Etc Poems
laid nude
by Matthew Conrad
. had i any
reverence for the worth
of rhyme
in me...
i'd halve the solving
halo seminar banquet
of entertaining auschwitz;
riddle come most fervently:
the most forgotten:
the last resorting bound
......
Mr Brazilian
by Matthew Conrad
ugh... i overdid it... "because it was a friday"...
i figured i could replica the sorts of
bogus nights out being the culprit colt
and poor boy in a club of early to mid 20 girls
looking for sugar daddies... never again...
i overdid the measure: it was supposed to
be 3x 8.5% ciders and half a liter of whiskey...
and when that happens -
i walk around like sleepwalker / zombie...
silent as the grave but with a flare of wild
......
i sometimes wish there was some grand title
by Matthew Conrad
it would take a harem of women to divorce me from
an appreciation of music -
given: most of modern, "modern" masculinity is
more closely associated with king Solomon
than with king David...
even through the ambitions of Muhammad...
i hate / i despise... vague words...
i distrust anyone who does not find infinity... vague...
again.. comfort... vague... again and again...
who doesn't belong to having a purpose
......
jazz
by Matthew Conrad
i'll take or leave: i have no heart for proße -
the "best" (anything) i can really do is
write a sketch -
the past 8 or so weeks in a quantum -
something bearable...
musically starved: and reading...
the only music i heard was nothing beside
an aura of dogs barking in
the night and car horns -
......
a miscellaneous collage
by Matthew Conrad
can a man truly regret not having children? well... is regret the sort of compendium an atheist would make rubric of: about eternity via the gene bullshit story of - "passing on"? then what is regret... i'll eat a poultry abortion tomorrow - probably poached - i'll sit on the throne of thrones and do the no. 1, the no. 2 and the no. 3 into toilet paper and call it: the genocide of the tadpoles that could have become mammals rather than amphibians... here's to the "other" sex shooting blanks... fucking wormholes and black holes and those ovaries like stars without any lightning juice to gear them up with a somewhat perverse depition of a soul... life / momentum... i am, a man... i can't compete for in the regrets olympics of a 60 year old woman made pop via a t.v. series akin to sex and the city where the only character worth mentioning is the woman without illusions and doubts - the full-hedonist: samantha... god... i remember my 2nd or 3rd prepubescent crush was over a girl named samantha... auburn tickling a rare blonde oiled up curly hair... plump cheeks... but the name... samantha seemed so fucking sexy then... sam-an-tha - bath... alone... bath but not bathing (veering off on that fucked up theta of the west saxons)... a man can't regret not having children... i would: if i could - regret the experience... i can only imagine the experience to be transcending - here's to german transcendental philosophy - the cut of the mill per usual verbiage - what the fuck can i incubate? a tapeworm... i can aspire to turning my intestines to a fucking worm - not even a placenta! no... god does exist... the whole "creative" construct is fucked up... a mouth in the stomach that feeds directly via a tube... and i am an aquatic creature too! fucked up imaginations come from a belief in god... the rest? atheistic / agnostic proverbial - mostly sexually-orientated... sexually / rhetorically minded... hell: i wish i could be the sort of woman at 60 who missed on having a transcendental narrative of being impregnated... i'm left with the stale kantian methodology of transcendence... so much for the foetus: heads up for the tapeworm toddler! well yeah... who wouldn't regret not having children... the antithesis of a parasite? a parasite that will later talk, walk and even do a jesus impression for a nativity play! but a man cannot respect the regrets associated with women... i can't feel regret... after all... i have an escape plan... i become the man-child... i orientate myself around a continuum of rebirth within the already given birth... hell: the man-child complex is not as bad as what women have to wrestle with: the madonna-whore complex... it just implies: i am entombed in the form of a man, but my mind can regress back to the child i was aged 4... i give 4 the year anno domini that the faculty of memory wakes up, ergo? if memory wakes up at the age of 4 - and it can expand and translate the rigid nature of the temporal linear labyrinth - then time becomes squared - consciousness doesn't have to originate with a fixation on a "self"... the emergence of memory is like a reboot of consciousness... consciousness becomes its first ordeal manifest: consciousness is a "something" that can remember "itself"... it's primarily a revisionist architecture - most of pedagogy is bound to tighten the faculty of memory - to exercise memory - to subsequently exhaust memory - rubrics, facts, the faculty of imagination isn't exactly invested it, the arts are not exactly... curated for... memory... consciousness begins with and