Glistening golden cells
Geometrically stacked
Decanting crystalline ambrosia
Sweet and sticky
One step from the Sun
Dripping, oozing from on high
From its mathematic matrix
Millimeter by millimeter
Into my mouth

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears:
Plac’d on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth! in Euclid’s axioms tried,
Though little vers’d in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill’d an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic’s ken.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil’d the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
Can tell, what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone’s on the shelf, neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon’s bard, rememb’ring scarce the name.

Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th’ ATHENIAN’S glowing style, or TULLY’S fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince;
Be other orators of pleasing proud,—
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow’d grace of action must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what—he could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t’ obtain the promis’d cup,
Must in one posture stand, and ne’er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word—
No matter what, so it can not be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest’s sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the wordy race.

The Sons of Science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta’s sluggish shade;
Where on Cam’s sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour’d live—unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix’d within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley’s, Brunck’s, or Porson’s note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
(Whether ’tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour;)
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread;
But should a storm o’erwhelm him with disgrace,
They’d fly to seek the next, who fill’d his place.
Such are the men who learning’s treasures guard!
Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say—
The premium can’t exceed the price they pay.

Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!

(my sullen heart)....
still stays

I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass

Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all

Pulling poetry out my ***
_

I was never a simple person
but I craved simplicity like I craved my grandmother's strawberry jam
I loved school, whistling and everything taller than me
They reminded me of my father
I hated screen doors, cracks in pavement and goodbyes
When I was four he left me all those tainted things
but I loved him

Four years later
my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas
I told her I needed a baby brother
I used to spend every night while he slept
at his feet
When I was eleven, my mother moved us to a new city
There were a million games of cops and robbers
and my first boyfriend, Spencer
He had blond hair and eyes so blue they put my brother's to shame
He told me he loved me under an oak tree
kissed my cheek and got so red in the face
I thought he was going to burst

My mother was in University
and had the softest piano hands
Her eyes were glossy from all her tears
I collected them in my jewellery box heart
There were rust on my edges
and hers
I was a rusty by product of drunk unintentions
A mathematic, scientific accident
Not a young mother with high hopes and goodluck

On Sunday afternoons I played hopscotch
on my babysitters driveway, I was nine
On Sunday evenings he brought me to his secret lair
He'd secretly touch me in all my secret places
I hated him
I think he hated me too

When I was six, I wanted to be a teacher
Ten years later, a man with a medical degree
told me I couldn't have babies
I couldn't look at another child, so I figured teaching wasn't my best option
Plus, I've never been a fan of teaching children not to make a mess
I spent my whole life making sure it wasn't messy

When I was fourteen, I wanted to run away
I wanted to go to Europe
with my best friend Oskari
he cut his arm and told me he couldn't really bleed
he didn't feel anything
I wanted to bless him
I wanted to read him Jane Austen in an open field
Under a single sycamore tree
We never made it

When I was seventeen, I ran away
I moved in with my father's mother
He has her eyes, just like me
That same year I met a boy
Who rode a stolen steed to my grandma's couch
Made love to me all night
took on me on walks and sent my heart off to the races
He made my life a little simpler

We see eachother
Through our screens
And we see nothing at all.
All of us,
Our pixels staged
Like empty vendor stalls.

Substituting eye contact with
Fingertips on
Static.
Everything emotional
Is frozen,
Mathematic.

I am longing inside out
For
Savage,
Revealing
Touch

Warmed not by
Electricity,
But by a  
Carnal
Flush.

If I could simply overcome
Possessive nouns and vowel sounds
I would not need to study ******
Heavy lies’ beheaded crowns
But you make martyrs with your charter
School exclusive service sector
To systemically condemn me
To the destitution nectar
Of the corner story *****’s
Potential Cinderella caged in
The statistics of the mathematic
Overdose equation
Comatose’n like a Holy Ghost
Of tranquil ranking party skanks
Whose tanks plan out the projects
For the boys still shootin’ blanks
And then the slavers liberate
Some nation-state of god forsaken
Oil barons salivate
To taste the poison Apple’s stake in
Stock in stuffer markets takin’
All the products people makin’
Privatizing profit-docket lawless
Mother Nature rapin’
For some scarcity disparities
In wealth I can’t attain
You keep me feeding on the bottom
From the top, you make it rain
So as the brains continue drainin’
In amenity dependency
I tinker with the inner-machinations
Now the enemy
You’ve made me out to be you see
My generation’s future’s bleaker
Than the past in full HD

children learn and understand 1 + 2 = 3 very easily, but tell them: equate i think to be a sentence of expressing being... they get lost, and i would too, given that words are like complex numbers, parts of the index of infinity, or simply imaginary numbers, like when people discourage honour and never keep a promise / never mind the meaning of a word that attracts verb vectors to act upon; simpler? 2386 + 9032 = ? that's how words are understood to a child's understanding of 1 and 2 and 3 / ?, and when phonetics develops to no theory, such mathematical complexities are forgotten and left to a few, and the chiral equivalence is far from singing the alphabet, near enough to be crossword material... but proud enough to not teach chomsky kabbalah: i mean, it's very easy to remember 1, 2, 3... odd even odd... but a, b, c... vowel, consonant, consonant... we never engaged configuring compounds (meaning) from learning the alphabet, first the vocabulary, then the alphabet... what comes after the alphabet i leave you to decide upon life's worth for rubric; mathematical concerns are better suited first from the senses orientating themselves with traffic wardens and compulsively impressive forces of sheen metal that desire respect when crossing the street unlike hindu cows.*

an early basis
for an indicator for intelligence
in children is based
upon a strange faculty of numbering:
a familiarity with mathematical symbols:
after that you get to distinguish
the nerd from the intellect
(the former constrained, the latter free)
whether there's an equal methodology
application of numerological
acquisition of sight via 1, 2, 3
into 321985...
or whether mathematics becomes
so well hidden that 321985: cbaihe
can be presumed an anagram
or simply random / error based...
basically children learn mathematical
symbols are easier to express, because
of the singularity of 1 + 1
than they do of the singularity of
words, e.g. i + think... does not necessarily
equal morality, because 1 is 1
and both i and thought have meaning,
words are not unitary in a mathematical sense...
because they are near almost invisible,
architecture is visible, the sound of making
love isn't, it's private...
which is very peculiar but not really...
mandarin mathematics is to well established
because of the key ingredient
that's complex phonetics, and because
of phonetic complex coding mathematic
symbols are in relation very primitive,
but because in the post-latin european tongue
the phonetic symbols are almost like mathematic symbols
because of the "loop holes" we encounter
the great disparity of the equilibrated very rich
and the poor... but that's not really a concern for censors...
if you can prize a cheap bottle of wine over a vintage
if all you see is a trademark of fancy new times roman
modified into advert material...
i rather drink cheap wine in a location of my choice
(like primrose hill), than drink expensive wine
in a moscow zoo of little choice left
other than to show off the bling bling cheap.

slower is easier, actually
these bed posts are kind of mean
there's something
i'm not saying
and i'm wondering where it could
be
actually, that's comforting
sincerely, that's flattering
basket case of novelties
heavy hearse
heavy frequency
it's lending it's hand to you
something promised
and running true
in the castles, there are heartless fools
they are deconstructing
with lofty tools
magic
mystic
unconsciously
mathematic and feverishly
running forward to
a destiny
flailing backwards
to an epiphany
slower is easier, actually
these bed posts are kind of mean
there's something you're not saying
i'm wondering where it could be

(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)


Oh! could LE SAGE’S demon’s gift
  Be realis’d at my desire,
This night my trembling form he’d lift
  To place it on St. Mary’s spire.

