Matthew Conrad

May 15, 1986 - Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski

an ode to alcohol

the only time it seems to be
acceptable to drink warmbeer...
probably the only time -
when first dipping your lips
into ms. amber bathing in a ginger ale jacuzzi -
and then... a sip of a warm stella artois
beer - such a good beer,
such a bad reputation -
i'm surprised as to why ol' bud is king -
piss juice - if you're going to make
a light beer, make it like the mexicans...
otherwise? stick with the hop-brigade...
but that's of course after you
preferred defrosting three rerigerators
rather than watching the liverpool
v. arsenal match...

after you made the most perfect
salad dressing of lime and coriander,
some mustard, some sugar,
some oil, some white wine vinegar,
some salt, some pepper...
and sat with the people you were
eating with... with no conversation...
i imagine that people go to restaurants
to talk rather than eat...

ah... the joys of eating al fresco
under a vine...
perhaps i spotted a nude by some italian
sculptor, perhaps i didn't,
but when it comes
to the end of august in england
and the glorious september is itching
to come along...

apparently a bbq meal is a luxury...
in england...
how the english boast about their gardens...
i've lived here for long enough
to know... most of the english
don't use their gardens...
sure as shit they don't eat in their
gardens: al fresco...
i love those words... al fresco...
why does an englishman require a garden?
i guess... he thinks he's also
saving the greenbelt from
the coming tumult of urban living...
hell... the englishman would be
better off in an east european
chicken shack of concrete bulldozer
architecture... why bother having
a garden... when you don't... use it?

50 houses in the vicinity...
i've eaten about 40 bbq meals in the past
2 months... are they afraid?!
are they afraid to use their gardens?
you know how many more houses
could be built...
if the english fetish for a garden,
"suddenly" evaporated? ha!

in that i am also mourning... my grapevine
is dying, only two years ago i managed
to harvest over 30kg of pulp...
and make... 15 bottles of wine...
to shit the world is raging...

- interlude amnesia,
quiet, alcohol is a rambling tool...
a lubricant for the soul...
and if we come to no disagreement...
ugh... conversations with drunk
people liberated from social inhibitions...
if they'd only write...
X-eyes dipped in salt and water
and bleu-bleu-bleu-rrrrrrrrrrrr-y (e)
visions.... rat tat tat...
if not bitten by the tongue-numbing
toxin from a tarantula's gob...
hell... even the fwench do not trill...
the lost trill of the Angevin Empire...
now tongue numbed
or a Parisian hark choir...

if language cannot be like food...
what's with all these technicalities?
form? rhyme, meter...
is poetry really music?
is poetry really a painting?
am i the only person to... no, i'm not,
but it's an expression...
see that food is becoming art?
poetry's marriage to music...
ugh...

- ms. amber in a ginger jacuzzi in,
the piss of the gods stella artois
(why the bad reputation,
the wife-beater's beer?!) and...
lemonade pissed out...
hell... if i was about to drop by
the last supper when hey-zeus
was giving his speech...
i'd prof. x freeze the whole drama
and piss into the holy grail adding:
my blood too...
body? how about a prawn cracker,
or a fghwench chip?

poetry married to music...
what the whole tennis ball rhyme
sequence -esque -esque -esque...
in the pits of rhyme -
and then... a brick wall...
is rhyming related to crossword
puzzles, by any chance?

well i'm no wystan auden...
the people of spain think cervantes
equal to half-a-dozen dantes...

the great, the bored, the dead -
poetry and music...
like hitting the bum note ever so often
and in couplets...
rhyme... a memory tool,
isn't it? to rhyme is to remember better?
well then... i want my, poo'ems
to be like blackouts...
or hangovers... you wake up the next
morning with a moral panic...
oh you do remember...
but then resort to having
to quickly forget -
to rhyme is to better remember...
so it's not to sound, cute, is it?

to rhyme is to better remember...
a reader or a Hafiz?
Julien Sorel was also a Hafiz...
problem is... the bible rhymes for shit...
one christian hafiz...
Jack Van Impe...
the famous people who took the equivalent
of car battery acid
and filled their brains with
memory junk of...

no memory of a sunset in venice...
no lunch in paris...
no algebra of events a, b, c + d = e(ither)...
famous people who
took up the corrosive esteem
of bible reading...
while there's a whole school
of never-to-be-famous hafiz...

that old saying: will words fill you?
well... if you look at etymology...
that alt. history class...
and you look at how words can be cut
up and put together...
pre- -fix
pre- -destination
pre- -ference...
yeah... it's more like food than music...
gobble down enough classical
poetry and rhyme...
a thinking inside a box...

