or self, but that rotten "economic" model, of communism.

logic begins with: the origin of words,
and how they morph -
as said:
an -ology is always lesser than
an -ism:
etymology overcomes darwinism,
sorry, you don't have to handle
theology, or the -ism of theos -
words speak words -
forms speak: square becomes
a square, and the rest is: a lost affair,
asking eric clapton to turn into
jeff buckley, while papa's not there:
with that being papa *tim
...
      actually much of logic is
etymological...
          the origins of words sometimes
became histories...
    to say the least:
the name athena became the city athens,
while romulus and remus became rome,
st. petersburg came from
   sakt peter - sanctified peter -
  edinburgh, came from illicit edith -
of malcolm, half removed from
macbeth's choosing -
             are we so thus, so thus far
removed, from our weakened travesty
of making: encouraging history?!
    tell the germans of the icelandic orcas,
and how they hunt them,
and how the seas turn crimson akin
to biblical fables...
tell them, that there is a higher ground
to begin afresh, akin: to a new beginning...
that they might refresh their toiling
in scandi song, in scandinavian folk,
to allow this resurrection is almost
a travesty among my kin folk...
   but, one, worth minding, having an
execution;
darwinism already stated its primordial
origin, the form of ape,
    but with every -ism, there's an
-ology,
             terminological for starters,
etymology for making the ends meet...
i'm afraid that the suffix question
seeks not authentic pardon of presented
artefacts...
       since the origin of form,
in that platonic simplicity is laid
intact, unmoveable via an  atheistic orthodoxy,
we have to move our ways toward
an ingrained, deeper, beckoning...
let our history encounter an
etymological zeitgeist -
to source first meanings,
to source them as is much desired,
having finalised our: first & thereby only,
                           beginnings.
      so, given our beginnings being
a samson's un-moveable pillar of all things
know, for the temple to stand intact,
   can we at least perform a secondary
historical feat, of attending to etymological
explanations?
   and at least desire, a curbing
on anarchic slanging, curling language from
scholastic affirmation of kept culture
and practice,
       to assure the minor offence of
allowing the linguistic intactness -
   and that infamous serenity of ensuring
progress, by abiding to the sort of
cultural non-appropriation that
youth resides in?
  for i dare say, and dare believe in
enough to fear:
    should the integrity of language be
kept, as today it is "kept", i.e. un-kept,
it will become no medium worth
of eloquence,
namely, demeaningly: only a canvas,
of irritating bombast.

p.s.
i can salvage the germans from their **** past,
a song of paganism,
a song of the cultural "idiot",
a song prior to the current "foundation",
a song in memorandum -
      a meditation on the crow -
a meditation on the matter of snow -
a meditation on the grey skies of winter -
a meditation on beer & song -
to find the german of today,
is to strip the german of yesterday,
the yesterday of 2nd world war
foundation,
   and the tomorrow? looks
like reviving the romanticism that
came as the 19th century "post-scriptum":
the thought of the kid
who was to inform barbarossa
to wake up once in grave,
when a swarm of crows shattered
the silence of his graven passivity.
Moomin Oct 2020
If it were not for darkness
We could not know light
I see tiny flames
Languishing
Like flickering lanterns in little homes
Far away
Nestled on a dark hillside
Until one by one
They go out
And no-one knows where the flame has gone
But the Devil has found time for me
And he tries desperately to break my spirit
With the world at his command
For this world has cold fire
That burns like the ice of Pluto
A Trillion cameras monitor my every flinch
My every tear
Yet they cannot see
And a myriad of microphones listen to my thoughts
But they cannot hear
But you
You can hear me
Draw close to me
Touch my lips
Let me breathe strength into your soul
And I will warm your heart with my hope
And this hope does not lead to disappointment
For I am steadfast
Unmoveable
Like a crag on the mountain
I am on fire
I have seen forever
And touched the day of joy
In the new world to come
It sits carved behind my eyeslids
And safely secured in the synapses of my mind
And in the cold air
In the darkness of despair that surrounds us all
None shall smother me
I am on fire
And my flame will never go out
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
/shovels' worth of sparrow songs,  hid before me, the praise of morn, I took to ***** and to cushion, that I might sneeze back, with a cajun sentiment of a, "misjudged" joke... mind you... who might care what you don't mind what others feel, when... no one, really cares, what you think? am I wrong to suggest that feeling and thinking are synonymous? both happen almost instantaneously, given a stimulant... is this some sort of pathogen of "wrong-think" sifting process? feelings are delayed patterns of the expression of intellect... thoughts are shallow counterfeits of emotions.... I too wished I was the blabber-mouth of highschool... when thinking cannot become rhetorical, it incubates itself in emotions... but when thinking incubates rhetoric... the emotions attempting to be staged, become, equivalent to, passing a stranger on a street, never giving a two second's worth of mind, worth of notice.