within the confines of memory - imagination is stunted... for all pedagogic purposes... but is allowed to flourish in its natural environment of: the sort of games children invent and play among each other... or that's how it used to be: before imagination was sacrificed on the altar of placebo imaginative constructions of elder architects - i still remember playing bulldog in the schoolyard at St. Augustine's Barkingside... i still remember playing hide & seek in Poland... i still remember playing labyrinths with bottle caps stuffed with plasticine... or throwing marbles into holes... organic play - not inorganic play - not being cage - even if we plagiarized the children that came before us - at least we... slap-ball... canon palmer sixth form - ages 16 - 18... a very competitive sport... pedagogy doesn't respect the flourish of imagination - it recognises that memory is the faculty that comes first - so it has to army-standard it, make it errosive - i guess i saved my memory by using my imagination of appealing to the many aspects of pedagogy - focusing on the sciences - i had to ensure that i was also good at the humanities - math? eh... D grade antics on the A-level tier... A and A* come the GCSEs... but i can't have regrets about not having children: i ejaculate a fucking genocide everytime i do the no. 1, 2, 3 and 4: taking a shower... i eat poultry abortions: best poached... oh sure, sure... i'm about to regret not entertaining a fucking tapeworm toddler... unless of course that's what modern women deem a foetus to be... a tapeworm... fuck it... plug one in... let me be spoiled for nine months... i'll eat everything i want and blame it on a parasite! huh... lucky me... the rare occassion where a man can say: lucky me... stuck with man-child complex... i have the ego the worth of a foetus in my mind - i'm taking care of this second birth - which resides with the calm and collected orgasm of death... regrets... man can at best understand a woman if he takes the time required: to understand himself... and then allow the woman to understand herself - should the two meet? that's out of the jurisdiction for any sort of prudence on my behalf - a cocktail is a cocktail... messy interludes in the grand theatre / soap opera of life... i never liked soap opera - i preferred the idealist film... theatre? more of an opera man. must be harsh though... having these regrets aged 60... i wonder what my regrets will be when i turn 60... considering that most people start hearing alarm bells once they peak at 30... 33... 35... and their inbuilt ontology starts to whisper to them a message a tier above their conscience about starting a family? i'm 33... i'm not hearing this voice... i'm still stuck on: don't lie and... demand the most ethical conundrums from the most banal situations life has to offer... aged 33 i can say: game over... i'm out! if i have to i can always play the schizophrenic joker card... nietzsche was right... if i am faking madness: i deserve an oscar for my performance... and if i'm not? how many things: do i do not have to do, before the one thing i must do: and die? shrinking: day by day.
sumar summarum: the regrets of a 60 year old woman -
not having kids, is not as bad as the plights of woman in her 40s
having a child for the first time (i should know, my neighbor -
last year her toddler was in agony during the heatwave -
she blamed his agony on me smoking a cigarette outside my
bedroom window... in the heatwave i'd get about 2 hours sleep
during the night, come morning,
i'd run into the garden and try to conjure up an hour of sleep
......
jazz
by Matthew Conrad
i'll take or leave: i have no heart for proße -
the "best" (anything) i can really do is
write a sketch -
the past 8 or so weeks in a quantum -
something bearable...
musically starved: and reading...
the only music i heard was nothing beside
an aura of dogs barking in
the night and car horns -
......
Mr Brazilian
by Matthew Conrad
ugh... i overdid it... "because it was a friday"...
i figured i could replica the sorts of
bogus nights out being the culprit colt
and poor boy in a club of early to mid 20 girls
looking for sugar daddies... never again...
i overdid the measure: it was supposed to
be 3x 8.5% ciders and half a liter of whiskey...
and when that happens -
i walk around like sleepwalker / zombie...
silent as the grave but with a flare of wild
......
laid nude
by Matthew Conrad
. had i any
reverence for the worth
of rhyme
in me...
i'd halve the solving
halo seminar banquet
of entertaining auschwitz;
riddle come most fervently:
the most forgotten:
the last resorting bound
......
i sometimes wish there was some grand title
by Matthew Conrad
it would take a harem of women to divorce me from
an appreciation of music -
given: most of modern, "modern" masculinity is
more closely associated with king Solomon
than with king David...
even through the ambitions of Muhammad...
i hate / i despise... vague words...
i distrust anyone who does not find infinity... vague...
again.. comfort... vague... again and again...
who doesn't belong to having a purpose
......