Then would, unroof’d, old Granta’s halls,
  Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
  The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,
  PETTY and PALMERSTON survey;
Who canvass there, with all their might,
  Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie
  All lull’d in sleep, a goodly number!
A race renown’d for piety,
  Whose conscience won’t disturb their slumber.

Lord H—indeed, may not demur;
  Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur,
  But very seldom,—now and then.

They know the Chancellor has got
  Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
  And, therefore, smiles on his proposal.

Now from the soporific scene
  I’ll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,
  The studious sons of Alma Mater.

There, in apartments small and damp,
  The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
  Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
  With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
  Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:

Who sacrifices hours of rest,
  To scan precisely metres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast,
  In solving problems mathematic:

Who reads false quantities in Seale,
  Or puzzles o’er the deep triangle;
Depriv’d of many a wholesome meal;
  In barbarous Latin doom’d to wrangle:

Renouncing every pleasing page,
  From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter’d sage,
  The square of the hypothenuse.

Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compar’d with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;

Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When Drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep’d in wine.

Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:

Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial,
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.

’Tis morn:—from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array’d in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
’Tis hush’d:—what sounds are these I hear?
The *****’s soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.

To this is join’d the sacred song,
The royal minstrel’s hallow’d strain;
Though he who hears the music long,
Will never wish to hear again.

Our choir would scarcely be excus’d,
E’en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus’d
To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne’er descended,—
In furious mood he would have tore ’em.

The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant’s order,
Were ask’d to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river’s border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these
Inspir’d by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay’d to hear.

But if I scribble longer now,
The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
’Tis almost time to stop, indeed.

Therefore, farewell, old Granta’s spires!
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires:
The reader’s tir’d, and so am I.

Viking's got it virtual, spinning and he's cynical
masking masquerade of every beaten broken lateral.
open-bottled bears look like little tiny hairs due to massive
sorts of stacking and a corp worth dollar shares.
Now i'm sitting in a skull or two, a brain that can't pick what to do
An empty, and gated, abandoned hop skotch for dancin' or truth.
signs of life negative, I don't think we can hold the shiv
but i will pay a nickel if you ask me where the mattress is.

Stop
And don't think you left 4 eyes blocked fully.
i'm lookin for the glasses that won't make me look silly.
got a hidden sort of stash, the kind of cash is always relevant.
got industries in disaster with a passion for the magnificent.
now every ****** actor has some kind of immune innocense.
now what the **** has happened to utilizing more than common sense?
I guess we just forgot what time armageddon really is
so allow me to introduce the second hand to you ******* kids.

Please return your seats to an upright release.
(Down-trodden echoes from moon-base police.)
Don't take a number unless you can be seen.
(mathematic addict he took a train for free.)


Ohhh--- my-good-god-*******,
**** it's a nice way to live outside.
free patties made fresh from the earth, 8 to 5.
but he's too **** busy not thinkin' survive.
we can rebuild him.
Undercut the normal cost of generations you are stuck with,
throw it all in paper bags and call it a sickness.
teacher made me sit outside away from all the other kids,
attentiveness is measured by an inconsistent dosage list.
Awareness is a trait
and being blind is a disorder
sight beyond sight is something to be ignored or,
better yet we need a ******* sight beyond the seen sight,
or maybe just a cigarette to keep my mattress fire bright.

Go
Green lights spit on the pavement- pea soup food fight kids entertainment.
rock show, dog fight, all just the same ****.
money riding visual stimulation and a shaking rib.
ha- ha- ha
hear me chuckle like a charlie got his X-ray goggles put on little bit sideways.
crack the better pavement so no one has good roadways.
now our infastructure needs improvements going both ways.


Please return your seats to an upright release.
(Down-trodden echoes from moon-base police.)
Don't take a number unless you can be seen.
(mathematic addict he took a train for free.)

Look out here
It comes
Sum of someone's sums
Perverse calculation
Trigonometry as sensation
Graphic illustration
Of a pre-ordained mathematic
Desire
Intersexual intellectual
Pythagorean triangle of lust Figures
Add and attract
Add and subtract
Add and subtract
This physical abstract
To form the total goal
To fit the math of a
Human hole

Words found in the wind supreme telling boisterous antagonistic they form in the great ocean they
Come they challenge everything and much is changed the sea cleanses land and its tenuous hold
Everything fair and precious must find a harbor a defiant manner to endure broken trees exemplify the
Hardy the uncompromising bend you must if broken it only gives up the dead and weak branches if up
Rooted it only shows the growth of deception that presented itself as truth all trivia superficial living will
Be reveled in the wind that which is rock solid and is built on a solid foundation will only flourish the
Storm is its bestowing gift these matters deeply rotted in the emotional center of the heart heeds the
Elemental force brought to bear by the wind it stands and shows its power that is not fake or foreign
But has a lasting place that grows because it is pure and is undaunted by assailing contradictions its
Value claims a root system born of time and reason compromise and injustice has never been found in
The hidden places of the heart there is no hidden agenda friend or foe is welcome to look and see to a
Friend it speaks of deep comfort knowing that all is open and it will stand any test and afford great help
In time of trouble the enemy will find a formidable foe not all enemies are without worth in the struggle
You can acquire skill and knowledge that will give you resources that will guide you to hidden veins of
Gold that can be found in no other way a rich life compared to one of poverty is to be much desired in
The lax uncommitted world of anything goes but that is about to change our enemies have found the
Formula that no one can win against its deadly poison the nation so grandly founded will turn on its own  
People to try to survive it will survive but a different streamlined and hardened one we believe it will be
An Outcome of good as weakness and folly are thrown off and the core values in much smaller form will
Continue sadness will pervade our world because of lost glory and our guilt that brought the big
Upheaval that reduced the heritage our children should have inherited this started with the sea wind so
I will insert this earlier piece and then continue
Sea Thoughts
Oh stand thy great waters contained in thee is mirth and terror some you have beguiled and then
Have taken them to your depths of destruction but by your benevolence the sea breeze blows
Inland from this moisture rain is called from its dwelling place the earth is refreshed the tides
Have cosmic ties by gravity the lone solitary moon is entreated and responds one speaks if only
There was a love potion that I could give my beloved so she would respond to me favorably it
Can never be created it already exists go out into the mysterious night stand under a great tree its
Dark silhouette will be more bewitching than the days shade speak your heart as you do take her
Hand and stroll out into the moon beams that drew magic from the great waters as it passed over
Does not wonder advance in this light softer exquisite the hardness of life bows and retreats to
Wait the daylight hours where harshness has its intrepid way so it leaves you with the volumes’
Darkness of night every person desires excursions into intrigue shadows will touch your faces
As tender as the willow then the soft glare of the moons love the mind and heart as its signature
Equation that old crazy moon has moves that are centuries old that birth love every time romance
And her broadest throne follow and are attended by moon light to develop a relationship
Correctly don’t go to the artificial neon lights that are futile and tinged with wickedness but
Sea side strolls are the ultimate inducement a pure stimulus that thwarts the too often knotted
World that keeps everyone at odds with one another everyone knows a great deal of love and
Romance when they are younger to revisit those cherished memorable times that started your
Life of promise with your beloved is invaluable mature love needs to feel the saturation of sea
Breezes the moons ghostly sights will fill in deep shadows where hurts have collected they need
To be free so they can go back to the darkness that gave them life your lives shouldn’t be defined
by them But the deep calleth to the deep set sail for Trafalgar not to war with enemy ships but to
sign With tender’s hand a peace accord to stitch the soft fabric of love that life’s mean elements
can rend in this you will find the sea’s glory and the moons positive glow has become a true part
of your life it is time the spring of renewal is in the offing and it sways to love’s song this speaks
Of man and women’s love this speaks of God’s love they saw the works of the LORD, his wonderful deeds in the deep.
____________
Sing to the LORD a new song, his praise from the ends of the earth, you who go down to the sea, and all that is in it, you islands, and all who live in them
I inserted this because the piece was running hard and it’s not my purpose to be negative or black
With troubling thoughts but at the sea you will find tumult and danger and at this time it echoes
Financial woes that are buffeting are precious nation there will be a resolution but not a pretty
One there are laws mathematic ones that you dare not trifle with but we have people who
Arrogantly hold office and think they can do as they please and all will magically fall into place
Because they wish it to be so it has never been true since earth began and will be no different
Now all will suffer as the same as the guilty but in extreme hope and faith possibly those seeds
Of greatness that was our true heritage will weather the storm and will re surface with pure
Power and grace that will create within each of us the true an unending love of country that will
Give us an arching back to the hearts and minds of our forefathers we will bestow a new
Beginning that Lincoln spoke of in the Gettysburg address after strife and winds that carry
Destruction there will be a new tomorrow from children who owns up to the mistakes and turns
Back to the true paths that will always assure glory and victory too many generations just like
before

This one’s for the smart kids.