the pulverising presence
of the elemental man,
lodged within,
the seemingly, unmoveable
tiers of "object";
         foolish, seeking fame,
as to quench a familiarity,
in:
        overcoming the torrent,
of man "evaluating" water...
    riddling his equal...
perpetually undermining
metaphysical novels,
    with metaphors-,
              and never...
       the unsatiable thirst...
*** post annus.
Geraldine Taylor Jun 2017
Of wonders and miracles

Remover of obstacles

You are unstoppable

My Lord you reign



Unshaken invincible

Of justice permissible

Indifference unthinkable

My Lord you reign



Of presence intangible

Almighty wonderful

Love that’s unchangeable

My Lord you reign



Truth undeniable

Peace unmistakeable

Steadfast unshakeable

My Lord you reign



Sovereign unmoveable

Strong unassailable

Power unbreakable

My Lord you reign



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i treat writing as my drinking.

the point being: fluidity.
language, if properly expressed,
properly founded
is far from conspiring to write
a novel, my novel is already
the idle chit-chat of purchasing
goods (funny how haggling
is still allowed, even though
we know the fixed price
ending of .99).
      language is not a rigid base,
it's not a raw piece of stone
waiting for a rodin-esque
sculptor to make something out
of it, and it's certainly not a
meditation on a dictionary /
thesaurus...
       i am aquarius, the language
i am providing is what two hands
held together make of water being
poured into them is,
it's the fluidity, it's what i find
by finding that the only "thing"
i can find is: fluidity...
you can't take language and serve
a mountain's stubbornness -
you have to allow the sea to
infuriate the blank page of serenity...
i never allow language to be
rigid in small-talk: hello how are you?
crap...
          language needs to be water,
needs to be fire,
it can never reside in char,
charcoal or anything and everything
unmoveable, sisyphus would
concede this fact...
   there is no effort, there is no attempt:
there either is, or there isn't;
don't try, trying brings failure,
do, and do, even if it's a "failure".
you can't expect me to remould
a dictionary, the arrangements are
already too varied, and you can't
expect me to leave a trace of a
protruding signature of a thesaurus...
sure, i write poetry:
   every poet dreams of writing a novel...
but i don't write a novel
because in between this "scarcity"
i live a novel...
        the mundane interludes of a novel
bother me enough to think my
writing as: enough.
            then again i treat writing
as water, or fire,
   and never airy fairy south eastern
english, or a raw sculpture canvas -
language is already a wriggling can
of worms...
       with that being said:
no one takes the afterlife seriously is
because: so much is alive, well,
delirious in sensual anticipation,
   too much of life, bring little topic
of a "realistic" most-mortem realism,
'cos' there isn't any!
            so please, don't give me
this stale inanimate crap,
              don't treat language as a
labrador on a leash with you the blind-man
at the end of it...
language is not rock, it's not air,
it's the fluidity i'm interested in...
    write me a poem as if a dam is about
to burst, give me tsunami language...
give me traces of spontaneity...
  you give me a piece of writing as
rigid as a wheelchair marathon "runner"
i'll give my honest opinion...
     you should overflow with
the ultimate freedom of what the god of gob
said: blah blah blah...
           i don't deal in cute,
i don't deal in pretty,
carnations i can mind...
          but the sort of poetics that is
insulated in: requires a metaphor,
requires a metaphor... who's identifying who?
with that sort of poem, the poem
ends up asking the poet: you sure you're
not a plumber?
   there's but one technique:
       stick to the narrative, forget the rest;
there's only one "technique" in poetry:
the narrative;
write as if impotent, suddenly getting
a hard-on, never imagining to turn
to a ******-boost of the congestion of
spotting a genre, from a "genre";
there's no point writing with this transmutation
of the categorical "imperative" -
             there's only water...
or there's the zenith of
   *s. t. coleridge
- water water, everywhere,
nor any drop to drink.
point being: write fluid,
         and make your reader thirsty.
writing has a lot to do with the newly
emergent art of: cuisine;
have you noticed the emergence
of the art of culinary antics?
               cooking is the new painting;
seems that painting has become shoo
****, that the chefs had to intervene
(minus the sean connery).
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
poza godziny: tzn.
   wypełnić dzień - dniem...