a miscellaneous collage
by Matthew Conrad
can a man truly regret not having children? well... is regret the sort of compendium an atheist would make rubric of: about eternity via the gene bullshit story of - "passing on"? then what is regret... i'll eat a poultry abortion tomorrow - probably poached - i'll sit on the throne of thrones and do the no. 1, the no. 2 and the no. 3 into toilet paper and call it: the genocide of the tadpoles that could have become mammals rather than amphibians... here's to the "other" sex shooting blanks... fucking wormholes and black holes and those ovaries like stars without any lightning juice to gear them up with a somewhat perverse depition of a soul... life / momentum... i am, a man... i can't compete for in the regrets olympics of a 60 year old woman made pop via a t.v. series akin to sex and the city where the only character worth mentioning is the woman without illusions and doubts - the full-hedonist: samantha... god... i remember my 2nd or 3rd prepubescent crush was over a girl named samantha... auburn tickling a rare blonde oiled up curly hair... plump cheeks... but the name... samantha seemed so fucking sexy then... sam-an-tha - bath... alone... bath but not bathing (veering off on that fucked up theta of the west saxons)... a man can't regret not having children... i would: if i could - regret the experience... i can only imagine the experience to be transcending - here's to german transcendental philosophy - the cut of the mill per usual verbiage - what the fuck can i incubate? a tapeworm... i can aspire to turning my intestines to a fucking worm - not even a placenta! no... god does exist... the whole "creative" construct is fucked up... a mouth in the stomach that feeds directly via a tube... and i am an aquatic creature too! fucked up imaginations come from a belief in god... the rest? atheistic / agnostic proverbial - mostly sexually-orientated... sexually / rhetorically minded... hell: i wish i could be the sort of woman at 60 who missed on having a transcendental narrative of being impregnated... i'm left with the stale kantian methodology of transcendence... so much for the foetus: heads up for the tapeworm toddler! well yeah... who wouldn't regret not having children... the antithesis of a parasite? a parasite that will later talk, walk and even do a jesus impression for a nativity play! but a man cannot respect the regrets associated with women... i can't feel regret... after all... i have an escape plan... i become the man-child... i orientate myself around a continuum of rebirth within the already given birth... hell: the man-child complex is not as bad as what women have to wrestle with: the madonna-whore complex... it just implies: i am entombed in the form of a man, but my mind can regress back to the child i was aged 4... i give 4 the year anno domini that the faculty of memory wakes up, ergo? if memory wakes up at the age of 4 - and it can expand and translate the rigid nature of the temporal linear labyrinth - then time becomes squared - consciousness doesn't have to originate with a fixation on a "self"... the emergence of memory is like a reboot of consciousness... consciousness becomes its first ordeal manifest: consciousness is a "something" that can remember "itself"... it's primarily a revisionist architecture - most of pedagogy is bound to tighten the faculty of memory - to exercise memory - to subsequently exhaust memory - rubrics, facts, the faculty of imagination isn't exactly invested it, the arts are not exactly... curated for... memory... consciousness begins with and within the confines of memory - imagination is stunted... for all pedagogic purposes... but is allowed to flourish in its natural environment of: the sort of games children invent and play among each other... or that's how it used to be: before imagination was sacrificed on the altar of placebo imaginative constructions of elder architects - i still remember playing bulldog in the schoolyard at St. Augustine's Barkingside... i still remember playing hide & seek in Poland... i still remember playing labyrinths with bottle caps stuffed with plasticine... or throwing marbles into holes... organic play - not inorganic play - not being cage - even if we plagiarized the children that came before us - at least we... slap-ball... canon palmer sixth form - ages 16 - 18... a very competitive sport... pedagogy doesn't respect the flourish of imagination - it recognises that memory is the faculty that comes first - so it has to army-standard it, make it errosive - i guess i saved my memory by using my imagination of appealing to the many aspects of pedagogy - focusing on the sciences - i had to ensure that i was also good at the humanities - math? eh... D grade antics on the A-level tier... A and A* come the GCSEs... but i can't have regrets about not having children: i ejaculate a fucking genocide everytime i do the no. 1, 2, 3 and 4: taking a shower... i eat poultry abortions: best poached... oh sure, sure... i'm about to regret not entertaining a fucking tapeworm toddler... unless of course that's what modern women deem a foetus to be... a tapeworm... fuck it... plug one in... let me be spoiled for nine months... i'll eat everything i want and blame it on a parasite! huh... lucky me... the rare occassion where a man can say: lucky me... stuck with man-child complex... i have the ego the worth of a foetus in my mind - i'm taking care of this second birth - which resides with the calm and collected orgasm of death... regrets... man can at best understand a woman if he takes the time required: to understand himself... and then allow the woman to understand herself - should the two meet? that's out of the jurisdiction for any sort of prudence on my behalf - a cocktail is a cocktail... messy interludes in the grand theatre / soap opera of life... i never liked soap opera - i preferred the idealist film... theatre? more of an opera man. must be harsh though... having these regrets aged 60... i wonder what my regrets will be when i turn 60... considering that most people start hearing alarm bells once they peak at 30... 33... 35... and their inbuilt ontology starts to whisper to them a message a tier above their conscience about starting a family? i'm 33... i'm not hearing this voice... i'm still stuck on: don't lie and... demand the most ethical conundrums from the most banal situations life has to offer... aged 33 i can say: game over... i'm out! if i have to i can always play the schizophrenic joker card... nietzsche was right... if i am faking madness: i deserve an oscar for my performance... and if i'm not? how many things: do i do not have to do, before the one thing i must do: and die? shrinking: day by day.
sumar summarum: the regrets of a 60 year old woman -
not having kids, is not as bad as the plights of woman in her 40s
having a child for the first time (i should know, my neighbor -
last year her toddler was in agony during the heatwave -
she blamed his agony on me smoking a cigarette outside my
bedroom window... in the heatwave i'd get about 2 hours sleep
during the night, come morning,
i'd run into the garden and try to conjure up an hour of sleep
......
