Bright windy November
with the slap of cold sun sending frowns
and the absent rain not beating down
choleric substitutes of alcohol withdrawal
and spatial omissions of home fires stoking
empty remembrances of faded potential and
misplaced amorous regret
Haunted by the lingering smell of the souls of
last night's GUINNESS intake staying swell in
the nostrils which is in reality the gulf breeze blowing
gullshit down the river Liffey giver of life.

...And here I am Dublin pillaged and funded
en route to the hour-rate slog
shiny white commerce bleaching out of
windowsills distracting from rooftop
Chiaroscuro  serenading a sky
which old ****** forgotten Sons and Daughters
will die under.

Boots tapping mock-goosestep to the ground
past a girl who speaks on her IPHONE to someone
who presumably not only wants to be seen speaking
to someone on their IPHONE but who also cares enough
to listen as the girl announces to all-and-sundry
human dodging on Bachelors Walk this fateful morn
that "I realised what my problem is Now! People
think i'm saying N when I'm really saying M!"

.....quite an existential crisis you got there, EH DOC?

("This girl's SITUATION belongs in a scenario in the TV show GIRLS which young
Woman Europe-wide have embraced as their spiritual saviour in an era of Consumer
impulse control. By placing the mundane generalities and perceived social failings
interpreted by young American female comediennes as instead representing a means of
self-forgiveness and attempted new-wave soft-core feminist self-celebration young American
actresses are inspiring a new generation of young woman to speak openly in a more in-depth level about everything that usually happens to themselves or some girl they know"-From "The Post-New Male Gaze: Interpreting Critiques of Stereotypically Feminized Pop Culture in Westley Barnes's "Notes on a Rant: The "Took Me Up To Dublin Where It's Famous" Notebook
:2013)

This is the new white noise.

White Irish Male Critiques perceived socially-announced problems of White Irish Female over White Technology on a white morning in a grey city.

A grey city which subliminally stinks of shame and left-over guilt and of spending too much money on tecno-toys and new-improved nullifying debauchery and even rent during a significantly rough stretch of fiscal years. After a lot of years of white nonsense, really.

But this is where I took myself, and this is what happens once you take yourself here and this is where its famous for it.
Dublin,
Once Monto-based FUNDERLAND for the rich and royal turned over-waxie infested tenement slum district and second city of an industrialised economy waiting for the rest of the world to pay its way.
Dublin,
capital of green and squeaky saviours of the third-world who made some money and forgot about everyone else they used to know back home. Mr Poverty, Mr Humbleness, Mr Sense of Catholic Shame.
Until the rents got too high and they had to move home again.
Dublin,
no matters what it achieves, always putting itself down.

But I can adapt.
I've lived in Rathmines and Portobello before living in either was a
really hip decision to make.
I can find somewhere else before its gets gentrified
(after I find some job that's not worth complaining about
or I eventually leap into becoming to middle-class
to complain about it.)
enough that its a headache living there, too many men wearing the same winter
jackets. Too many packed restaurants and your local actually preparing the tables
in the run-up to the Rugby game on Saturday.
The less of all that, the better for me.

I used to day dream about all of the above, honestly, but I
somehow managed to regain my innocence by living through it.

As for the girl who discovered self-realisation on her (through her?) IPHONE?
She'll be alright. If that's how she starts wading through the floodwaters of relating
herself to the world, misunderstood syllables, name-fails and all, this time in twenty
years, she'll be laughing. Don't worry yourselves, she'll adapt with the times.
Sure, Dublin's famous for it.

Earth’s sixth mass extinction has begun, new study confirms


How long before the rhino joins the list? Gerry Zambonini, CC BY-SA
We are currently witnessing the start of a mass extinction event the likes of which have not been seen on Earth for at least 65 million years. This is the alarming finding of a new study published in the journal Science Advances.

The research was designed to determine how human actions over the past 500 years have affected the extinction rates of vertebrates: mammals, fish, birds, reptiles and amphibians. It found a clear signal of elevated species loss which has markedly accelerated over the past couple of hundred years, such that life on Earth is embarking on its sixth greatest extinction event in its 3.5 billion year history.

This latest research was conducted by an international team lead by Gerardo Ceballos of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. Measuring extinction rates is notoriously hard. Recently I reported on some of the fiendishly clever ways such rates have been estimated. These studies are producing profoundly worrying results.

However, there is always the risk that such work overestimates modern extinction rates because they need to make a number of assumptions given the very limited data available. Ceballos and his team wanted to put a floor on these numbers, to establish extinction rates for species that were very conservative, with the understanding that whatever the rate of species lost has actually been, it could not be any lower.

This makes their findings even more significant because even with such conservative estimates they find extinction rates are much, much higher than the background rate of extinction – the rate of species loss in the absence of any human impacts.

Here again, they err on the side of caution. A number of studies have attempted to estimate the background rate of extinction. These have produced upper values of about one out of every million species being lost each year. Using recent work by co-author Anthony Barnosky, they effectively double this background rate and so assume that two out of every million species will disappear through natural causes each year. This should mean that differences between the background and human driven extinction rates will be smaller. But they find that the magnitude of more recent extinctions is so great as to effectively swamp any natural processes.


Cumulative vertebrate species recorded as extinct or extinct in the wild by the IUCN (2012). Dashed black line represents background rate. This is the ‘highly conservative estimate’.  Ceballos et al
Click to enlarge
The “very conservative estimate” of species loss uses International Union of Conservation of Nature data. This contains documented examples of species becoming extinct. They use the same data source to produce the “conservative estimate” which includes known extinct species and those species believed to be extinct or extinct in the wild.

The paper has been published in an open access journal and I would recommend reading it and the accompanying Supplementary Materials. This includes the list of vertebrate species known to have disappeared since the year 1500. The Latin names for these species would be familiar only to specialists, but even the common names are exotic and strange: the Cuban coney, red-bellied gracile, broad-faced potoroo and southern gastric brooding frog.


Farewell, broad-faced potoroo, we hardly knew ye.  John Gould
These particular outer branches of the great tree of life now stop. Some of their remains will be preserved, either as fossils in layers of rocks or glass eyed exhibits in museum cabinets. But the Earth will no longer see them scurry or soar, hear them croak or chirp.

You may wonder to what extent does this matter? Why should we worry if the natural process of extinction is amplified by humans and our expanding industrialised civilisation?

One response to this question essentially points out what the natural world does for us. Whether it’s pollinating our crops, purifying our water, providing fish to eat or fibres to weave, we are dependent on biodiveristy. Ecosystems can only continue to provide things for us if they continue to function in approximately the same way.