This one is for the honor students, and the straight A students

This is for the kids who stay up half the night studying, and the kids who work their ***** off for their grades

This is for the kids who can define and spell Antidisestablishmentarianism or tell you what DNA stands for (it’s deoxyribonucleic acid by the way)

This is  for the teachers pets, the geeks, and the nerds. And the student who skips parties so she can study for her test.

This is for the kids who can solve complex mathematic equations in their head

This is for the kids who know that you don’t use “I” in a formal essay, and that okay is spelled O-K-A-Y, not O-K.

This is for the kids who can recite pi up to 200 hundred places, and the ones who can solve a rubix cube in 2 minutes flat.

The ones who take two language classes, and the ones who have been saving for college since they were born.

Geniuses of the 21st century, this is for you.

I would give you a gold star and a check plus for what you’ve done, but I’m sure you have gotten plenty of those. So I think I will just tell you something that only we could understand; Superb job at pursuing your academic careers with such ambitious outlooks on the world, and for having such admirable self-motivation.

I know that sometimes it ***** to be academically inclined, but in 5, 10, 20 years you will be working in some law firm or doing something you love and making multiple figures while the kids who blow off their school life will be stuck working for minimum wage at McDonalds or as a waitress for the rest of their lives.

So keep writing essays and doing extra credit because it’s not enough to survive high school, you have to thrive, and reach for the metaphorical stars.

geometric mind working out its place within tide and time
chalking shapes and numerals to peek into the eternal
a lighted candle casting stretching shadows flickering
across the black Universe seen with a wondering minds eye
knowing God be a mathematic genius beyond all knowing.

I was down to my knees
Hands up and a gun to my head
They kept pulling the trigger
Bang Bang I was supposed to be death
Hell I even started to think
To pull the trigger myself so it could end
But I survived the struggle
And I wasn't about to bend
Anymore
Than I already did
I was down to my knees
Just when I thought hell ****
NO
I got to get back on my feet
I' ve got to fight back and stand tall
I am that unwritten book nobody will read
Unless I start to get back on my writing
chair
You know life ain' t always going to be
A freaking **** fantasyfair
So yes I was down to my knees
But I started to fight back
I crawled out of the valley directly up on the hill
On top of it I screamed ,,Hell I'm back''
I screamed ,,Hello world this is me''
Yes it's not what you see
Ok I am size ''A little more''
Please dear world can I get an encore
I'm still happy I still live with joy
Alltough I wasn't that kind of boy
Now I am I am that kind of man
And there is really nothing you can
Nothing you can do anymore
To make my heart feel numb
And my head feel sour
I decided to live my life the way I want it to live
And I decided that I want to give
That I want to give and pass this feeling on
To my unborn daughter and unborn son
I am going to give this feeling to everybody who deserves it
Everybody who's feeling like ****
If you are too fat or you are too skinny
If you are too ugly or you are too pretty
If you are too gay or you are too straight
For equality I will start a public debate
I'll give equal rights to the white and black sheep
A promise I will intend to keep
Now dry all your invisible tears
And we'll fight all our darkest fears
Together we will start the fight
And we will fight side by side
Today we will stop the invisible tears we cry
So our smiles won't have to keep up the lie
We will rise like a phoenix
Start a history remix
People will remember our generation
As an solution instead of a mathematic eqaution
People will know our names like they know King, Ghandi and Mandela
This will be the start of a whole new era
Now everybody who's down to their knees
Stand up, stand tall and fight with me please
Spread our words around the globe
Spread our words of peace and hope
Together we will be strong
And nobody can do us wrong
Everybody will follow their dreams
So again by all means
Get out of the valley up to the hill
At least I know I will
I'm finally standing, screaming on my Georgian red hill

like swirling colors, we begin at a party.
at a school
in a town
and a time on earth with the people and the streets and the trees.
tv’s/

like swirling oil of holy alignment. we begin
as a glob  (or embryo)
tiny little me/you/each
   (organic ******).

as children, involved and wearing warm hats,
we wait
on furniture.

the home stretch is free
unto college,
unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells.
boy dunked in the river/
baptized.
transformed into horror.
(summer slash winter)

little brother,
little baby orb of water / air / mountain(s).
fish.
my son becomes a stoner.
he puts a giant-squid on his head
& dances the cha-cha.

star ghoul &
star-calc, skull of light/
bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night.
charted;
astro-logically.

in goatsblood.
& the mathematic sacraments of babylon.
meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts in beams; towers;
with the blood of men to raise them;
molochi.
(the consumed one)
(consumers)
swallowing dreams and family force nutrients for more and more and
more; as said to sustain.
for life is to devour.

ząb... or tooth... zęby... or teeth... the lesser Ezra in me is more bewildered by the non-existent strain of either vowels or consonants in English, than the Chinese ideogram... i agree: you must have an idea when reading Chinese, and a population of over a billion... and subsequently a well-known linguistic complexity, a thrice-over Chinese wall in the eye and off the tongue, to later precipitate into an ease in making the mathematic tongue acrobatic... but then have no theoretic procession to study the complexity, or hear a xylophone... i'm the membrane mid-way between burying the Latin anecdote Beijing... and asking to kiss the hand of Marco Polo... had he wrote the Quran... i'm just simply juiced for one reason, this is my take on the corner-stone rejected... ******* the crucifix, and tickling the feet of the crucified one... as anti-jew as i can be... well: volk zu γoλγoθα... or volk zu γoλγoφα... compass! mein kompaß! alter: volk zu ßιναι! oh look... quantum physics... it behaves gleiche y = w, ~i, >ł.... and into a p.s., as γ = Υ (upsilon contra gamma)... once more, the lesser Ezra in me is bored with the Chinese ideogram, it's translated plain and simple, perfécto arithmetic! and the billion-strong populace... applause to the Chinese politicians... democracy as an pure English export is not wanted... it's decadent, and ripe for only decay... please, god or yoga no... we can do without it! this is the lesser Pound... i could be fascinated with the Chinese ideogram, but i'm frankly occupied with addressing the English encryption.... mind you, that translates as: you missed a spot... and they did keep their language so diacritic-free in order to form the global empire... which can only mean that mad geniuses and other akin stipend students will ever appreciate... but my fascination with diacritical marks, or their lack, is akin to Ezra Sr.'s fascination with the complexity of the Chinese ideogram, or rather the syllable form of not enraging the trinity, therefore concise, xi (ξ), chi (χ), chow (χω) mein (μεjn / μει - gagging ιota: main... mejn... replaced by additional curvature of j), kfu mang thu! kuchi kuchi, kat(h)mandu.. gucci gucci... rattler... or pinky on the black key in a piano concerto... the odd number... thus the english siamese of i and j, the only letters with diacritical marks, beginning with ιota being the one under-dressed... and they are indeed there, for clear syllable intake, as a way to pave for the architecture of punctuation, and what could be later described in the real world, as a punctured rubber tire, or a sewing technique, in the guise of tartan to a cayleigh whirl / orthodox scot that's: ceilidh... ****** me, god's a pauper, leaving him out in the cold of nonsense when man just asks for kejl i, p.s. dogged out hound harking grammaton, and some random number outside of tetra.

