conradconrad

to have been cheated so

we went fishing, we went cycling...
the best years
circa 2002 through to some other
circa...
we went to forever distant places...
we allowed ourselves to
stomach heights of mountains...
now come to "think" of it...
i have tabloid and graffiti where
bow-ties and mourning should be...
the world just preserves
this insistence to continue:
with or without a status quo...
because today i am shuffling into
a currency: the world so happens...
the anglophone sphere is
insomniac awaiting election
results... i'm hardly invested in it...
i wish to be so oh so concerned...
that i might forget - yet now remember:
the reconquista of much
of europe for the ottoman turks...
but it's not like the turks are arabs...
never mind...
               i itch with skin i tease
myself over an asset that's these eyes...
i sip a glass of water,
ciemnota that is gladly ruled over
by counterfeit, bb'ah'ah... bb'ah'ah...
actors...
less of what's to be done
and more of what's to be...
how i imagine myself being (a) man
rather than doing the expected
manly-"thing"...
          if it was oh so simple
that we were all born turtles...
with knowledge of plumbing apparatus....
i am less as being
and forever diminishing as having
done... employed by a "miracle"
of the undo...
               revision quest...
there's no reality of a gaping hole
or: ex nihil stalking me:
  no: born of death....
              latin! latin!
          natus ex mors...
we went fishing and how we bicycled
around a never-ending stupidity
how i extended my youth
while you preserved your old age...

grandma was a bitch to the last...
no?
  3 months to spare...
she could have noted: he's not feeling
well... some aid would be nice...
i feel cheated my heart
thrown into a heap of stones...
i'm expecting a heaving lung
in return...
not this close...
not from family this anger arch... ing
to subdue my unfathomable
shadow, come noon,
come the moon:
puppet! how's lore?!

she could have called and said:
instead of 2 day's worth of baggage:
you're in the hospice breathing
your last...
i wake up to a tomorrow
and hear the north.east.west.south...
apparently you're dead...

for all those estranged examples
of dictated family...
i should have extracted ms. bitch
from your wife: my grandmother:
how she would suddenly be found
gloating: pinning you to
a pampers shit soaked... etc.
gruesome details: n'est ce pas?

she was so adamant about inheriting
your pension...
she was moreover adamant
on me taking out 500zł each day:
it's not like you amassed a lot of savings
to begin with...

over 7K... dutiful grandson...
i remember when she first encouraged me....
you were drunk and i would be stealing
pennies from your trouser pockets
left hanging on a chair in a room
of much darkening...

well... there's no unthinking this one
through: i'm the better drunk than
you will ever be: i fathom a need to
write some odd doodle while you
were exhausting the last remains
of memory cinema...

i'm gaining friction from people who
have started to notice:
i am not using english
with any orthodoxy, catholicism or
the sushi entree of protestantism...
looks like this language
i alone must own:
i will not be among the throng
of false prophets speaking
to the natives for corrections...

i own all that is readily available...
the natives can go burn
wickers and churches: in all honesty!

TUMANY...

                   it's theirs? they loosely(,)
just disguised themselves:
as... hinter...
          and the lapsing of aggrieved:
solo quests...
their native language doesn't translate
back...
it's theirs or is it simply mine?
how much this integration will allow...
i need more heads decapitated
saluting lazy tongues on pikes:
i am sure!
before the zombies will start sleeping: again!

if i were to stress my:
formality all too readily...
i remember days when we used to go
to school...
and meningitis was rife...
and a rifle too...
and we complied to the details
of the herd...

but not this, not now...
i can get a haircut i also can:
sure as hell wait for an irritating death
from a toothache!
sooner the pains from
a bad-hair-day...
i'm waiting for my teeth to
grow into fangs...
into elephant-esque tusks...
since my mouth will be unable
to impossibly keep them...
but my hair is more prompted
as: kept attention of "detail"...

suicide never made more sense:
all the excuses are in situ:
on the ready...
and i wouldn't even want
to blame these explorers...