   too eager to retract "complexion"...
if that is even, remotely, available:
as a Caucasian standard...
return to my mutter-zung(e)...
some great migration
i'm guessing something borrowed
from history i'm guessing
the Copernican "revolution" had its zenith
now is the time of: everything vogue Darwin...

to find an hour in a day and do X -
the algebra notation
rather than the phonetic
i.e. xylophone for starters...
through the chalk-&-cheese grinder
sizzzzzzzle...
drone strike at the snore and snorkel...
unless... fax
me the details... it comes "last" or not
least "late"...
how sigma "behaves" or was
otherwise discovered
to be:
cedilla at some point...
     cursor...
            sNAKEs...
                      σN∀ʞƎς
                                        s'nay'x...

rather "unnecessary" but a must...
bothersome these strict barriers
and when / but when one returns
to the cascade of sounds
and what's to be said: sung...
thought & therefore seen...
i can forgo all the tux-juxtaposing
and a: dozen or so penguins...

bravado... one can try to read
a newspaper...
one does... one even uses this royal
****-off route to mind
what matters...
as an extension of
james marriott's book review...
i was a fan of jordan B peek-a-boo...
when all things in the wunder-land
of tubes: how was copperwire
invented? asked my glaswegian
english teacher? two scots arguing over
a penny... or a: PENCE - je pense!

newspapers have really taken a
hit for audience size, competition...
on the sideline you notice this...
"grief"...
what worked for the 20th century
propagandists... doesn't work now...
at all... no factions just... fractions...
and people in the congested
equation, somehow too...

it can be, or rather is, absolutely: unamusing that
one must have a mother...
for that matter - that there are two -
what with death being the second -
altogether: through and through -
unamusing and, or rather stringent:
      unmoveable shards of darkened ice...
at first that's about it...
        as one does when *** is a "waste"
or that ******* is something
    a typo for a metaphor for a misnomer
of what can't possibly be genocide -
or if it is: a solo project of an equivalence
that's met when...
scrubbing the dead skin parmesan
       off the soles of your feet...
    or having your hair cut...
          or engaging in grotesque pâtisserie...
i.e. pinching a loaf...
sitting on the... throne of thrones
for the holy trinity to congest the time...
frankly... there are not enough
hours in a day to
congest them with listening to
bbc radio 3...
i tried to cram as much radio 4
when in bed with a strict take on
a loss-of-shadow-hangover:
body as if a mollusc esque-form...
not borrowing from Kafka and yet...
glistening with a glitter and primordial
saliva gob-slob jacuzzi...
gurgle at every turn... gurgle-gurgle
and froth to ******: withs... bau-bau-bubbles...