pst! look in the woods! you might find him there!
music always overpowered my
need for women, i always found music to
be antidote
  to ensure women exist -
               dunno, dough]nut -
or dunno, it just happened...
      CENSOR MR. CENSOR!
HELLO?!
                  LOSER. HTML
IS INFECTED.... now i'll come off as paranoid...
    but then i am typing in paradox
  land...
                my keyboard is ******...
a case of etymology... *wargi - and
pysk - or usta, and buzia -
one's kiss kiss,
      Tarkan style...
  but i wonder why when i listen to
  in extremo's rotes haar...
i imagine dwarfs dancing,
        but then the prancing pony of
hedningarna's vargtimmen -
       which might    
mean *******, but
then it might mean something
in Finnish... vargtimmen: meaning: close your lips...
in Finnish; so bound to the word trim...
trim your lips.
even though the people didn't move,
a lot of ******* children made Poland their
home... for example wargi, which
means usta... add a p to usta
and you'll end up saying: she's empty, barren.
no wonder the transgender movement
occurred in english... words have no
feminity or masculinity... so ***...
they're asexual, apathetic...
   a male can't own a table
in the Freudian sense of signifying a phallus...
stupid me blaming St. Thomas' gospel,
when the problem lay within the realm of per se...
       i have to add: it's a bit foggy where i'm right
now... and my html is a bit bonkers...
     but it still stands as Finnish and Polish
versus English non-mythical when sniffing
the **** crack of America...
          fog ought to be enough, apparently it isn't,
you need to care to
economise and work to an ethic of working
so hard throughout the year for a 2 week holiday,
   and then end up throwing away your food produce
and then feel irritated by a homeless person...
   so yeah... you're grand!
          i mean i am...
the we is automatically bewildered...
i couldn't pet a woman, women are much more
than cats, and i pet two cats and hate them...
     not having women means i am resistible...
if i were irresistible i'd be insane...
      the magnetism of prefix convergence...
   re- means again, not against...
   and in- can also mean a-,
          every time i speak the scandi tongue
like i might found saying the lazy way an english
man says ****-,
               i feel like jumping up and down...
hed- -nin- -garna!
      hey hey **! jump you mo fo!
                     and i live in england and i care to
take to escaping english, that's really messed up...
i can't listen to the tongue... a bit like my russian
girlfriend said to me: Polish is just static,
sh sh sh sh ch ch ch ch... i mean, the best
***** in the universe are done by the people that
really hate your ethnicity,
they love you as a person, and the person they
love to ****, but then the collective unconscious
comes along, and they say the most horrid
things in between the orchestra of vowels during
the ******... babe, you drowning? i know
i am.
            if a yiddish man would come along,
he'd write yzwz... because that's how h became
z in the grapheme sz and ch...
                 and paradoxically: it's not the smallest
sound... and if the Latin grapheme continued its
existence... and was regarded as the smallest
linguistic unit, it has to mean that
    two names converged... it means that
the coliseum will overpower the church...
   which means that the Latin man had names for
his letters... and it was never all about music
and castratos... it was never a simple a when
the Greek said alpha, or it was never as simple
a b when the greek said beta...
vargtimmen! purse yer lips! ye gods, pout!
  duck-alliances throughout!
   yack yack yack... quack... ******* ponces
and narcissistic nuances...
yes, when w = v = w = ł -
               when it is meant to invoke the ugly duckling,
and a swan, and a łabądz -
my soul is already Scandinavian bound...
  like Frankenstein's Jr., to the fog, the snow, the frost...
      if Spinoza is the prince, then i'm the king,
the tetragrammaton just drops out like
a birth of an antelope - it just drops out of language,
but it only drops out, once you have used
a language associated with diacritical marks...
knowing solely English or Russian Cyrillic won't
help you... it really does just drop out from
the ****** of nothing like an antelope on the savannah
plain... but given there's no diacritical
distinction in it... being born into a language that
uses diacritical markings to ensure there are
distinctions, makes studying the tetragrammaton
all the more fascinating...
English uses no diacritical marks, neither does Cyrillic...
the Greeks are cosmos (polish slang reference
to them being on l.s.d.) with their niqab of
diacritical usage when English Latin remains
slap-stick naked... come on! put on a ******* bow-tie
that might be at least the french acute over
e!         éh?!           knowing the lazy sod, he won't!
but such is the joy of experiencing etymology
with music... to associate
vargtimmen... a Finnish compound word,
with the English word trim...
         or the word dimmed...
           and the Polish clear-denotative word
for lips... i.e. wargi... or usta...
  timmen might also mean: to bite...
  warga is the singular of wargi, i.e. bottom lip,
    to bite the bottom lip...
            does the music in hedningarna's expression
say much? no it doesn't...
   poetry can be the least musicological
         when analysing music...
             the best poetry can attest to is:
gauging your eyes out with it's bewilderment that
it has become such a primitive art,
   compared to the etchings in the caves of
Lascaux...  how that's really said?
                 obviously las-cow...
                  or proper: lascau(x)...
            the two tier of language... those who live
off it as noun-to-noun... and those who live
off it as hand-to-mouth... solely verb in action...
    it's actually a great shame that i should be writing this
and having a father who perfected the craft of roofing...
  i feel more an imbecile, and even more a rooster
in a wheelchair...
        so much for having a russian girlfriend for a summer
and an egyptian friend for no reason;
don't worry, you won't write a biography about me,
  such nuances of language with a personal twist
can remain where they are, in the archeological
dept. of nowhere.

The last time I caught myself
was when I still counted the seconds.
The seconds between our words,
the seconds between your breaths,
The seconds between your replies.
and I'd obsess.
But a long time has passed
a year at that.
I'm no longer counting the seconds.
I'm no longer counting you.
The only counting i've done
is how many days we've been through.
Sometimes I skip a day
but i'd never skip the seconds.
I'm finally letting go
of my obsession.
It's not numerical.
It's not mathematic.
It's you
you've always been my bad habit.

Unruly crayon marks,
ketchup stains
and ***** handprints
held an affinity for
the newly painted white walls.
Half-chewed nails dug into the soil,
tender feet splashed into puddles of joy.
Laughter echoed through the hallway
and the sweat on the forehead
was a sign of happy times.
The hardest decision of the day was
to find a place away from mother’s prying eyes;
torture was confined to the glass of milk
that she forcefully tried to make me drink.

Speaking of which,
I remember her screaming at me,
over her shoulder, as the milk boiled
to spread on the kitchen slab and turned to vapour,
“You are a mess”
and I always wondered what the word really meant.

There was a corner in my house
that I called my own- a bench for two,
often occupied by one,
unless ‘Baba’- what I knew my father as,
would come over, hiding,
what he called “magic”,
the same glass of milk that I had been avoiding.
I would cover my mouth
with my little hands
as he would begin to sew a thread of words into rhyme,
I often found myself lost,
weaving a meaning,
after I was done licking my milk-mustache,
it was magic, indeed, I thought to myself.

His biceps always were the right size of pillow,
the songs he hummed was
all I that I needed for a good night’s sleep;
the tickle in his fingertips as
he pulled my cheeks
was an affirmation that I was his favourite one
and how firmly I believed that I was prettiest of all,
even with the shabbiest of the braids
he managed to tie that morning.