The relationship between species diversity and ecosystem function is very complex and not well understood. There may be gradual and reversible decreases in function with decreased biodiversity. There may be effectively no change until a tipping point occurs. The analogy here is popping out rivets from a plane’s wing. The aircraft will fly unimpaired if a few rivets are removed here or there, but to continue to remove rivets is to move the system closer to catastrophic failure.

This latest research tells us what we already knew. Humans have in the space of a few centuries swung a wrecking ball through the Earth’s biosphere. Liquidating biodiversity to produce products and services has an end point. Science is starting to sketch out what that end point could look like but it cannot tell us why to stop before we reach it.

If we regard the Earth as nothing more than a source of resources and a sink for our pollution, if we value other species only in terms of what they can provide to us, then we we will continue to unpick the fabric of life. Remove further rivets from spaceship earth. This not only increases the risk that it will cease to function in the ways that we and future generations will depend on, but can only reduce the complexity and beauty of our home in the cosmos.

a polish pork head terrine?
my ******* god...
how can the jews and the muslims
take to culinary criticism of
their own, respective gods?
ever watch the t.v. show
billions? where they're having
breadcrumbs fried pork
ears?
   last time i heard...
   the best pork is encapsulated
within the pig cranium....
all that excess cartilage?
   yummy finger licking good...
seems funny though...
it's not exactly discussing bone marrow...
it's pork head...
   all that excess cartilage...
    and mingled with sweet & sour
gherkins...
just my idea of Anastasia...
a porky's head...
chicken hearts / chicken livers....
      raw Baltic herrings?
who the, ****, needs to glorify
american hamburgers...
   if not some jerking-off
megalomaniac?
                     you eat, what is given,
you don't ask for nuances,
you don't make excuses...
you eat what is on the plate..
you **** the omnivore "gimmick"...
    pork head flesh,
meat mixed with cartilage?
              tasty as ****...
          so why would islam
or the partial strand of judaism
   be so critical concerning the most
economic carnivore animal being
      farmed, herded, industrialised?

the monotheistic celebration of god...
within the confines of a criticism,
so trivial would make a god laugh...

it would appear the dogma was written as a joke...
earthquake and hurricane
are o.k., but pork?
the ******* bubonic plague!
     i love how "god" is celebrated,
but at the same time,
kept under a critical acclaim
of having one of his creations,
namely pork...
   given a punching bag status of criticism...

since, what is so ******* pristine,
and spectacular, about chicken, lamb
or beef meat?
   according to islam... mad cow disease
never happened.

a citrus *****, sveedish,
   citrus, absolut,
    straight,
      with ice...
       some might call it
a sewer lemon squinting
pinch, without a first
of a month...

        but it's certainly
a ***** *****,
   given that all the impurities
from the "apparently"
filtered frozen water
start to appear,
   like dissolved tofu flakes...

***** *****:
    ***** and ice...
     i agree: an ugly cocktail
but right on the mark...

because what on earth could
have possibly happened in
england when i was away from
it for two months,
in an asylum of my grandparent's
abode of:
      oh sure, sure...
   marry...
    hell knows no wrath,
  as a woman belittled...

      a long trip from a sleepy
town once tipped to be the next
metallurgy capital,
overgrown with weeds...
   busy Warsaw with a faint
tickling of German...
         more German than English:
and at that moment:
tourism seemed, refreshing...

     back in sleepy England?
even the most populated snippets
of Warsaw didn't seem that
appealing as, as *****,
as welcoming as:
the shadiest, scabbiest postcards
from the Eastern Avenue
   moving from the A406 into
the mini Raj of a certain
part of Essex...
    the part not allocated to
the Cockney migration...

        shady as ****...
but if you asked me to get out
of the car and walk these streets?
hell, i know a few Bulgarian
prostitutes not too far away
and... oddly enough...
half an hour... half an hour without
an *******...
    just to tattoo an invisible
mark of my fingertip on
her buttocks...
    
               at one point she collapsed
and said no more,
   so we just lay there,
while i kissed her eyelids...
        
           what did i leave reading?
the times magazine, 17.03.18,
main articles read the following:

   if you're not broody and you can
pay your own bills,
   why settle?
          is that all?
    back in Edinburgh i did that
for 3 years, and god, if that's
an achievement?
     hell... might as well move into
making pancakes territory...

because the other option is:
   and if you can't?
   why give a *******' worth
of jingle for these curtain-people?
    3 years isn't much,
but in those 3 years it wasn't
a hot topic...
      
             2 months away and what
do i return to?
   by neighbours think i'm dead...
my feet gave odours of french blue,
and the cat that made my room
her high tower was chased away
from the socks up...
   i took a shower...
          which also included
saving a moth who attempted
suicide...
    
         flew right into the shower
cubicle...
   stopped soaping myself
and picked the poor ****** up,
breathed on it,
   unrolled one of its wet
antennas hidden beneath its
wet wing using a cotton bud on
a plastic matchstick
   no technical name to
usurp this description)...

   and watched it vibrate its wings...
trill: RRRRRRRRR
     its wings dry...
              while puckering up
a mouth to my finger for balance
and retrospect...
  
    yes, cats, really are,
the gatekeepers of finding a tier
of affection in insects,
    butterflies are too shy,
   and never mistake a room lit
by a candle or lightbulb
     for the ******* day,
go figure...
        
     in the past two months though,
this is the sort of tabloid
dynamic of "news" missing in
these parts of the world,
because, to be honest,
if i didn't write this:
   **** all would have apparently
happened...

            but yes...
cats are gatekeepers to experiencing
affection from an
individuation *** ****
        (with man) -
                the mirror of man,
or how man escaped the collective
unconscious of humanity,
solomon took to the ant...
    
    i? the moth.
        bee too...
   i remember feeding a dying
bee honey,
  watching it pitifully extend
its tongue into a dollop
    of honey and die from
an overdose...
       but it was dying anyway...

somehow eating chicken
isn't so accommodating a concern
in all honesty...
  given that chickens live
like aristocracts before
the French revolution... chop chop...
what's the problem?

      and we are not industrialised
creatures to suddenly
lament the industrialised
;production of cockley-doodle-do?
     it's like attempting to
hear a grand historical laugh
worth an aeon,
   while instead merely listening
to a second's worth of
a constipated giggle: a snigger...
af if these current zeitgeisters
          are robbing us of a past...

becauase if Orwell is the current
curriculum in the west...
   and the east used to ban in...
   why is Orwell suddenly
   dogma in the west,
  when it was prohobited in the east?
ah... right... overshot the Huxley
bit... the, real nightmare
of aesthetic eugenics,
         or whatever compound you'd
want to use...

     so Orwell used to be forbidden
in East Germany...
    because?
   becauase it is now West German
dogma or rather:
  since capitalism is cannibalising
itself...
      it requires to project
     a jumping caterpillar
to jump over, with an antithesis?