but i'm thankful for the comparison:
and my own little life too...
little so little it doesn't dare to raise
notions of hierarchy...
that there is a hierarchy that's all
the better:
no one's moving up... no one's
moving down... plateau of plateaus...
but when i suckle at the bottle...
and it's a bottle of ink i can't spill
while i'm also drinking for a tease
of... teasing humour...
and i haven't written awhile...
while i pick up something grandiose
to experiment with... like...
bbc 3 will champion clarice lispector
but not machado de assis...

but agreed... what happened to
the "unread": i'll come dangling on
a hot-air balloon... screaming maxims...
first of most: or 'of all'...
i'll probably buy a bicycle and cover
those distances walked...
from havering-atte-bower
to... st. paul's cathedral...
coldharbour...
epping... in half the time it would
otherwise require me to tame
a marathon...

exemplar status... when i arrived in Paris
on my own i was not filled
with anything Stendhal likened imitation /
overbearing / copycat implicitness
(no implicity) -
         i exhaust the right to write more
than any of my drinking unfathomable
cruising through bottle and bottle:
message after message...
crab feet...
            giraffe necks...
scissor when expecting...
                           bamboo pincers... etc.

otherwise finally arrived at:
this "finally arrived" at
                dź (дь)
no vs. dż (дъ) otherwise...
what do i do with a "3":
                   эз: mind m'ah f'ez...
butter-fingers: deutsche! primo!
if my schnörkellos & butterfinger...
does you any harm...
crescendo + from the Urals
of the plural S... tomb of the vicinity-"victor"...

Paris... on the night of the Bataclan
stampede for bones, bruises,
tendons and sinew...
and offal... like... chicken heart...
chicken stomachs...
like that night when i was painting
my bedroom drenched in rose...
in chemical red
looking out for those mantis eyes
of lore like a bored
housewife of Pompeii...
before the irrittion
of the gods and the Huns...
drenched me with stuff all morbid
and splodgy...

suppose a ghost invites me to:
close a door...
suppose a door
suppose closure...
suppose the presupposition of...
****** theatrical null
and then a peacock of genesis...
a phoenix of exodus....

       a big chin 'arry delves into
structuring thinning...
who's a who who (a) what's already been given...
triptych on the buckle:
less hooves of horses charging
anti: against chaffs of wheat and more...
this sinking sensation requesting me
to make drown of all things
spec-tac-ular...

yonker: *****...
             mr. se(o)ul... his says...
says he:
           is any 'n' every...
Trafalgar Sq. presupposing
a Na-po-le-on...
to a somewhat... be...
well done.. boiling down:
the...         knuckles...
heave this limbo of cartilage :

oh i'm very much adapted
to...
insomnia
and "insomnia" libido too...

quake... nothing passes...
a biscuit might...
"crumble"...
a clown might poke fun
at making a...
"jellyface".
Raven Sep 2020
You linger there
In the back of my mind
Like a ghost
Held in by time