Even on lazy Sunday mornings,
my mother, out of habit,
would draw open the curtains
for the blazing sunlight to disturb my sleep.
It was continued by irritable faces and whines,
lectures about management of time,
when Baba would somehow convince
mother that it was important for me to dream.
On regular weekday evenings,
I would sit by the attic window,
stare at the front gate,
wait for him to return from work.

He walked me to school,
locking his little finger with mine
and waited for me at 1.25 pm sharp
outside the school gate,
a balloon in his hand
and a glint in his eyes.
For hours together,
he made me repeat my mathematic tables-
5 times 3 is 15,
5 times 4 is 20,
5 times 5 is 25
a million times.

I was sixteen
when it first “skipped his mind”
to pick me up from school.
That didn’t change anything between us
until the night he called me up
to ask me the way back home
from his office because he was “too stressed”
to remember it on his own.
I remember him
entering the house at 2.06 am,
asking me who all were home, then
and also,
that I giggled at that question of his.

From then on,
for months together,
I woke up to my father
screaming at my mother
for not arranging his socks in pairs,
for being disorganized and careless
even when the third drawer from the right,
in his cupboard was the place where
he would end up finding all his belongings.

I was coming to terms
with the fact that my father
was too much under the pressure
of work
because that pretty much explained
why he stammered
before recalling his “to-do-list”,
had difficulty in meeting deadlines
and skipped family time.

I am 21 years old,
my father doesn’t seem to get any get younger day by day.
Last month,
on a sunny day during awkward monsoons,
I saw him sitting by the window,
tracing droplets of rain race
down the glass for hours.
He left the room without
saying a word when I asked him
if he wanted to play football beyond the bars.
“Gaah, he must have been preoccupied”, I still convince myself.
Around the same time,
we were invited
to his best friend’s marriage anniversary-
he was thrilled
so he narrated the story
about how they first met
thirty two and the third time;
introduced himself to my boyfriend
twelve more times, that same night.
“Fathers”, I just rolled my eyes.

Some time back,
one afternoon, at 3.16pm,
I saw him flip through sheets
of a calendar dated 1985.
When I asked him
to fill his details in a form,
he, without second thoughts,
scribbled “8” in the box
that enquired about his age.
Eight.
The same night, mother
must have called out his name
eight times to join us
for dinner but,
he didn’t respond to a single one
nor did he come out of his room,
his excuse being that
he couldn’t move.

He doesn’t talk much to us, anymore-
just blurts out vague and irrelevant
words like Screws, Notes, Coffee and News
at irregular gaps.
Apparently,
mother understands it all
and chooses not to discuss the facts.

Few weeks back,
on a lazy Sunday,
he entered my room,
squinted his eyes at the curtains
that were drawn open and
flexed his arms to draw them close.
He left without saying a word.
When I asked him about it,
he replied, “No talk strangers”
and kept quiet for the rest of the day.
He walks to places,
jogs back home
with a balloon tied to his little finger, sometimes.
And when he is not asleep,
he repeats mathematical tables
from 2 to 13
in a monotone for hours together.

The good side of it
Is that Baba and mother
do not fight
over lost pairs of socks or belt and wallet;
Baba just calls them “Things” generally,
and fiddles through all the drawers in the house.
And he proudly says “Stuff”
when mother asks him about
what he would like to eat.

Doctors say,
Baba has been suffering from Alzheimer’s.
I believe he is not.

GOD is a white guy in his 30’s. GOD wears a royal blue Petsmart hat.  GOD has on a grey, short-sleeve button down shirt with a clip-on i.d. badge. GOD’s i.d. badge contains no letters or numbers, just a picture of GOD wearing an i.d. badge with a picture of GOD wearing an i.d. badge on it, and so on into infinity. GOD has cold sores on the corners of his mouth. GOD wears stone-washed jeans. They’re too short, but they have an elastic waist which is really comfortable, so it kinda makes up for the whole “too short” thing. GOD needs really thick “George H. W. Bush” glasses so he can open the rodent cages at work. GOD grew a mustache to hide the scarring from years of using old crusty disposable razors. GOD wears high-tops from 1998. They’re rather worn, but remarkably clean. GOD knows what to do with his hands, but not so much his fingers. GOD is in her 20’s. GOD is sad sometimes and she doesn’t know why. GOD nods. GOD once proved that the country of France does not exist. The fact that the country of France actually does exist makes the accomplishment that much more astounding! GOD is the dark and terrible Dragoyle! The first and last of his kind! GOD is a vicious, taloned beast born of the boiling pits of Borok-‘Tor! His reptilian wings expand across all of space and time and, with even the most gentle twitch, stir up a dense shear of molten flame scalding the skin of all Creation! GOD’s ancient black-diamond eyes, forged from eons of wrath and pain blast-melted in the great furnace that is his heavy heart, peer only inward, leaving him an uncompromising and limitlessly powerful but ultimately humiliating and repulsively weepy creature! GOD is All and All is king of all of All and all of He! GOD is the Unmirror. GOD is the final mathematic tragedy of what happens when we only ever try. GOD is the ghost of a dead thing that never was. GOD is the shattered, petrified shell of Pandora’s box cast down to the crackled crust of Pan’s windless desert. GOD loves you more than himself because GOD knows you are real. GOD farts on books! GOD sips on soup! GOD is a very serious actor in full make-up and costume doing an intense and superbly crafted representation of God, getting to the heart, the true reality of what it is to be God, the essence of Goddom, but in the end fears losing control and holds back, resulting in not genius but blasphemy! GOD masturbates to the Salt-n-Pepa 'Shoop' video! GOD caught you ******* to the Salt-n-Pepa 'Shoop' video! One time GOD got so drunk he forgot you were in the room! GOD invited you to the event “Max’s Karaoke Birthday Bash”! GOD knows you, but isn’t in know with you! GOD is 8,9,12,5,9,4! GOD is . . . ! -hha-hha- GOD is heard breathing. GOD breathes like you do when you’re asleep. At the start of each breath there is a very poignant yet very subtle lip-smack sound. The breathing is steady, never changing pace. Like that of Darth Vader only intentionally ridiculous. Like that of a ticking metronome only . . .  lifeful, which is a brand new word.

Galileo couldst not even seeith
The heaven that lieth
Inside queen Jane;

Einstein couldst not even dreameth
The beauty
Inside of her brain;

Edwin Hubble lived inside
Of a bubble, being blinded
From her view;

Stephen hawking, forget thine
Scientific talking; mine empress
Is from God, a divine muse.

Isaac Newton, recalculate thine
Mathematic's; mine amour' is not a number,
Awakest from slumber, sweet Jane is aromatic.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

So what is he? A western with the bangs
Of blacks and whites? A horror film where one
Small man must **** the wound of the unknown?
A period romance, perhaps: the flags
With mathematic turns, and fronts that free
The watchers of anxiety, and drive
Out all the critics with a glistening nerve.
I cannot fathom what he is to me.

He is. He is. He is. He is. You see,
That’s all he needs to be. The seas, the seas.
What should I care for these when all my shaky
Sustenance from his Apollan whiteness
Falls as mana in the wilderness?
He is to me what film can never be.

high school days I won't forget
all that nights I do regret
spent that time
on tasks and tests
Ignoring all
my cousins and friends
A teacher says tomorrow
another says today
one more exam
won't hurt a way
they teach us
what to be learnt
but in these subjects
you will never concentrate
Biology postulates
with some blood circulates
plus a little concentrate
never knew the simulates
stimulants , depressents
both are drugs components
they increase BAC
and i know my ABC
A doctor , I say?
oh no the other day
Chemistry is full of laws
with some words
I don't know
''Semipenmeable membrance''
haven't i told you so?
chemistry scientist
oh god no !!
i will pass
please go on
high school days
passes like slugs
on a traffic way
sounds not good
geology makes me regret
about all that time I spent
In one two pages my time split
just to know some folds and fualts
let me tell you
about salt domes
they go over
those rocky domes
but for me I don't care
because my hat
is over my hair
Deformation, am not so glad
don't want to know
more than that
Mathematic equations
flips my head
with rates of change
I am depressed
but in limits
I insist
about the sandwich theorem
I am impressed
tangent lines look so good
let's me know the slop, oh good
but an engineer
not that good.....
let me know
if you found my job
high school days
passes like hell
working all day
cramming all night
will my work
finally pay off
all that days
on tasks and tests
high school days
I don't know
if it's one last step
or one more slip ?!