  which is Huxley...
     but that has no ideological
frameworks,
      too bad Dolly...
  i'm sure Mr. Hyde can teach
his clone the debauchery once
upon reserved from the dynamic
orthodoxy of time
and a father, and a son...
   the rich are not evil...
     they are merely not
as oppurtunistic as the poor...
   so go figure...
  its hardly a deep receding
archetype waiting to bud
in my mind, which nonetheless,
perpetually slips into
the back of my tongue
boxed with the tonsil to shut up...

how does a moth dry its wings?
vibrates them, standing still,
but i still had to unfold
one of its sodden antennas
     from beneath its wet wings...
and see...
   cats as gatekeepers to
the metaphor of man in insect...
and the godlessness
       of man: without insects...

just the casual disinterest
          of concern for an insect
becomes 100x more than
a formal interest of discocern
for a man...

                  that's a quadratic
maxim:

     i will casually treat an
insect with more concern
            than i might a man...
because i am not obliged
to any collectivism,
       no hierarchy,
   no: formality...
                   trans-gender
is as the **** talking
mouth of the odd instance
of being transcendent within
the nonetheless unifyng
branches leading
to the stalk, and...
    ****... roots...
    ******* rubber:
extends on boths sides:

   8  ------- 1 ------- ∞

        1 = undeniable,
   given 0 = negatation
    (counter-thesis of Kantian
atoms, words,
   since letters already
consist of bigger than
atoms elements: Na: sodium)...

     even if there is a void,
i still fill that "void"
with the purpose of denying
it...
        atheism is bonkers, ergo...
oh the void of catholicism
i'd prefer to watch
magpies cackling over
which of them is going
to steal the silver spoon...

     ***** *****...
   saving a moth while taking
a shower...
        as much of england
in the past 4 hours as in
the 2 months i was away.

but somehow,
i write to peer into visualising
         my thought
pattern,
   or at least, how i can construct it
on the basis that:
i just walked about 6 miles
and drank 5 cans of beer
and smoked a few cigarettes
   and sat on a bench in a public space.

