.i don't know about having any edgy opinion, what i will subsequently write is not, even, remotely, concerned with the current political climate, a political opinion these days feels a bit like, what a piece of paper is, in a bureucratic heap of, more papers... perhaps it's just too predictable, too ontologically repetitive, i guess i wish i could honestly put my mouth where the vote is supposed to be... indirectly indicating something for the past years feels: like it doesn't feel like anything at all... point being: the british home office was about to make a few ad. cues to reassure the 4 million or so E.U. citizens living in the U.K. for more than 5 years, with legal paperwork outlines, enabling them to gain work permissions, and remain in the U.K., it was in the newspapers, it was supposed to be on t.v., saw jackshit.

who the hell said that emotions are overrated?
**** me:
   the same could be told in reverse:
no one cares, what you're thinking,
isn't that the usual reply a man tells another
man when he jokes
about why he broke up with his girlfriend?
i.e. she asked me what i was thinking...
cue: enter the dragon quotes...

         lee: what was that? an exhibition? i
    said emotional content, not anger.
                 now try again!
              don't think.....feeeeeel!!
don't think! FEEL. it is like a finger pointing
a way to the moon...
  don't concentrate on the finger
or you will miss all that heavenly glory.

true: am i to become some apathetic
zombie,
   who can't experience the emotional
joy of music to the point of crying...
   i still don't know why the classic.fm
station is pandering to Elgar...
   the one british classical music composer
that you keep: for the per se of
keeping him...
    well yeah...  Haendel was an immigrant,
sorry, sorry, ex-pat...
   he's an immigrant if he's foreign,
but the locals call themselves ex-patriots
when moving to H'america...
well, not **** Sherlock:
  i'm an ex-pat too...
   from a former soviet satellite bound
                          to the varshavah pact...
"oddly" enough:
i sometimes care for what a person feels,
than what they think...
   feelings... even made / make sense
in the orient, esp. how to hide-them...
        sometimes feelings are all you have
for diesel...
   the more content someone is,
the less chance of them blah-blah-blabbering
away...
       clearly someone could turn
up, and say: i don't care what you think...
it's a staff...
you can hit with it,
    but you can also have it grappled out
of your hands, and be hit with it in turn...
if classic.fm didn't pander so much
to Elgar,
   but credit where credit is due...
vaughan williams is fairly represented...
thus the observable crescendo...
  some albums...
you just need to listen to on vinyl,
WITHOUT HEADPHONES...
       this is not some "spectacular" /
obscure album...
   notably on thick vinyl,
       it's just the velvet underground's
debut...
   i guess the sense of watching a vinyl
spin at 33rpm while watching
france slaughter iceland,
   or portugal unable to figure out serbia
on the t.v. on mute...
while drinking a beer...
   in the back of my mind,
     filling the room with sound...
what would be chemistry representation
of a vinyl ushered into
the cauldron of a room's already
busy schedule of oxygen, nitrogen,
carbon dioxide and all the other gases?
     what's music in chemical representation...
i'm only asking,
   **** me, studied chemistry
to a university tier,
   and i still don't know what
the chemical formula is, for... wood.
am i going to find it out?
   seriously?
   and replace my flux / stasis of awe,
by a fact?
    the narrative would crumble...
            it was always going to be
an album from the 1960s,
   whether jazz or the velvet underground...
has to be on vinyl,
and NO HEADPHONES.

p.s. and the whole acknowledgement
of Delmore Schwartz on the album...
former teacher to lou reed...
   n'ah...
   gesaffelstein without headphones
would never work...
   great music,
too instrusive on the sensibility
                      of mahoghany...
             which figures:
i was never into punk, or rap,
even if all the irish kids at my
high school began entangled with
that famous "albino"...
             it was never really metal,
but prog rock...
               ant subsequently prog metal...
you just had to resort to the rare
pleasure of deriving pleasure from
cogitans per se,
          and only speak:
                       when implored to speak;
most the "things" that require
speech, are so blatantly obvious anyway,
that some slight
reference to body language
can translate what doesn't even
                 require a vortex of tongues.
banal...
                somehow that word
has so much resonance,
right about now,
    it has become "infected" with
       verbirations...
           as if it was a word in my native
tongue...
           edgy comments...
          not unless i know something on
the subject matter at hand...
     *****-nilly...
        i would be a dialectical fraud
if i pretended to care about something
that,
              only injects
   the food-stuff of cartilege, bone marrow
and brains into the pig trough.