             as ever: english in the "gulag":
how dasein translates into
"concern":
how happiness could ever be
substituted for inquisitiveness...
mind you: my eyes are darting
fathoming a whirlwind...
a roller-coaster...

i was debriefed by happiness
once...
i left the same sullen & sulk
signature as i ever might...
it didn't budge teasing an amassing
zombie-feud...
to begin or end with...
after all... i was born into a land-mass
that once claimed pride...
from sea to sea:
the baltic and the black sea
was, "in question"...

land-locked manoeuvres -
too many fucking vowels!
too many fucking vowels!
              there was a part of me
that somehow understood the genius
of the russians:
hence all that jazz of russophobia...
but there was no need
for claustrophobia and a siberia
pairing...
ugly feelings: mostly hurt...
or somewhat...
the terrible price of disgruntling
a slab of turk:
having confused it with a slobbering
over, over a camel jockey's arab
surprise...

saudi promises regarding
yemen...
                and all that was to remain
of bahrain...
like syria...
thank god for the closures
of the "ummah"...
bite the horn: ring the tonsils:
a church bell's worth of an uvula!
tongue this gluey
extract: my teeth a soothing
coming together: hey presto!
a shell for this slothing cringe
feast...

my grandmother with 3 months spare...
you told me:
ring me each month...
check up on my whereabouts...
i could have expected so much
from strangers...
"fwends"...
not from the ugliest
floral pattern of cunt that was
a granny..
you were a drunk:
i'm a better drunk of the whole lot
of us two: twinned...

this unrelenting presence:
to have been allowed witness of your body
so well fashioned for
a funeral: mr. navy...
mr. now...
            
        i suppose a thank you is in order...
81 years in waiting is
the only way to die...
there's no need to tease turtles
with envy that extends into
a century...

now i want to remember edinburgh
through 2004 to 2007...
it could have been manchester...
it could have been an itch
like southampton...
pressure me... creases of
a Penzance... reverse the tide i probably
couldn't...

perhaps i want to chase learning
a game of chess...
perhaps i want to relive those summers
i lay on the balcony and read
the books i read..
in your abrahamic bosom...
cheap-chow-mein-of-wording...
here's me... better clued-in...
better suited to sniffing the porno-feel
of 1980s pop music...

little ol' grandma i will hardly:
perhaps at best in my heart
i'll be wanting to piss on her grave...
perhaps i was expecting
something dramatic...
some phenomenon...
naturally... esque-borne revelation...
some earthquake some
waking into...

not how you seemingly "merely", "passed"....
ol' grandma: i wish to have her
shackled into a niqab: because
i last sentence these provocations
when i wilt to solve the crossword puzzles
with a 7am and a coffee...

death didn't rob me of what
you had already stressed:
the mortal feign...
            i had 3 months to spare...
detail for me the breaking
of the riddle of conscience...
                 i have to heave this last
salvage pin-point...

while "we" must be dictating....
people's loop
crescendo limiting bogus....
hey no new presto!
welcome
to grief... the limbo cowing-tie...
my litany of arbeit:
macht... frei...

             now that i dare
merely think it...
robespierre...
                 i heave ol'
yo-yo... because no one
would heave such
exhaustions.

Comments2

  • Stephenwbd

    Just read your poem and a few others on this site. I like your poem; I think it is the only poem of those I have just read that is not sentimental tosh or a product of a lifetime having pop music shovelled in your ear. I enjoy this kind of mobility:
    i itch with skin i tease
    myself over an asset that's these eyes...
    i sip a glass of water,
    And this, the way you switch images and the humour, great:
    if it was oh so simple
    that we were all born turtles...
    with knowledge of plumbing apparatus....
    I imagine you sitting, drinking: the poem mixing your life and geo-politics, Baltic history thrown in, more alcohol, more fragmentary. Edit it: short verses, stabs of phrases 5-10 lines, don’t try to make a point, the point will happen. Keep it tight – the verses; keep it loose the verse content. Good Poem. I wish you luck.