i really do believe that with man
having overcome the natural world
(to some degree),
industrialised the rearing of pigs for
pork, creating the bonsai tiger
that's a cat...
      god, i dread this anglophone
existential narrative of going way way back
and then coming into the present...
   walking zombie like
in the aftermath of unearthing the big bang
and finding dinosaur bones...
excavating Hades has never had so many
pitfalls...
       but this is the anglophone narrative,
that we currently live in,
  ask anyone in Tuscany and they're like:
come Friday, bring a bottle of wine,
have dinner...
       look at my beautiful house...
ever see the *appleton tower in Edinburgh?
built in the 1960s... meaning:
too many people were on aßid...
    c (see) s (esse) **** (ah yes)
(takes a break and empties his bladder)...
who in Venice might have a care
to keep this ref. in mind,
   who on earth, if not the english
have it? i go to Poland and people talk
about the butcher's and know the butcher's
name, small world and all that...
    i'm starting to think that
keeping the big bang ref. point in pop
culture is eating away at the everyday...
   and all this talk of dinosaurs...
   before they unearthed dinosaur bones
they were drawing dragons,
giant iguanas...
    i guess the snake is the abstract
version of a dinosaur... the remains:
no limbs...
     it has to be...
  like the way i took my tongue for a walk
today...
      what with our concrete body
and our abstract counterparts....
  one word on the tip of my tongue,
passing a bench where some would have
said in spotting a *** sitting on it...
sure, the *** look, the worn shoes...
but what *** can be seen
  eating a strange fruit from a paper
bag, watching a family of: mama, papa
and two kinder, smile and drop
that small fruit into his gob?
   as i was walking with my grandfather
he asked: who is that?
  i said: a philosopher.
   evidently the conversation was in polish
and the word in question is:
  fi-lo-zof...
the church is still there, the bench too,
the memory prompts itself sometimes,
a bit like a knee ****...
  and that got me thinking about
the concept in Jewish tradition...
   ayin (nothingness) -
             so ע‎ spoke to א (adam / aleph)...
but i need to get something off my chest...
ever find a 20 quid banknote in a puddle
or a 10 quid banknote in a puddle,
and given the current times,
an old fiver on a street pavement?
money again...
    i have...
and when you do, and then later spot
a penny on the street...
or when you have actually made
your own wine, rather than bought it
in a supermarket...
  how odd it looks, that penny,
how gravity prone,
as if it was supposed to be lost,
dropped, spared the agony of economics?
i was walking the streets tonight and
i looked at it (walking and listening
to distance's repercussions album
can feel a lot like going to a gig,
it's classified as dub-step, but it's really
ambient music,
just that the real ambient music
is, pretty much listening to a very old
refrigerator, the ones that made a sound,
had a heart of some sort,
like putting your head against an old
box, that's no longer a box, but a size 0
model... that leaves you null when
considering the static transmission of
channel 0) - oh my...
how we look into the future with
so much nostalgia these days,
  forget the ancient greeks, forget the nostalgia
of philosophers bound by that rule
of thumb in the 19th and the 20th century...
we're waving: bye bye odes to that old trash,
not to be rude, but i have been exposed to
so many technological advances in the past
20 odd years that i have no plot,
no novel, apart from the one given to me,
and if i do a pish-poor job of recording it,
then woo-hoo to me, i passed the Tao threshold,
the world can happen, and i can just
enter a realm of, finally being able to forget...
still, a penny on a street isn't a 20 quid banknote,
and given the improvement,
that it has turned all Australian on me,
i don't even need to dry it off to later spend it
if it's found floating like an ice-berg
in a puddle...
             and i think: why are pennies so real?
i mean, it's staring right back at me,
it's looks almost like an excalibur...
or the profanity plagiarised with thor's hammer...
i don't want to pick it up...
    it's so gravity prone on the pavement
like a pebble, or like a copper statue of a
"very important" person in parliament sq.,
that just get riddled with communism
in a capitalistic society, i.e. vandalism...
     the penny bewildering...
   i can't visualise what i'd do with it,
because i couldn't do much with it...
        it's just copper on stone...
     a bit like looking at a newspaper
of the day lying about at 10pm near an empty packet
of cigarettes, the sort of motif of:
let's trash the place...
      it's just one son of Hades lying on a more
elongated presence of yet another son of Hades:
copper on concrete,
   the next thing that comes after
grinding sand into glass: crunchy stone
mashed up with enough tar to make up a road...
england, of all places, has particular rooting
in a history of the roman empire,
out of all the nations that succumbed to its power
it has the most fond memories of the dusty one,
which i find quiet odd, and most of the times
slightly bewildering...
    given that i don't have it...
lucky you, an ethnic mongrel, papa was a singing
Irishman, mama was a a nigerian,
and you all ended up speaking the same tongue...
unlucky me, mongrel of the soul...
escapism of polymaths, because it makes sense,
or how mono-lingual have that thing called
patriotism and a land-to-body relantionship
in general, whatever flag is being flown...
bilinguals have a memory-to-body
relationship, it's hard to avoid it, a bit like seeing
a mountain and saying: we'll walk right through it...
so yeah,
having found a 20 quid banknote i was already
scheming for the next *****-up,
   i could already see a potential for it,
i knew it was worth something...
it's hard to see that sort of dynamic with a penny...
let's just say that sort of dynamic doesn't
exactly exist...
          the penny is fixed to the cement,
it's not moving anywhere,
    when a *** asks for spare change
you just start to think: change? spare tire?
is that equivalent?
      because money, as a concept,
as the original concept for a universal language
that everyone could suddenly understand,
or just did, once the "thing" was implemented
was the original translation vehicle...
        money is by far the sole reason we have
3 dimensional talk, why we have ambiguity,
while humanity enforcing laws is always so thesaurus
prone when talking about it,
   in the root of jurisprudence...
           i can talk idle: say things thing nothing
and then become a pedestrian to concrete items,
a daffodil, a t-****... i can relaly turn on the grey button
and it all becomes vague,
    and rarely bound to be, as a whole, bound
by a glue known as mystifying.
some might call it a case of giving account
of: ibin balām...
the other one riding a donkey...
                    or as i like to call it:
   convering with the "angel" that spared me,
who shook me into an epileptic frenzy when i was on
the verge of dying, saying:
now you, do what unto yourself, what others
did unto you.
    i have to admit, drinking myself to death is
the most pleasurable event in my life...
    it's this metalic electricity produced by my left
hemisphere, most of the time?
a bit like sitting on an electric chair,
without a wet sponge placed on my head
so that the electricity can pulverize the alveoli pattern
of my neurons... keep moist, he says,
   and i just think of my brain and the colour red,
and the decay of red, first into brown, and then into black...
and how people who deny my misery to
later become: a bit annoying, gnat-like...
still, that penny on the street,
  and how i would have reacted differently
had i found a 20 quid banknote...
and how i do...
   to see this unit of the concept, just... useless!
the concept of money becomes all the more apparent,
and i know that people in wealthy countries don't
seem to appreciate the basic unit of their currency,
they prefer fixed prices, they prefer pondering
a worth of a toothbrush, priced at a pound's worth
than care for a penny... they say
    it's so close, but so far away,
how spare change is reserved for children and beggars...
how pennies never seem to add up to anything
if you see but one on a pavement...
                it's only copper... it's not exactly gold...
ah hell... what if we really did brag about
gambling on a fixed, but an otherwise fluctuation
price of a painting?
  well... we wouldn't be saying: priceless!
   a bit like the anima of buying football players...
yes, some of us like using our minds,
to study philosophy, perhaps even lension a care
to write poetry... and all the more:
in a non-manipulative care to then translate it back
into: suppose chess?
                           only when language becomes
too 1 dimensional, or at least 2 dimensional,
i.e. verb / vector... then we're in trouble,
in the quicksand, in the mud, in the trenches...
i did mention something prior, didn't i?
ah, hebrew...
            slaves in america invented the
deconstructionism of jazz and blues...
  thank you very much... dub-step and the first
thing i think of when thinking about africa
is a drum... or knowing when and when not to
knock on things...
   i don't think the echo minds playing
that game of knocking down ginger...
    i guess i am the one left with a land
that's tattooed with germans and russians...
i get the ******* grafitti of neo-nazis who
experienced something more than the blitz...
plus, i have that Auschwitz to give caring tourists
a helping hand into sighing over...
   but all that i owe concerning myself,
ibin balām... riding my little donkey...
        ever find those riding donkeys more menacing
than those riding horses? balām, jesus, don quixote...
but it's in the alphabet of the hebrews,
i can't really get over it...
hence the original muse, a single word,
fi-lo-zof... and the concept: ayin sof...
what the greeks later made into σoφια...
yes, that monotheistic gender-neutral pronoun
some of us ascribe the noun god to...
god is such an unfatastical noun...
the real fantastic noun is the tetragrammaton...
hell... i'm convinced... i'm actually converted
in a sense of not really bothering with
the rituals... the ritual i imposed on myself
is to repeatedly think about it...
    and it really is a fantastic noun,
so mathematically fertile,
Y and the x, y, z axis of the math canvas...
and trig of W that's cosine rather than M and therefore
sine... and how the H is almost like deja vu
joke, before the tangens enters segregational...
and all i just thought is more than a thousand
bulls readied for a pagan sacrificial rite...
    it's the sof in the ayin sof that's hard to find...
say, it's easy to spew enough books to bore
a thousand people over a thousand generations
if you use a system of encoding that gives no
name to the units...
   the greeks have alpha, the romans only a.
the greeks have beta, the romans only b.
   which probably means that writing can be more
easily done, and to a greater number and extent...
but thinking? it's not really done...
people would rather be perverse and hostile and
impolite because of this shortening of said
units of sounds... which is another reason why
the anglophone world is rife with onomatopoeias...
    and how i found: singing intside your head
is half a whistle, and less than a ****...
    so how did sof come about, as a concept?
the hebrews call it ayin (nothingness),
and when next to the word sof call it
ain (without) sof (end), i.e. the endless one...
   so where did the syllable zof come in here
and where did the Greeks extend that into sophia?
i can see sof, but i can't see where it came from,
sure, there's the usual noun for a sound,
e.g. ש‎ (shin) and ך‎ (kaf)...
             forget the greeks for a moment...
  the romans wrote the music, there was no name
for a, b, c, d, e... we're talking ancient greeks,
therefore all ancients... they enclosed sounds differently
back then... the greeks ensured there was some
alphabetical cohesion, like looking
into a dictionary under the rubric o,
and finding omega, onomatopoeia and oh my god!
i know what you're thinking, semitic languages
and neanderthals... why did they persist
and having become instinct? try sanskrit and 1 billion
hindus... or the chinese... they're the same...
historically speaking...
oh please, i like the cognitive impetus of drinking:
you want to take hold of these brats on the british
isles? you have some alternative suggestion?
the roman alphabet is the gateway "drug",
i.e. א‎ (man), a, ע‎ (god), á,
  or: from above... something descending...
then i start to think it's a case of articles,
even though aleph (א) and ayin (ע) are phonetically
identical, they are totally different...
it's almost like saying: ah for that one,
and ah for a one? close proximity and the rule,
that you wouldn't say an one... but a one...
funny... english is like that, hello! welcome!
hope you realise it, without diacritical marks
being, well, i wouldn't say absolutely necessary,
but a helping hand....
too many examples to choose from,
i make so many instances of it being true that
i forget to make up my life with
a care for romantic misendeavours...
so yeah... i'm looking for O in the semitic alphabet
that still remains in use...
     hebrew... because i really can't do phonecian...
i'm loooking for the word sof...
    you know, like homeland, sol, solomon...
i want to cut off the unnecessary bits
and put a word together...
i can't seem to find a full-circle of an omicron
or omega...
  i say omega, you cut off -mega and attach an -o-,
and the thing fizzes and i write bomb!
and you cut off -elta, -psilon....
                      ah... ~appa and the need to write
pass... double consonants...
     i just wanted to write duck...
like duck the ******* bomb, rather than quack?!
the semites are a breed of people
that simply hide things, mostly vowels...
the new wave of people with robots
simply write excess number of consonants
and omit them...
     they're there, but they're only there
because there will be two layers of the same language
being inscribed... given omni-literacy...
          hence the current youth congregating under
the banner of acronyms and something akin
to sign language in their use of emojis...
  :)... no, that's bad... :(....
                                              i'm still looking
for the sof...
    the closest i came to it was with
ש‎י‎ך‎,
      it would have been easier with the greek
expression of teaching the neanderthal semites...
again, i like te jews, they're the most
"docile" / persistent semites...
   i know they're not vogue, but that's why
i rather keep hebrew than arabic...
or because of my skin, i sorta have to keep
the runes for safekeeping and upkeep...
we kept them for a reason,
    we kept the runes so this wouldn't happen,
how christianity gave us a life of psyche
but erased our origin, our alphabet,
no point calling it a "big bang",
at leas the russians got cyrilic,
and turned **** into шit...
     i'm still looking for O in hebrew, semitic,
the reason is that they're such a small number
and their phonetic encoding as as "neanderthal"
as that of sanskrit and mandarin alphabets...
  and that's the prejudice...
   i don't like it... i find all the mysteries
in my impetus to write bound to them...
    wait... weren't we not the ones stressing
the vogue of our times?
    i see a bunch of torn shirts and well worn shoes
from where i'm standing...
i'm still finding it hard to find an O in the hebrew form...
am i missing something?
    i mean, ****, cut off all the necessary
bits of greek, you get roman: alpha (a-),
      beta (b-)... and obviously the excess aesthetic
so that it all looks nice... cat, kettle, scythe...
                                           key, scatter, skew...
smooth, cool, caseload...
                 our current times will be a joke th

