Matthew Conrad

May 15, 1986 - Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski

the darwinism behind zoology | the psychology of the mind without will / soul

what the internet, "used" to be...
a binding worth of a night...
a pepper shaker's calypso:
eh, a video here, a video there....

but... but no loitering "then"...
just... a slowing down toward
a plateau... a boring sod story...
such tame grief...
a lion without a savannah...

BORE BORE 'n' second...
the whiskey will not do what...
what.. what freedom was about...
even a millenial woes
video had that...
warm escapade sensation
of a shadow hugging you...

in sing-along-scottish...
just before the anglo-saxons
fathomed paranoia:
or were to fathom it...

the anglo-saxons only work
with chinese communists...
your daddy said...

what if tool became
the tool, the band,
without bill hicks: hill-billy delux...
and stood the ground woth: with...
george carlin...
sunny-jim learned the R...

you can listen to all the good advice
listed by jordan peterson...
or... you can watch a frank zappa
interview...

mortality is predictable
adventure... if you're a stand-up
coming... born to remember
the 20th century fiasco...
then... you're dead...
otherwise count it while
you're young...

punchlines-per-minute...
ppm... it usually takes
10... in a minute...
just before the comedian
ends up shaking the turd shaker
of nerves...
i don't entertain: i compose...
i'd rather listen to foxes
state their teenage sex
or a hyenna laughing
than entertain: in reverse...
the sound of an audience clapping...
if ever: an audience of
24 oyster disciples
yapping...

always the sense
of a background noise...
a sense of belonging...
the stage fright is hushed...
the entertainer is: long gone...
the congregation has diluted
itself from the concentrated
spot of: all the world is a stage...
and a great, ambivalent, silence...
performs an arithmetic trick...
of a quasi-archeological purpose...
like butterflies...
tattooed onto fingertips...
like... the frozen night...
when the snow falls in
a cushion softness... and murders
you with a flux of stasis...

the illusion that all will remain
intact... i now remember...
the last / first words i'll ever
say to a dead person...

Janush (sz, or caron s)...
i wish i had the sort of money
to buy you the sort
of a prosthetic leg that
para-olympians use...
here's to finding your grave...

you could trust some of these outlets...
once, upon, a, time...
what use is a cage
akin to psychology with its certainity
units and a broken-bone
wish for fluidity akin
to having to sieve custard?
a history - back-catalogue of events?
speedily! the modern individual!

as i tire from the caveman grade
escapism into porcelain language...
i rather... catch a moth in my hand...
gently clench it...
listen to people talk...
their talk... find tickling silk
on the tips of the moth's wings...
agitated fierce yet exhausting anger...
show the hand, clenched...
yet never arriving at a fist...
to attempt the moth write
a tattoo of graphite onto me...
the oil of crayons...
like fiddling with... exfoliating
pine needles: toward the expanse
of infinite space...

something turkish bazar-esque...
frivolous, and some...

did a "big bang" ever take place?
or was it... merely...
a waiting lisp...
a gravity of tenderness...
to break the silence with an orchestral
crescendo...
or ease in a signature...
a thomas newman or a satie
or a debussy slow burner...

whatever it was...
i will stand before the court...
ridiculed and angry...
yet in my vain hope...
the same will happen to the ones
who would have me ridiculed
and angered...
they too... will be schooled.
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