I want to kiss you
with quantitated breath
so that none of the vocabulary,
dictionary definitions,
mathematic formulas,
and scientific inquiries
you memorized
will any longer
find place in your mind.

Intelligence is measured by many things
In fact there are many ways to be intelligent
I may not be able to solve a mathematic issue
To save my life
-ok if I really tried-
But I will always understand emotion
And strive to understand it's rootcause
In fact, emotions are such as the Tao
Extremely simple.
It would however take bravery
To be honest with one's self
To be fair
To find the right answers

The right answer is not always the same as the correct answer. Always do what is right

There's very little compassion
In the correct answer
There is very little humanity
In the correct answer
So choose the right answer instead
For above anything else
Are you not human too?
So in the end
If you truly want to understand something
Persuing it, will increase your intelligence
Depending on which field you choose.
Take the time to understand
Take the time to be wrong
Forgive yourself through
Your mistakes
Live within your love
You know, the one you have
For yourself

This will increase your intelligence.

Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
                              ending with five beats.

Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
                              seven-four, five-four.

Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
                              creative fossils.

Smokey leaved insides
Green lipstick from the night before
I asked the bartender:
"Am I terrifying?"
But heres the safe restroom
A moment of seeing the sun hitting the windows
The fur coat I always wore
Lana Del Rey on repeat
I really thought, I think
That I did want it to be you?

The last time we drank ****** marys
All my material items, take them
Take them from me
A contentment, a sense of adventure
A knowing and feeling that you were right there
A relaxation I thought I could feel
But I glitch and we glitch
And I glitch through the line.

"I'm done. I'm so over it."
But I do, I admit
I cycle and recycle
Hoping for the real one
Hoping for the right one
But I don't wanna give up
My play time.
Lets be children on the playground
Together
Someday, whoever--wherever you are out there
My perhaps prince.

Lifting tables, piles of clothes
Take it all as I try to remember how to
Be mathematic, no--I really don't need
You to tell me in a positive stern way
That it wasn't "a waste."
No, it wasn't a waste
But you never danced into the night alone
You never dealt with saying "I'm an actress"
As men accused you of acting, acting all the time
You never knew REALLY knew
How that empty seat
Whistles and coos your name.

How could you?
How could I?
So I say a hundred and million more times--
I could **** myself over it, or I could be strong about it
Sarcasm and death, sarcasm and all the
Chocolate peanut butter ice cream
I wish I could drench my face in.

Long Eyelashes showed up unannounced
His blue eyes twinkling and gazing into mine
Take the mirror, take the board
May little reminders of me float through your life
Like pixie dust fresh from the moon
I hope I am always moon droplets
Everywhere I left my mark.

Kissing and longing
Whimpering, but body so tired
Anxiety and leg hurting
Can't go out and eat the night
Tonight
Hair in wet loops
Apartment covered in today and transition
I tell my mother: "I think I need to see a therapist."

BEAT.
"You are just stressed."
Yep. You are right.
I ******' am man.
But I look next to me
I long for the past in moments
For sushi nights, hustling down Spruce
A fresh new boy, a movie it felt so freeing to make
The avoidance and heartbreak, recovering
Recovering recovering recovering recovering recovering recovering.
That will be $
That will be $


But I
I drape my long lean strong legs
Over the empty seat.

.i've written so much, i don't even remember when i begin posting repetitions, i sometimes spot myself "plagiarißing" myself, sure, a commonality feature to writing, the labyrinth effect, a "déjà vu"... ****, i've said this before, which is the key feature of: enjoying the silence... but, like "yesterday", i write on the basis of a graveyard shift, as w. h. auden would have said: little ****** is at it again (i.e. writing during the night)... no, no little ****** here, i just like the idea of writing while people around me are sleeping, i can become this Loki-esque drunkard snark dream-crawler... which brings me to the following observation... a liter of whiskey, that typically takes a few good hours to get through... and, in the end, the sun is up, it's 7am... so like "yesterday" i.e. today... i unfolded the sunday times, and put it on my head, to hide from the sun, kept drinking, and cursing the sun, now and again pointing the ******* at it... cursing: do i look like a ******* camel jockey to you, eh?! i'm not a camel jockey... i once suffered a heat-stroke, watering plants in a volunteering stint in a garden for the blind... no, literally... a garden customißed for blind people... with herbs, heavily scented flowers, notably pine trees... and my favorite... stachys byzantina... lamb's ears... so that blind people could feel it... but yeah... why am i not surprised that muslims glorify the moon? while the christians borrow from the north european pagan celebration of the sun? i became a quasi-muslim only "yesterday", i said a big ******* to the sun, summer is coming, and if it's going to be the sort of summer akin to last year, with me waking up on the floor, on a colder surface to a bed, moaning and groaning from the heat... oh yeah... climate change is not real, like all form of causality just went out of the window... there's no cause (burning ****) and there's no effect... always, all the time, like jean-paul sartre said, his major premise in being & nothingness was the pillar of negation, which spawned the pillar of bad faith. *******.


what's the difference between
a thief, and a magician?
probably
a c.c.t.v. camera footage...
and a... theater stage...
nothing more...
but of course...
      the latter is an example
of... authenticity...
proper... taxation...
a paradox of championed
individualism by western
academics...
   come to think of it...
both are quick...
then... i must have been
the most slothful thief
in the history of ali baba:
the way that i stole
that queens of the stone
age songs for the deaf
album, from a w. h. smith...
____

summer is coming,
that abhorrent season,
the season of mass ******
and a spike in the sales
of ice-cream...

the season where i begin
to pity the cosmipolitan youth,
basking in the cancer riddled
sideways march of the sun...
with the heat doubled
due to all the concrete and marble...

the season of scythes
and tombstones
for the old and the asthmatic prone...
the season where i frown upon
the sun,
even at 9 thirty am,
and drink,
    and am rudely woken by
the heat...
  
  that time of year
where i think about looking
for old europe
in the vicinity of the faroe islands
or, iceland,
or greenland, even,

because i'm not some *******
camel-jockey type of
******* teen
importing cars, and self,
to london,
to race in a 30mph speed limit
just off of knightsbridge...

diesel heads of arabia...
    i'm siding with penguin kowalski...
i'm no camel jockey or
a ******* either...
      copper skinned mash-up
of Babel...
with a hard-on inferiority
complex in tune with
burj khalifa...

      yes... because who is... khalifa?
no, who's Khadija?
   the woman,
who... most likely...
wrote all the first sutras of
the quran...
after all... we are talking
about a prophet akin to
   charlamagne... someone who was:
illiterate...
sure sure...
        islam is the religion
of peace: when Khadija was writing
the script...
    but when she died...
and some ****** of a caliph took over...
then: as much peace
as... whatever equates to the funny
antonym comparison...

what was that book:
in praise of older women?
    stephen vizinczey:
ah... that story of muhammad no one focuses
on... i could focus on Aisha...
n'ah... i'm more interested in
Khadija... the older woman,
the first female arab entrepreneur,
businesswoman...

the woman who was both literate
and had mathematic acumen...
who took pity on the orphaned muhammad...
i want to speak to her...
she's my holy grail of conversation,
i can pretend to venerate the "******" mary...
but what i really want,
i want a word with Khadija...
KA DI YAH...

what's that islamic maxim?
fear the man who only possesses
one book...
   eh... you can also fear the man
who wants the afterlife to be composed
of a dialogue between himself
and only one other person,
beside his ancestors, beside a reunion,
paradise or valhalla...

are we done, "here"?
          i still have about 20cl of whiskey
left, and i rather much squirm
an evil eye at the sun,
regurgitating the fantasy
of finding 19th century european
climate in greenland,
if you don't mind.