Not quite the green rolling hills
i’d devour only a few years ago
i’m stuck depending on the
dreary dark alleys, buldings with dessimated feelings,
girls who prance so estatically through
cement pavements and tarmac streets.

How do I feel knowing brick tastes sweet,
smog feels soft, and constant movement relaxes me?
They flourished and thrived,
grew up so different, so industrialised.
A completely different vocabularly that has been bastardised.
Not just trees and meadows
not just red juggarnauts and underground rumbles.

I need to find the sea
just for a moment to wash this off me.

sado-masochism is not a rigid term,
it can easily be flipped
onto its head
and become maso-sadism...
well...
at least masochists
and sadists have evolved
nerve-endings,
and can differentiate
while at the same time
integrate
    an antonym grey area
of pain, and pleasure...
psychopaths,
              who exprience
a non-differentiated-integral
experience...
apathy breeds no pathology...
with atheism there is no god;
apathy breeds no pathology...
apathy and the wild beast,
unlike the *******
who you could cage,
unlike the sadist
who you could cage...
stereotype...
   a psychopath and the blank,
canvas, the liar detector
and the murmuring fizz of
static flatline...
    maso-sadism...
the pleasure in pain inflicted,
countered by the moral
pain experienced by
an individual, adhering
to "the" collective,
sado-masochists are bugs...
a maso-sadist
mingles with the psychopath
on the ground of:
the 99% materialistic certainty,
torture by: the pathology
of the existence of a soul,
per se...
           a sado-******* doesn't
possess the inversion of
sadism...
              which might be done
unto them...
                the ridicule surrounding
the mea culpa mantra
  of: hurting others translates
as also hurting yourself
falls on death ears...
a maso-sadist, enjoys
the pain inflicted...
because the sadism he sees
is attired in the subtlety
of non-physicality...
the only theatre where moral
conundrums take place...
moral pain, guilt...
           immobility of social
stature...
             personal guilt...
sado-masochists are pathetic
in that... they are trivial...
in their cul d sac mentality...
who, if the roles be reversed...
cannot play the role
of the *******...
      but, like the sadism allows...
the helpless, victim...
first comes the Eden
of self-inflicted pain,
or rather, allowing it from the other...
only once this threshold is
filled to the brim...
comes the theatrical
shunning of memory...
leaving the grotesque
   mechanisation of imagination
take over.
    unless you haven't been
in hospital, cheery,
watching the moral banquet
take place, watching intact
bodies, but tortured souls
ever so briefly,  by a void
of where thinking ought to
be fixed...
         maso-sadism
is a pleasure from pain...
   and a sadism...
    of watching people...
self-impose torture on themselves...
with nothing but a chance
predicament of an object...
           that, in their mind,
will never be a subject
to counter their objectness...
a wholly staged industrialised
moment...
                because you will bypass that,
without ushering in ridicule,
next time you go to the supermarket,
and read a cashier's name tag?
      subtle sadism in a *******'s
eye...
            the helpless Samaritan...
a sleeping good-willingness...
                        much more...
to see in someone an inability to help,
a frozen immediacy of
potential mingled with impotency...
like I said, sado-masochists
are leeches, cockroaches...
who needs torture and primitive
tools to exhume screaming...
when you can peer into
the elaborate torture of
a murmuring soul?

the ninth gate,
or how, even a bibliophile
can have a little
adventure...

perhaps there's a world
out "there",
but there's also the Heideggerean
retraction  from the world,
into Tao...
         or at least, Tao,
with a bit more of a European
entanglement of narrative...
or past 4 summers
to count, exploring
        moth flight into dust
made into sediment
on yawning bookshelves...
as much of a world out "there"...
as there is life in th vicinity,
in a myopic worldview,
almost aquatic...
        via the H. retraction of
dasein... being by a plateau-esque
increment...
rather than the synonym
big bang and 20th century
exponential circus of populations...
epoch of consolidation,
and cultural exhaustion...
since art could not be industrialised
with a focus on originality,
standing face to face with
industrialised "art" of household
decorum... back to the cave it went
to craft a think-tank,
and a safe space...