- i can't imagine talking over a meal,
i much like the silence -
the settling silence of allowing
the stomach to digest -
i couldn't imagine going to a restaurant...
i tried it, once or twice...
but then again...
on an empty stomach in a pub
gulping down 6 pints of guinness
does the "job" as well...

alcohol: the only drug that lets you
ramble, and... if you're not surrounded
by people who are readily talkative...
you tend to feel drunk less so...
conversation always gets me drunk,
when you start breathing through
your mouth...

a warm beer is permitted...
a bit like: if you undercook the pasta...
no problem... you overcook it?
we're not talking.

- two things that always bewildered me
about h'america...
the years of prohibtion
and... strip clubs...
getting drunk and going to a brothel...
what's outside the windows of a brothel?!
pyramid schemes of harem fuckery!

what's the advantage of knowing
you're fucking a promiscous woman?
you don't have to put up with
the already bankrupt argument
of the lies involving...
a woman who can give sexual access...
but what you really want
is an access to the character of feminity...
every man can become
exhausted from learning to play
an instrument... odes... odes my ass...

i have met more sincere prostitutes
than i have women still thinking they can
bribe with sex,
what is a sex bribe... if the character
is deficient?
i've met more prostitutes with character
and sincerity than i have met
women who...
internet dating apps?!
why would you set up a profile
and list all your likes and dislikes
and then go on a date...
to talk about what?

- poetry should have long ago divorced itself
from music -
what came as lyric and the rhaspdoy of
rhetoric should have long ago mingled
with sinew and bone -
and the sporadic tap of the feet
mid air while walking -

should i have come across the medium
of constantly defining (philosophy)
or constantly re-defining (poetry) -
almost every philosophy book has
this gimmick at heart:
how one, defines, philosophy?
a bit like god... as a kantian noumenon -
a res per se (thing in itself)...

call it chaotic thought -
thought as a narrative - what a terrible idea...
i call it rummaging in a hive
of a clutter of a hoarder -
less things and more words...
will i ever find out what my uber dictum
is, the sigma? what are the avenues
i will so choose to walk down?
something a man shackled
to a crossword would say...
before him: the pulverising pit
of a blank piece of paper...
god only knows and i to also
know for the good of humanity
that such men can solve crossword
puzzles and fill bureucratic hard-on formalities
of forms: signatures included...

- to have to allocate alcohol a socio-normative
cultural binding -
some variant get together...
what ever happened to the joys
of drinking alone? with only music
as company?
perhaps the saying rings true:
friend... if you don't know how to drink...
then don't drink at all!

how could all the evils of this world
be made into a rhyming summary
designated the usual suspects
as only porky and alco?
alcoholics in europe...
diabetic sugar / coffee junkies in arabia...
those arabs are not sugar junkies?

- nein! nein! nein!
get drunk, speak a different language...
die Engländer tut nicht kenn,
wie zu trinken wodka!

it's supposed to be drunk...
just teasing the freezing point...
below zero... when it has
a consistency of gomme syrup!
vodka isn't whiskey...
it's not drank at room temp.,
you need to cool it...
to get the edge off...
yet they still drink their disgusting "high-brow"
malaise...vodka and orange juice...
no ice-cubes...

who needs ice-cubes if you serve
a shot of vodka when it thickens
and resembles gomme syrup?!
that's how you drink vodka...
well... once upon a time in L'vov...

i once met a greek that still had beef
with the turks over istambul / constantinople...
a city who sought a better caretaker...

- oh and the sober serious people
and all their sober serious opinions and enough
robo-flex-kids who wish to entertain them...
them? or their opinions...
i guess both!
if you can't entertain a drunk's opinion
sober... what makes a sober man's
opinion worth, not having a drink to?
sober opinions and their subsequent
churn of pedagogy...
for a sober man with a crown
half the world went to the "drunk"
revelation of death...

death: an impasse? or a marriage?
perhaps the point of argument
regarding when life begins?
after all... one idle ejaculation
into a tissue = a genocide...
by that, that standard of argument...
which probably puts me on
par with Pol Pot...
i don't even know how many
genocides i've jerked off and flushed
down the toilet...
funny how owning sperm in
a bollock is so much different when
a sperm hits the jackpot of
crawling into an egg...
here's to! shooting blanks!
here's to! shooting black holes!

at least one egg for breakfast,
which equals...
an poultry abortion a day...
keeps the nagging auntie
away with both the doctor
and the apple...

sober people have such... tentative verses...
if a lift could be translated
into their whip of wording...
i'd be, what i already am:
claustro-fucked into a presence
akin to the spider's res extensa
of the cobweb...

so littered with pedestrian predictions...
sober people and their sober thoughts
and their sober lives and their
sober seriousness and no jester in sight!