Honey, I
Both envy and
Hate
Your exes,
Though they may only be but
A letter to
You now.

I hate, hate, hate
Everyone who
Found you and had the
Chance
To explore you
Before I could have ever
Known.

Though you would not
Be who you are now,
and I know I am being
irrational,
but I never wanted to be
Christopher Columbus
“Discovering” your land.

Maybe, though,
For once in my life,
My lateness to the game
Is not actually a bout of
bad-timing
But actually the
Perfect point
To have entered,
For it seems I am
Winning
Whereat which I would
Usually
Strike out.

Oh, honey, I
Am still jealous and
Spiteful
Of all those boys;
They were pirates
For your
Innocence and
Your willingness to lend
A helping heart
Plunderers
Of your love
Thieves
Of your breath
Your kiss,
The vulnerability
Of your body which I
Now embrace,
They were waste bins
For your time
For your energy
For your senses

And even though you showed
Most of them
False emotion
Handed many
A replica of
A genuine smile,
Some still got through
Your breastplate
Dealt you plenty a blow
and painted your
organs black
with scars and tar
but yes, you do
Still
Have a heart,
and yes
it is red
and steadily pumping
somewhere in the pitch dark

Honey, I
Do not pity those fools
For I know what we are is
True
A delicate rarity for you

As well for myself, I can safely say
I will be
your alphabet
Starting with
“A”
Any number you can imagine
Stretching any direction from zero
In any combination,
All expressions and equations,
Your mathematic hero

Although I’m
Tardy to the party (if you’ll pardon the cliché)
It seems
It’s prime time
For us to trip and fall—
And that’s…that’s just A-Okay
(If you’ll pardon the cliché)!

Regression is no longer mathematic or psychological
It’s a relevant to the violent movement of the social
So now guess we come back to this issues of woman’s right
I could have sworn we already fought and won this fight
Liberation and respect, birth control, and freedom of ***
The freedom to choose what they get to do with their own body
Society does not own their flesh or what grows beneath their *******
but I guess that’s just me

I thought the wisest among us had sorted this stuff out
My bad,
cause according to the gallop polls
The criminal politician, parish holding pulpit pounding preachers
Outdated texts from people without our level of science
And the people I knew growing up, who leave me throwing up,
Turning and twisting my stomach in the tightest knots,
Worrying about a problem I don’t got

But my obsession with justice and morality is causing my depression
My possession of a reasoning faculty is killing me
I guess I was mistaken the truth was already taken
And what gives me the right to fight the tide of the right’s religious revolution
Well ****,
how about you just keep your hands off her womb

of said god, can't i complicate language to the point where it can even remotely contrast with some science? i just want to explain an antithesis of language having the cursor, torjan horse character of being useful... for one thing only: some exploit. can't language become as complex as the person, that language can only become complex with a person throwing themselves into some activity, and subsequently abstracting language, for the basis of per se? i can't use language to define the need for the concept of debt... or... money... mythical beasts akin to the Minotaur? sure, they pass my gaze almost everyday... could it ever not be a case of one instance, that applies complexity to language per se, rather than as language with complete utilisation in a nieche subject area? surely if there was no language per se mechanisation of someone thinking about it, there would also be no dyslexia... language as a per se complexity doesn't require specific areas of interest to "complicate" it further: hands already do what hands are capable of... rarely do tongues turn into egos that later hands are capable of when practising table manners; or for that matter... seeking audience in a parliament; can't language be complex for the basis of per se? evidently some of us would like for language to have this element when it is concerned... couldn't the language's per se then be nothing less than a cursor, or a motivational factor, to upkeep it, to invoke a survival instinct, to continue using it? indeed, philosophers speak of the term per se, or clarifying it with the noumenon.... the same is true for poets, and metaphor; you put something in it, something else comes out, notably counter to your original expectation.

i once brought a hedgehog home
and showed it to my cat,
like when i built a theme park for a mouse
i was chasing for my girlfriend to
see, dangling it by the tail once caught,
to later see the mouse commit suicide,
running off the stairs in an Edinburgh tenement...
in a bedroom, a whole theme park
of worth sketch, the dire death of thrill
seekers, subsequently happened (as that i am,
quick to tango to the song Beorn);

   call it: language as not intended to give
instructions... not adept to caste concepts...
        language as something appropriating
experimenting with lysergic acid...
     i never cared to write my knot of language
as if it might make someone else
        use their limbs... put up a table...
last time i checked, language wasn't about
being oppressive...

i once owned a jaculus jaculus...
   this ugly ******* told me that if i dropped
it from a height it would survive...
i dropped it, and the joke subsequently went:
the parachute didn't open...
    the trauma seems to have bloomed...
right about not people can stop talking
or have anything meaningful to say to me...
it's not that i'm pretending to be deaf,
i'm just deaf concerning what they have to say...
just so happens: if the devil isn't listening
then there's no need for a god either.

these moments! these moments are real!
they're the only things that matter...
and when they shout
allahu akbar, is saddens me,
because i swear i just learnt
the *shahada of la ilaha il allah...
only by heart's command,
and do, what only the heart cares to will...
for then you will something
meaningful, and so much less ordinary...
or just allow a Turk to speak...
and a Mamluk to listen...
we have to borrow from history,
to actually address it, keep it, face up to it...
existentialist philosophers are thieves,
Judases...
          we need no "    " zoo to teach us
the second lesson of acquring words
and having no mathematic clarity,
   so it's all left on the care for flimsy...
and only a turk, can say the word
shaitan to then see me weep...
it just so happens, that you can write
something and cry over it...
         and the people, and the world,
and all that heidegger *******,
simply becomes: a hush....
         it just dies off, it a symphony with
a deaf person "peering" into it,
instead the sound of a violin,
all he gets is wet ****... and sloppy ****
for seconds...
or a blind man asking for glasses when
reading homer...
                i'd love to pity them,
but our culture has too much concern
for stating a delay in sympathy,
and too little, immediate empathy...
   i don't cry because i'm unhappy,
i cry because of the memories i have,
and that's what's sad... well... "sad"...
i listen to a kultur shock akin to
zumbul, shaitan and sarajevo,
and i weep...
              the myth goes,
had the devil a limb to stretch out,
the forbidden fruit of eden would
have been his heart:
you give people an apple, they come back
with cider... so what's new?
oh man, and in need of a fathered stock...
boundless in your neglect,
   perpetuating your fore
    by ascribing so much onto abandon
and: isn't oliver twist just as much a myth
as god?
            what, then, mana?
some deeply desired energy that eventually
alienates you from others?
           if language can be anything,
it can at least leave you reading something
that has no need to instruct...
                 back in the 1960s they took too many
drugs and wrote too much about them...
now that psychadelic drug experiments
having a running narrative, what's the point,
of even taking them? i'm part of the dodo project,
and i wish those hippies didn't write so much
about their experiences....
  it sorta makes me not want to have the experiences,
how they defiled the original premise,
hiow god (words), shouldn't be grounded in these
trans- experiences...
               oh ****, have then, take those cactus extracts...
but please don't write about them!
that's precisely me, reinventing drunk...
   watching billions with only one eye
open... because if i look at the t.v. with
two eyes i'm dazed, swimming under water,
who the **** turned on this carousel?!
    i so wish they had their beat generation moments
and didn't exploit to have to write about
psychedelic drungs...
    i'd like to have taken them...
             now i can't...
  i'll be paranoid when i'm unable to write a poem
about the experience... back to drunk me...
turning panicky watching a television with
only one eye open to stop the imitation "dizzy";
might as well be a fish in water...
     mate, what a bother...
      i rarely experience being drunk...
           but when i do i know that impromptu cyclops
allows you to concentrate on a t.v.,
and nothing is really spinning.