which begs the question
as to why certain people allow themselves
the chance to exploit the haiku...
rubric rigid, however-many
syllables it takes...
prior to, some Ching Shin Po
drinking heavily during
the night (why would
you ever drink during the day?)
laughing at the moon,
astounded, mesmerised...
terse saying, sealed lips,
never a haiku being intrusive,
never the haiku made into
a jazz standard,
or a because a sonnet rhymes
like so...
                 20 years,
and still waiting for a haiku...
not this, industrialised:
'aving a blueprint,
ergo: mass replica pulverising
tumult...

           tickling-fingers,
using bookmarks rather than desecrating
books by folding pages into pytharogean
origami...
                reading best investigated
as private tele broadcasting channels...
ad intermissions...

       tonight all i have to offer is this...
a bibliophile's tender woven care...
  holding a book, 3 years older than
me... namely 34 / 35...
in pristine condition...
namely... and the pages are still white...
ironic... since the content
of the book is about ghosts...
take a printed 1957
and the pages turn to sepia...
unlike those barons
and stubborn sycophantic
       wine, "conneisours"...
   the pleb turned snob
is harder to find among book
fetishists...
             the oldest in my possession?
a 19th century print...
     amrican...
     in one psychoice instance
i gave the works of Emerson to
Oxfam...
not that i mind charity,
but that I mind Oxfam...
                  
a new breed narration,
if art, for art's sake...
digression being the new form of
narrative... because
i don't remember what i was going to...

ah!

   Duchy Polskie: Wydawnictwo
         PTTK "KRAJ" (Warszawa 1983)
person in question?
the illustrator,
janusz stanny...
and notably the method
of translating a flint stone
into graphic...
                 hell...
a little corner of the world
and nothing as mundane as...
a postcard from the usual:
wish you were here,
and wish i wasn't,
      sending you this ******* postcard
making me look
like an utter plonk...

and what of the commandments regarding
a neighbour...
big town no neighbours...
small town... promotion
into gossip... little talk...
big town no gossip,
suffocated little interests,
plotki... suffocated to the point
when too it's too late,
and the straitjacket comes out...

the forgetful faces
and the dizzying carousel of urban
living...
              if fame is to be worth 15 minutes...
friendships have a life-span
of a dumb mosquito sitting
on the arm of a lucid man...
            teasing this minion
of the antithesis of Belzeebub
before the needle...
   SMACK...
                         pancake.

        the digressive narrative...
or in better grammar without
a doubled -ive...
digression as the new form
of a narrative...
    as such:
      acute amnesia...
    regarding the muse...

               not for any other,
other than the love of the craft...
or how to escape
the Alcatraz... of sitting through
and English literature / language class...

oh ****... would you loom at that...
a rhyming couplet!
   that's as rare as Van Helsing
finding out that... beyond the romance
of the sickly and sweaty sweet Bar-fe-lona...
all vampires are like mushrooms...
kept in the dark and fed ****...
namely... all vampires are albinos.

on the odd occasion of finding a rhyme,
without even looking for one...
esp. not pulverising a reader with it...
every,  single, or, other, line!

The boys and girls ran towards the sound of music
The music played by a proud military band
It was a scene that was oft times repeated
In every town and village in the land.

And when they arrived at their main street
The music was mingled with the sound
Of thousands of hob nailed leather boots
Crunching on the cobbled ground.

The hundreds of green uniformed men
In rows abreast with rifles shouldered
Marched off to their date with destiny
In fields where many dead already mouldered.

And yet they still marched off together
Smiling at the gathered crowds of their towns
Never questioning the reasons for the war
From Scotland’s North, to the South Downs.

They just turned up willing to fight and die
In this “great” war that would end all wars
They all were proud to go and **** the ***
For God’s, King’s and country’s righteous cause.

Across the North Sea it was the same
The willing young men marched off to battle
Great and noble they thought was their cause
And they went to their slaughter like unknowing cattle.

Throughout the continent of Europe, young men,
Joined their disparate armies then became willing
To become part of an industrialised version of war
That mass produced all the means of easy killing.

And each one in every country thought the same,
That they had “God” on their side and were blessed,
So their leaders in politics and in their church
Happily put this belief to its so far greatest test.

Today a hundred years has passed us by
Since the first shots of the war were fired
And we are debating how to commemorate
That sad war and the millions who expired.

Should we treat it as some historical jaunt
Or as a necessary conflict to defeat a tyrant’s threat?
Or should we look on it as an avoidable war
All consequences of which we have not seen yet?

We should remember those who died
We ought to strive never to forget a single one,
But we should do it in a quiet, thoughtful way,
With politics, the military and the church all gone.

Instead why not just buy some red poppy seeds
The reddest red of the reddest blood
And scatter them freely on verges and gardens
In memory of the millions who died in the mud?

Industrialised glam, digitalised intimacy
Rich aroma, dancing lights;
implicit wonders are unexplored
as they hide beneath the headstock
obeying society's stream of thought.

Rigour movements, sundried streets
hustling and bustling with only time to beat;
withering moments drape the paved sidewalk
just like the bland orange tainted tree in
your grave backyard (which many have described to be hollow and large)

Lingering spirits have strewn themselves over your covered sheets,
cementing their curtains as the bright white light
of haven glistens above their unblinking eyes
constricted by the deafening silence,
untoned to the faint hymns of children's laughter.

"Stop to smell the roses", the wise men speak:
confidence is their ruse; do not let it deceive you.
They hide amongst the similar thousands of men,
yet never raising a head to any of them.
These are the children of our future.

Senseless to surroundings, spray them fresh air,
Move their cognitive gears to move their oil-rigged limbs;
Let their creative minds sway to the rhythm of rustling trees,
Revive the diverse culture of our people for these brainwashed folks;
Deny the irony of being consumed, when you are the consumer.

never rub another man's rhubarb.

so this article comes along
about aya-huskie,
****... what was it?
                              ayahuasca
and i'm reading it,
and i'm reading into it,
and i'm like:
     it's not unusual for 100+
ceremonies ingesting
this drug happen in new york
on a daily basis...
****'s more potent that
corresponding a war...
   the female enegry *madre:
hocus pokus
          harry houdini
       eating a pear as a magic
            trick *******...
nope...
   i'm fine my beer, my love
of home-cooked food,
my music...
       what am i implying?
   the ****'s contaminated -
just like the beatnik poets
contaminated peyote...
contaminated, how?
  they wrote about it...
who the **** is going to moan
and complain about me
writing about drinking?
                           um... no one?
the brew is so abused that
when sometimes comes
along and writes about its
effects, in a positive way:
you don't really start moaning...
all those soppy:
  papa was an alcoholic type
stories...
   mama drank a bottle
of wine before putting me to bed:
too bad *******!
    live with the fact,
that somewhere, somehow,
there's a drunk who could
juggle a monkey, a tambourine
and banana:
  and call it a musical instrument!
you ingest something
for a sense of humour -
or you ingest something for
a sense of wonder...
aya-hoo-haha-caska
   is of the latter category...
alcohol?
            ugh: the former!

