with the internet the fictional characters rebelled, added to the  stealing of shadows by hollywood, now comes the true time of who the  narrators are... if no narrator relieve character studying and keeping  narration in a state of ~necessary placebo we’ll only get alien  invasions and bomb blasts to succor the anaemic characters... we need  charisma from narrators who are characters as if imbued by the  surrounding... we hardly need mythologies of ghosts that replaced  mythologies of gods... we need narrators ready to forget fictive  chronology and engage in the life of what their characters live; nothing  else, nothing more; show us a weak narrator overcome by a strong  character... stop shoving us so much imagery of contentment resembling  ~strength  of characters... when the narration is weakened by cloning  termed sequal / prequel / sequal no. 2 / no. 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 etc.  how can  a weakened narrator ever provide a strength of character? never mind,  the punctuation in philosophy is stressed by the question mark - meaning  a question will provide offshoot narrations in whatever arrangement the  comma, the full-stop semi and colon will allow... the question mark is  an entry point of punctuation, it’s the full-stop with something being  added in relation to another person... so if a poem is given alliance to  parallels, i always italicise in a method of anti p.s., although  strickly p.s. as pre scriptum: what made me think after i have written  something as easily disposable in comparison with tolstoy’s war &  peace on the basis of what denotes civilised people?*

when i do something that’s not too excessively adjectively biased
like the book of genesis: ‘ah ****... it’s good,’ said god
concerning the world that gave us
the infestation of diseases and statues of david...
good thing he didn’t say: it’s amazing! it’s psychedelic!
that would be untrue... he chose neutrality...
like me... i thought i lost a poem, i saved it with ctrl c...
and i get pavlov’s reward with a memory:
i’m buying beer in a turkish shop,
i start chatting to a boy ~10...
i tell him my childhood secret
about how i thought animals couldn’t see in the realm of 2d...
given that no cat or dog ever watches the t.v.,
mindful of sleep / mindful of the owner...
cat: i missed an hour in the sloths physiology, go away!
dog: i really need to ****! i really need to ****! get me
a tree quick or it’s going to be your leg getting soaked! soppy miu miu **.
god... adele’s hello single... if i had to mine for salt
i'd check the dog’s ******* first.
boy from the turkish shop - when you grow up
and are still interested in my game from youth:
about how animals don’t see in 2d -
i hope... i hope... i hope they still don’t.

poets’ ~sadness is what feeds people’s apathy,
people feel the lack of pathology in apathy
that they sense something must be wrong,
and poets provide this ~something-is-wrong
pathology - modern computers hibernate like bears -
it’s still very basic... we’ll need more than poets
to feel like ****...
i said once: apathy creates no pathologies...
but people desire pathology to craft drama...
they despair at the celestial ingenuity of orbits...
they despair at the leo’s strenght and cancer’s recycling
to endear their characters with zodiacs...
the west is too individualistic that it divides...
take the year of the tiger in the chinese shadow of belief...
it’s hardly specifying samuel tollbridge with a confirmation
name to gimmick the tetragrammaton as the catholics do...
i don’t feel like feeding people’s apathy...
i rather enjoy my own ~sadness than feed it...
if anything i want to oppose philosophy’s testimony
that scarceness of words in poetry... unsung...
unsung with guitars pianos and harps is sad...
and the simplicity of words in songs
sung with guitars pianos and harps is profitably ‘appy...
poetry is merely what the composer wrote
in silence in that complexity of
what poetry isn’t:
what the violin had to say,
what the piano had to say,
what the concerto d-minor sounded like
in the life of john smith disillusioned with living idealism
necessarily lived...
poetry the silent background...
fruitfull in automating the lives of others... the crackling wood
of the woodwinds necessarily lived to the score /
or off the pavement of dialogue expected...
poetry not sung is less akin to music it’s true cousin...
poetry not sung becomes philosophy.