You linger there
Trying to push your way forward
Urging me to think
About
YOU

You linger there
But I don't want you to

For everytime I let you forward
I start to smell your scent

For everytime I let you forward
I start to feel your presence

For everytime I let you forward
I'm rendered
Silent
Unmoveable

For everytime I let you froward
You haunt me

You linger there
Taunting me
Haunting the darkest corners of
Me
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
yes, i sometimes do: the odd star-gazing... not because i find solace in the constellations - although: truth be told: how did man arrive at a pyramid or triangle: or any other geometric proposal if not via the stars... i look up... i see them bewilder me and thrown me into the pit of geocentrism - by night this is what the eyes require to digest... take a peep at... come to think of it: i have written this for eyes solely: i think (therefore i doubt) i have left my tongue somewhere where onomatopoeias are best uttered: where words have no power... *** in a brothel - i like to think that all brothels are scented with an allure of a perfume that's very much all: bourbon "stink": by stink i'm inviting a texture rather than a scent per se... it's sticky... it's almost gluttonous: how these two opposing bodies can flesh out an architecture of diabolical pressures with a tenderness: that upon touch is a wilting passing by. Yes, these stars... these fazes of drifting between stages of amazement coagulated with utter dumb bewilderment - their sanctity of faking animate illiteracy - as any sensible stone might: a breath of god a devil's eye - they are forever "sensible": unmoveable... yet give them enough years and they are predictably chained to the same canvas. I can't object to what i'm forever subjected to... these stars these pressures of time... so to deviate... i took a stroll through my garden in this glorious wealth of night... to admire my work on the cement work of a newly erected fence... that i had to dig a miniature trench and fill it with cement so that my neighbour's **** garden would not penetrate my bias against weeds... the rains have been plentiful... no **** sprouts on my side of the fence... armed with a flashlight i chanced upon looking down to see where my foot were toying with step and perhaps some mythology of chess... what did i shine upon? well... the graces of the night welcomes a **** sapiens dreaming about origins of **** similis... that's all the night is worth: a sleeping fellow at the pivoting crux of membranes - i too desire a night filled either by a vacancy of dreams: therefore a lack of... or at least something to give my fatty sponge of a brain: illumination ill conceived... two slugs: feasting over a corpse of a third slug... that i must have strapped to a pressure from my foot... and how... gloriously spectacular: this feast of two slugs on a body of a third... some of the consummate part thus exposed almost looked: appetising in a sense that: seafood appears when... given unto a dissection prior to... the cooking hands... yes.. yes... STAR gazing... only for a little while... L is just sort of a right-handed... while delta is most certainly just shy of an equilateral triangle... pity that a square was never given a "letter": beside the point! up up above these stars these dreams of an exhausted geography of the world... the tamed and the less so projects of ennobling "barbarians"... but of course little ol' life beside man feeds off the night... a wise fly will take refuge on a leaf of ivy beside a ripe fist bundle of teasing burgundian blood fruits... even if shining a light upon it, it will not stir or dare movement... shine a light upon the slugs... the younglings will fold their eyes and peep from a fatty covering of their slurpy gut / glut... but the higher ranks 'un will continue their festive **** of cannibalism... for someone who still managed to see how the countryside operated... the ergonomics of keeping chickens for both eggs and flesh... how chasing one poor judas around the yard... yielding a stump of wood an axe and... the last electricity of a rolling of the eyes and the extension of the tongue from out of the beak... until... the body was carried away to be plucked from its feathers and poached for a soup... the remaining chickens would start up a frenzy... jumping onto the stump dancing voodoo... pecking at the head and slurping up the gushed out blood... for all that's night: oh look! prime visage to counter the constellations has decided to take up a promenade: peruse of the sky... scythe baron that coming upon her zenith will turn from an illuminating autumnal bask in yellow to a bone carving whiteness... half illuminated while half hidden... this star gazing... but little of the night i've rented for an hour beyond a predictable pattern for days to come / to salvage... such "things" happen below mere minor stalking a sensibility of cravatte attired smocking donning type of societally accepted conversation: such things as csns only breed mirrors and ghosts for their brood... and have to discourage an ownership of them from a genesis: one born from the agony of thought: is to never find repose in the well-established furore of an aging body... the original splinter is this: gruesome advent of over-adjectivity... from the sensible pleasure of the night... to this base life ladden toil for toil: oculus per oculus... such greasy masters of sloth roam the critter domain of the night... such slurp base degradations of what's edible and what's not... i come to the conclusion that: not all is this forced **** of prizes, of amnesias, of... i kept myself forgotten upon a third descriptive usher-ing of detail... yes... from such heavenly sanctity of an above... to such debasement cold... thrown among a harvest of potatoes... it has been an absolute pleasure to revel in: the demands themselves presented... perhaps what's missing is... an haiku for the coroner? i gladly think, that that's all that's ever missing: to make enough puncture into canvas, page... silence.

— The End —