and to be honest?
    the only and at the same
time the most spiritual experience
i ever had or will have:
will remain:
          hearing myself laughing.
that's it!

the sort of laugh imitating a fox,
the sort of laugh imitating muttley,
and the laugh that feels
like easing a **** of crunching
the stomach...
      the visionaries can keep their
discontent with dreams,
and experience them wide-awake...

but reading this article is numbing...
always the ******* westerners,
the white "bad boys",
what they'll do with ayahuasca
is what they did with cows, pigs,
dogs and cats...
   they'll domesticate the drug...
oh look... already domesticated
being categorised as a drug, rather
than the original of: medicine...

and that's what western society does...
find me a shaman using
alcohol and i'll find you a pair
of scissors in an ayahuasca experience...
but i just hate the idea
of domesticating something so
spiritually governed...

people really think that taking this
drug, in the centre of new york
will somehow create an actual
organic potency of the drug?
          in new york the experience
will be inorganic -
        and most probably horrific -

well **** me: jump off a roof and
hallucinate a pair torn off icarus!
    up here, in the hinterlands,
in catholic schools,
   they still told us what the ukrainians
used to do: sniff glue
   (can i recommend a film?
    lilya 4-ever) -
       or don't get me strated with poles
drinking purple denaturat,
     (denatonium, methanol -
                         in short? toxins!) -

personall i don't like the idea where
this ahaya ahooya, whatever thing is going...
to me it has a scent of a process
of domestication...
        but i suppose if you're going
to deforest the amazon,
    you also have to attack the spirit -

now that i've read about the experience,
i'm rather keen on trying to
unravel the problem of antidepressants:
also in the same newspaper...
   namely escitalopram (lexarpo)
  & sertraline & clonazepam
  & paroxetine (seroxat) - all of them being
anti-depressants; so no:

i wouldn't disturb the amazonian shamans
for some "bogus" life-changing
experiences, i'd look at the situation where
drugs have moved beyond the stage
of being domesticated from their natural
environment... and... therefore?
                                    industrialised!

talk to random schizophrenic in the middle
of a night over a kalimotxo (basque drink,
red wine and coca-cola - kali kali kali
m'oh ch'oh) -
and he'll tell you: yeah, knew a guy,
was on antipsychotic medication:
                                 grew a pair of ****!

oh yeah, tobacco & alcohol are baaah!
baaah! bad! (please invoke a sheepish
stutter within the confines of the italics).

the first layer is p.t.s.d. free
                                       orientation...
   i call it the ***** brigade,
                       a strong psyche,
   or at least something akin
to a ******... and i knew some would-be
footballers, aged 15 / 16,
  dropping ****** rather than ecstasy...
   a weird experience seeing it happen...
his name? ryan.... ryan cyrmy...
  however you spell the last name...
i found him popping ******
  on a night out...
        can you imagine it?!
no, don't know my potential,
it's still very much anime fantasy...
            the worst sadists come
clothed in the following:
save a drowning puppy,
           forget the drowning toddler.
            per-fe-ction!
oh sadists are above psychopaths,
  they're an anti-thesis
to the psychopathic theoretical...
   muder industrailised is
an anaesthetic...
   ****** solo?
               that's an adrenaline rush...
but genocide? i.e.
the industrialisation of ******?
   no misnomers here, sure
homocide, whatever... let's not
get into the correct word,
  when deviating with "misnomers"...
   industrialised ****** is
  an anaesthetic...
                  ****** one on one?
that's pure
                 adrenaline...
       they do say that p.t.s.d.
arises from what evil you did,
rather than what evil was done unto you...
sure enough, imagine firing
a machine gun, and then having
to return to a society, where
boiling water for a cup of tea,
could also seem dangerous in your
murderous hands...
           within comparison?
i like to think of the undiagnosed:
  p.c.s.d. (post-colonial-stress-disoder)...
   and if you come from an ethnicity
that had and has encompassed
a nationhood, without colonising other
nations...
            it's a grand joke,
i'm just making jokes over a slobbering
pope, that, if god endowed him the wiser
step, would have been a lesser saint
or no saint at all, but at least
                           a fond memory,
of the sickly pope emaritus,
    that taoist pope i wish he would have
become... to ease the world,
                 let the world forget you;
but now... semi-, completely senile...
      slobbering, needing a napkin to catch
the saliva oozing from his
            pseudo-brain-haemorrhage;
ya... ob nur papst rentner:
      pig latin makes germanic sparrow -
none are exact...
       but at least we can
conclude: at least it was a singing
        cucumber pickle singing in the
barrel with the pickled barbarossa
in jerusalem... singing...
     when the boy is resurrected and sings:
crow for crow, and a thousand number of
the crow throng! so the red king arises
once more!
          precursor i guess...
                            bartablondine.

there's that saying: you'll be lucky to have one true friend
when you get older,
perhaps one in your 20s... befriended in early childhood
or in your teenage years and the friendship
with drag into your later life... at least through your
20s... rarely into your 30s...
                            i don't think there's anything to bemoan
about that... why would there be:
      esp. if you manage to find a centre-of-self within
      you will almost certainly find a lot of "things" to be
classified as without:
                on top of the fact that you can never find
what some people (mostly women) call this concept
of self-love... me? love myself?
               i hate myself and i "love" myself...
in the light of words: i think it's more important to
be able to comfort oneself, to be able to comfort oneself
is what love denies on the stretch of the other's whim...
i hate my irritable bowels when i spend the day
contemplating why it's impossible for me to take a single
well-baked **** and forget about it for the rest
of the day... instead... these cut-off nuggets of ****
that turn my head spinning and give me an inverted
headache of the brain knocking on my forehead
rather than shrinking in the skull from dehydration...
people grow apart for good enough reasons they
were close to each other for the same good reasons...
although i sometimes dream up the sort of life my
grandfather led - watching a small town become industrialised,
the population never gravitating beyond 100,000...
familiar faces... all the familiar faces...
                 a thief wouldn't be able to walk through
this same "village" through twice: Heraclitus and the river
analogy... if water is the emblem of time
then space can only be air...
                 i wonder what's fire and what's earth...
                            reading snippets from Knausgaard's
volume 6 concerning ******...
           honestly? if you turn a blind-eye on all the horrors...
i think he lived a most admirable life...
honestly... but like any "apologetics"...
                     if i were to disregard actual history and just
look at ******'s life up to a certain point...
****... perhaps not only an admirable life but also an admirable
person... sounds strange...
                   but maybe that's the only way to read
Mein Kampf... if it is read and written by someone else
in the context of his own life...
                          of course excluding the reality
of the Holocaust... or the fact that ****** didn't actually do
any of the slaughterhouse deeds...
                    you can admire something so disgusting and murky
on the basis of the central proponent of the deeds
having a Pontius Pilate approach: i.e. having clean hands...
Pontius Pilate's deed of washing his hands clean
from the whole affair is like Julius Caesar uttering
the words: alea iacta est... let fate decide...
                  let's gamble... the frivolity of responsibility...
friends aside...
                                  writing might have been a passion
for me once... when i first started to scribble my little extension
of thought...
   but after a while this passion became a:
compulsion... now... a passion is not a compulsion...
writing has become a compulsion...
                    i can't stop doing it: therefore i don't care
whether i do it well or do it poorly:
   which is why i don't really care for recognition for it,
or money, for it, or awards, for it...
               i just can't stop doing it...
                                    but you'll be lucky... truly lucky...
to be able to pull but one passion from your childhood
into adulthood...
    i was lucky... i tried various things...
rock climbing, swimming, lacrosse, rugby,
      walking marathons... gaming...
                     collecting *******...
                              