    • conradconrad

      can a 'wow" be enough? thanks for writing with a cipher... that's about all.

    • L. B. Mek

      1) 'less of what's to be done
      and more of what's to be...
      how i imagine myself being (a) man
      rather than doing the expected
      manly-"thing"...

      there's no reality of a gaping hole
      or: ex nihil stalking me:
      no: born of death....
      latin! latin!
      natus ex mors...
      we went fishing and how we bicycled
      around a never-ending stupidity
      how i extended my youth
      while you preserved your old age...'

      2) 'well... there's no unthinking this one
      through: i'm the better drunk than
      you will ever be: i fathom a need to
      write some odd doodle while you
      were exhausting the last remains
      of memory cinema...

      i'm gaining friction from people who
      have started to notice:
      i am not using english
      with any orthodoxy, catholicism or
      the sushi entree of protestantism...
      looks like this language
      i alone must own:
      i will not be among the throng
      of false prophets speaking
      to the natives for corrections...

      i own all that is readily available...
      the natives can go burn
      wickers and churches: in all honesty!

      TUMANY...

      it's theirs? they loosely(,)
      just disguised themselves:
      as... hinter...
      and the lapsing of aggrieved:
      solo quests...
      their native language doesn't translate
      back...
      it's theirs or is it simply mine?
      how much this integration will allow...
      i need more heads decapitated
      saluting lazy tongues on pikes:
      i am sure!
      before the zombies will start sleeping: again!'

      3) 'and we complied to the details
      of the herd...

      but not this, not now...
      i can get a haircut i also can:
      sure as hell wait for an irritating death
      from a toothache!
      sooner the pains from
      a bad-hair-day...
      i'm waiting for my teeth to
      grow into fangs...
      into elephant-esque tusks...
      since my mouth will be unable
      to impossibly keep them...
      but my hair is more prompted
      as: kept attention of "detail"...

      suicide never made more sense:
      all the excuses are in situ:
      on the ready...
      and i wouldn't even want
      to blame these explorers...'

      4) 'i was debriefed by happiness
      once...
      i left the same sullen & sulk
      signature as i ever might...'

      5) 'death didn't rob me of what
      you had already stressed:
      the mortal feign...
      i had 3 months to spare...
      detail for me the breaking
      of the riddle of conscience...
      i have to heave this last
      salvage pin-point...

      you were a drunk:
      i'm a better drunk of the whole lot
      of us two: twinned...

      this unrelenting presence:
      to have been allowed witness of your body
      so well fashioned for
      a funeral: mr. navy...
      mr. now...

      i suppose a thank you is in order...
      81 years in waiting is
      the only way to die...
      there's no need to tease turtles
      with envy that extends into
      a century...

      now i want to remember edinburgh
      through 2004 to 2007...
      it could have been manchester...
      it could have been an itch
      like southampton...
      pressure me... creases of
      a Penzance... reverse the tide i probably
      couldn't...

      perhaps i want to chase learning
      a game of chess...
      perhaps i want to relive those summers
      i lay on the balcony and read
      the books i read..
      in your abrahamic bosom...
      cheap-chow-mein-of-wording...
      here's me... better clued-in...
      better suited to sniffing the porno-feel
      of 1980s pop music...
      .
      .
      .
      after all... i was born into a land-mass
      that once claimed pride...
      from sea to sea:
      the baltic and the black sea
      was, "in question"...

      land-locked manoeuvres -
      too many fucking vowels!

      we went fishing, we went cycling...
      the best years
      circa 2002 through to some other
      circa...
      we went to forever distant places...
      we allowed ourselves to
      stomach heights of mountains...
      now come to "think" of it...
      i have tabloid and graffiti where
      bow-ties and mourning should be...
      the world just preserves
      this insistence to continue:
      with or without a status quo...'




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