- a most depressing horror:
while you are ejaculating genocides down
the toilet... a "miracle"!
a sperm finds its honing prompt
of an egg...
soon you no longer are
the sperm ejaculator but the egg
feeder...
a most depressing horror -
the sex lives of tapeworms and
other... badziewa... crap...

besides... if Sisyphus was left alone
on that hill of vanity,
having to push that rock up that hill
to watch that rock to fall down
that hill in order to repeat the act...
what made him do it...
couldn't he have found a philosopher's stone
by not doing this drudge labour?
among the gods and demigods
there are no intermediary beings...
Zeus long forgot...
so what would prompt Sisyphus
into this menial labour?
a demon who stole Poseidon's
trident and made it into a pitchfork
to "motivate" him?

so why did Sisyphus do the most
bollocks act imaginable...
why not sit beside the stone,
use it as an umbrella
depending on the hours of his universe...
why push the stone...
when you can think about the stone
and try to wait an eternity
to learn the ability of telekinesis?
oysters learned telekinesis...
somehow...
in that oysters learned "telekinesis"
somehow...
in that simple way...
of being moved,
rather than moving...

modern day schizophrenics are still
wondering about telepathy
and the cartesian conundrum
of the res extensa...
the unconscious branching of...
some hive sigma momentum...
oysters and telekinesis...
not that they move things...
with their already non-existent mind...
or their mind as both kidney,
stomach, liver... heart...
if no one was willing to move them...
they wouldn't move...
but since the land fungus told
the story of the sea fungus
(a mushroom talked to an oyster
via the ape brain being infested)...

why so serious?
sober, serious, people...
require things like stamps and envelopes...
and shtrong arguments...
and accolades...
and turnips... and...
games that are worth prizes
and arguments for having them...
the whole kilogram sack of parsley roots!
i.e.? gra o... pietruszke!

- i've settled - i can scrap the moon
for motives and the tides for
their iverted gravities...
what can "capitalism" sell me with
promises of girls,
what i haven't already made from
finding a brothel?
pretty much nothing more
than the equivalence associated with
riddles beckoning
a sea of words...

- as if to have borrowed thought
from some sketchy being
dissociated from having to
make artifice-substitutes where
limbs should meet
a moulding canvas of potential...

is everyone sure that a serpent
tempted Eva in the garden of all
Eves?
last time i heard...
a mushroom whispered into
Adam's ear...

sure... sure... the bible says
that Eva was tempted by a serpent...
i'm going to rewrite this
myth-classic...
i'll rewrite it as...
a mushroom whispered into
Adam's ear...

case closed... no longer the analogy
of sex... of sex... of sex...
even if a serpent tempted Eve
to pluck the fruit of knowledge
of the good and evil...
the difference came
when a galactic mushroom
hybrid cloud sprayed Adam with its juice...

if a serpent tempted Eve...
Adam wasn't being idle...
a mushroom whispered into his ear...
and said: what tree?
i'm the: neither veg or the forbidden
fruit! to hell with Eve having
eaten the fruit and the serpent's
innuendo...
having to discover dinosaurs
in the form of dragons...
prior...

little did Eve know that Adam
ate a mushroom first...
and discovered atoms...
the "forbidden" fruit only fermented
in his mouth...
Eve tasted a sweet juice pulp,
Adam became drunk...

the mushroom was already
crafting an architecture in his cranium
before all the downfall poetics
came into play.

how else to write an alternative?
Eve the apple and the serpent...
Adam the mushroom and...
the grand awaiting void...

nothing is fixed...
i'm not buying into this story
in order to later sing or recite psalms...
perhaps only king david is worth
a mention...
why king solomon is even
venerated is beyond me...
perhaps only king solomon ought
to have been the one jew
to be circumcised...

if foreskin is... "such a problem"!
why not circumcise eyelids!
alcohol! more! more! more!
if foreskin is such a problem...
why not slice off the cartilege
associated with both nose and ears?
and if you didn't touch it...
would pork be such a problem?
again: why do these semites
think hair is such a sex honing device?
ever hear of the hair in a soup /
a fly in a champagne flute story?

hair... hair is the semitic fetish...
how about a woman's hands?!
lucky for me the arabs don't hide them...
lucky for me they don the niqab...
and expose their hands...
em... farmer wives hands...
fat fingers, fat hands...
arab women... as many peacocks
in their blinking eyes...
nonetheless... pudgy hands...
they can wear their niqabs...
i don't mind...

if what Eve ate first...
and later gave to Adam second...
Adam ate something in secret...
and didn't give it to Eve...
to her serpent temptation...
Adam just heard a voice
from the void...
a... mushroom overcame
the apple...
she ate the apple and...
he ate the apple and fermented it
as the mushroom dictated...

abide by songs from scandinavia,
i have made myself willing
to succumb to.
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