on the basic premise of what's to be celebrated
in western culture, i.e. individualism:
then yes, ****** is an admirable figure...
i hate the idea of this man being the epitome of
what's evil... i can find countless examples of evil
could breed toward the fathom of your average
in-and-out solipsist...
by now Genghis Khan is venerated
but as the story goes... each nation that was
conquered by the Mongols set that nation back
200 years in development...
early Christians burning down the ancient library
of Alexandria... Pope Alexander VI (Borgia)...
oh the highly venerated status symbol -
yet what god-awful deeds are hidden under his belt...
this masquerade of concretely stating
what is good and what is evil...
                to me it's all meshed into one massive
confusion-stressor... it was a lie bound in metaphor
of the origins of this story...
                               i.e. 'and you will know the difference
between good and evil'...
if i were to write a Hippocratic Oath song
i'd sing it as: what doesn't harm is oh so good,
because what does harm me is oh so evil...
whiskey whiskey no blues...
just like i don't know whether i should
like Madonna's don't tell me is
a **** song compared to any high-brow-beatings
or rather is, a quintessential pop song
i can listen to and feel stupid about liking (it)...

there's enough time for revisions to be put in place...
in no defence of ******... Himmler was worse...
i'm justifying none of it but without ****** there would
be no sped up resurrection of the state of Israel...
personally, i feel there's no new start originating
in the 21st century... but so much was done
in the 20th century that as the years pass of the first 22 of this
century i'm witnessing a plateau-sickness...

passions versus compulsions...
   thank **** and the tiny dove of god that i kept
one passion from my youth... namely? cycling...
even today... cycling up Bedford's path up the hill
to Havering-atte-Bower village's cricket ground...
pebbles pebbles everywhere but no mountains...
and then? a prior to crash on the A12 junction
cutting up Mawney Rd. - stopping off
an a Tesco Express to pick up today's newspaper...
walk in, walk out... get back on my bicycle...
feelings mutual: wonky...
get off the bicycle... check with my thumb
the air pressure in the tyres...
oh no! no! **** it! how did i manage to flat-out
the front tyre? it took me about 40min to walk from
the point of puncture all the way home...

                           but cycling is still a passion:
it's not a compulsion...
                      i sometimes wish i could stomach telling
myself: you know that this writing is mediocre,
no? you could spend the same amount of time
talking to someone intimately...
right... about what? what curtains we need to buy?
what's missing in our lives?
   what's there apparent... i think it's just the same:
i write about something mediocre or i write about it...
at least by writing about i'm wasting my own time...
not having those supposed counter-moments
of intimacy with someone concrete...

i think about this for about half a minute while i...
lapse into my other passion:
rolling tobacco... since she complained that
i was **** at rolling cigarettes...
whenever we would be smoking marijuana during
or prior to or after having ***...
well... time spent apart gave me the right sort
of "itchy fingertips"...

strange so... being in one's mid 30s moving from
memories of being a child and showcasing in the mind
the crux of an existential affair...
the deaths of those currently closest...
i'm gearing up and thinking: what am i going
to do with all this clamour, this hoarding...
it's not they invested in a dowry...
like they might have invested in helping me to
get on a mortgage ladder...

i wake up and always remember to teach one lesson
of mortality thoroughly...
i'll be dead if i'm not already dying...
introspection of all things blasé:

       ******* Horace...

nullus argento color est avaris
abdito terris, inimice lamnae
Crispe Sallusti, nisi temperato
splendent usu.

    the brilliance of a treasure in the earth
will not be gained for you, oh Crispe,
even if the most grandiose would gather
only mediocre use of explanations
of the nobleness of silver....

that sounds about right; right toward an eight...
i translated some Horace for
posterity, time can, tumult in a tide
and move on...
the excavations of our times... archeologically...
historically... is going to be crushing..
the already presented reality is  crushing blow...
time is a geology without mountains and stones...
Darwinism is subordinate to geology...
personal life? trifles...
         this impossible reality and history to live
in... given the set scientific standards of
explaining ****... while also working
a job of minimal skill level improvement...
as a supermarket cashier...

******... sooner rather than later
flu will not be a problem but a collective
depressing realisation of... living in a lapse
of time ever passing... passing a certain dictum
of furthering progress...
i remember to light a candle with a scent of vanilla
and i try to remember that... newspapers
are not printed... for at least one day
in the week's worth of cutting up
a differentiation of time...

i need to acknowledge my mediocracy....
mein eigenes mittelmäßigkeit...
              i'm not about to bloat and blow up a balloon
of egoistical fancies...
          the sea is here, the mountain is here...
so is the sun the moon and the tide...
and i'm also, slowly, here, too...
           i want to borrow speaking German
without having a conversation...
because? after all, ****** was German,
Austrian, sure... whatever...
he tried to imitate the look of Chaplin...

                                  it's still freshly cleaned wounds...
but all the Ubermensch died serving the cause
of the Wehrmacht... anyway...
so... look at me... trying to be least invested
conjuring of continuum...
the past said: no no... the future hardly said
a yes...
                i feel both entrenched and both
strapped to a spider-web with latex
inhibitions of: playground fun....
translated into bedroom antics...
                
                 admirable, the agility of the human
body...
            as if: the human mind
is to best equipped with, having: standing:
equivalent to... freely ******* in an alleyway....

i shouldn't have ever, rekindled my
desires for marijuana smoking
because: oh god, society's great endeavour...
in familial ties contradicting individualism
and the great ****** exploration, epoch...
my god... butcher the "****"...
that one ought to ***** a *******' worth of
"trendy"...
                  
      sorry ******... here we tilt toward
***** and: leisure!
                  let's get skin-basked....
while the returns are? a ******* plenty!