so merlin... sorry... gandalf comes along
and says: leave your books! the real world awaits!
out there! beyond the door!
     ******* wizards, all they want to do is
send me on holiday...
  what the **** would i do in tunisia if
not think about islamic carthage?
       nope, i rather spend my time as a tapeworm
bound to an organism known as a personal
library; sorry, that's what farmers always said
when harvesting crops: i see what william
blake saw in a grain of sand...
       potential for glass... i know there isn't
any adventure in the world, there's only tourism...
and tourists really do only see the ****** parts of
capital cities... venice as generic as amsterdam...
tourists: just a load of bothersome flies.
    
i say take an adventure into someone else's psyche,
you're bound to some weird and wonderful
things in there...
  
roman numerals, right? so ugly... or rather: so difficult,
when life was... and when people needed
to state something beautiful...
like this mathematic teacher i once had who
simply said:
                     try calculus with roman numerals...
sure, try (e)x squared...
                      as in: why did we even keep them?
numerals i mean, they're not numbers as such,
they're numerals because we keep them to entrench
spelling, or that's how i see it,
   0 - 9 exist for fun, for sudokus, giving us absolutely
no clues...
but as ezra pound pointed: the beautiful is hard,
and he borrowed it from someone else,
    what we have reached is too simple,
we're stuck in this limit of microscopes and sub-atomic
particles and then the stars!
     it could just be a way to unlearn these holes
that we fall through, but of course: precipitating into
greater numbers, and even greater obscurity and
a need for herr anonymous...
             but you can't exactly build a Colosseum
using 0 - 9... back then... we had curves!
       real passionate curves! on pillars!
                               we didn't even have 0...
we had oh... omicron and omega...
                      the d'uh part, as part of project
nostalgia...
                             we didn't have 0 - 9 to fry
our brains and live live in the fast lane equipped with
amphetamines... we have I - X...
               and the XI...
                          imagine mathematics so complex
that the selection process to process it along with
language broke but certainly made a few mean
*******... now everyone can do it...
   it's what the greeks didn't comprehend...
                i'd love to see the original script from
pythagoras, oddly enough we don't possess the original
concept of numbers... we hear the arabs had this
and the indus had that, but what the greeks had?
no mention... nothing, just words...
   but imagine why the romans were as strong as
they were...     rex... what's that? revise ten,
ten ten over and over and again?
         to have to deal with I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X -
that's hard, but almost too amazing that they
managed to provide a Colosseum to be the blueprint
and plagiarism for modern stadiums...
   they even have this cliche of calling latin a dead
language... sure, and i'm still using their ******
φoνoς encoding... god i'm so tempted to make that
sigma acute... but the internet doesn't have something:
for once!
                     nos (nose)           noś (indicative verb:
to carry by command, of a self-serving argument) -
     it really turned out to be a real
greek prefix and roman suffix game (nasal)...
      but still the reason why we inherited
the roman rule of thumb, or said number that's one,
we have no firm belief in the greek concept of numbers,
well, apart from the only relevant number
that's 666 in the new testament... but i haven't
come across the greek concept of number...
   for all i know 0 through to 9 is either arabic or
indu -
               or why, for a better reason than none
I, II, III, IV etc. has been kept,
   and becomes imposing on your television
screen when a show ends...
    dated e.g. MMXVII (2017)...
now go back and use those numerals and give
me a theory of gravity... impossible!
    you couldn't have even the vaguest sense
to even begin to want to imagine such an
endeavour...
                    what i will say is that the latin
grapheme æ and that other one œ
are a source for many spelling mistakes,
as well as many uncouplings of the siamese
into diacritical distinctions... should i have
spelling the word endeavour wrong...
  
        and to think this "poem" was prompted by
having finished heidegger's ponderings no. II...
and having to only initiate this
  by having a problem figuring the no. 234 aphorism
in roman numerals (which are called mathematical letters)...
so yes, i imagine beauty as that which wasn't
exactly greek... more roman, as in counting
using a "monotheism" of language being
used for both talk and calculation -
                  to achieve what was achieved, and later
squandered, as of now, which it has been...

that i did laugh at aphorism no. 236 (CCXXXVI)
   already it feels like spelling, i wonder if there was
an orthography concerning numbers back then,
i mean, something without a prior to 236 encoding,
      i'm pretty **** sure the jewish "mystics"
started talking a lot of ******* when they invented
    gematria...
                               it's absolutely horrid
having, say aleph = 1...
                                but then that's just a spontaneous
critique that will eventually fizzle out of my head
and die a sudden death and i won't bother it ever again...

yet you can't say that with roman numerals you
couldn't extract more beauty,
   to state something in a single, and now the more
literal attempt at a concept of monotheism: tongue...
     how the hell did they extract the architecture
and the will to craft an empire like that,
      where encoding sound also included the same language
to encode abstracts, primarily with the basis of
measurement, and scale the skies!
     (it's not even my *** i'm talking about).

but in summary, aphorism 236 made me laugh,
   and that "thing" i invented that's res vanus
to counter Hegel's cogito - me cogitare
                                   is bound to aphorism 234...

in yesterday's newspaper there's a supplement
article about how exercising increases your chance
of a decreased libido...

     also, to unravel the stated "thing", you can simply
look to Kant for a list of faculties of the psyche,
         and how they interpolate / interact...
as anyone with half a can of worms might state:
  me go fishing, me catch shark...
                because to me, modern psychology is
a quasi-science... and philosophy is something you learn
outside of "respectable" institutions like universities,
at your own peril, kinda like rousseau...
   so yeah, kant's great with describing the interaction
of the faculties and how you can expose the "thing";
   i gave up on the res cogitans concept,
                i wanted to word nietzsche's bewilderment
about where thought comes from, and that abyss quote...
    it naturally had to come from that vein,
what would make a buddha laugh: res vanus.

That dress in black
That beautiful dress in black
It’s made of such a soft fabric
And when the wind blows
It becomes volatile in its form

O but the Goddess that garbs it…
She is exquisitely and painfully sublime

Her skin is plain white
With no imperfections
A Greek Statue might be the closest to her resemblance
But still so very far
Venus de Milo holding an Apple
Is not as farfetched as one can think
But her skin…
Certainly smooth to the touch
That would make one weep
Unquestionably would chill one’ spine

Those powerful green eyes
Would freeze you for an eternity
Slowing down time in such a transcendent torment
But you would do so pleasantly
For the price of a glimpse of such a creature

The hair that she possesses
Is something never seen
Pitch black with blue tinges
It shines so much
Because it is of diamond matter
Her hair brought Samson to life
Unbreakable, unlike pillars
As the sun rises behind her
It resembles the Lion and Sun
But so much more powerful and magnificent

The Universe dances to the Tune of her voice
It brakes and builds in mathematic equations
It is a wave so docile and kind yet so dominant and resilient
It isn’t possible to measure her voice
As it is greater than Decibel and it destroys the Logarithmic Scale.

Her hands carry the weight of her Will
Her Will carries the weight of her Destiny
Her Destine carries her Fate
And she chooses to do was she pleases
For she knows what THIS is all about

She belongs nowhere and she is all

subtle thump
i beg  you don't betray me
inside mathematic ribs
who rise and fall in timeless tides
like a stone
somebody skips

lay low
i ask
with whispers
anchor yourself to what you can!
don't search the streets
so desperately
for the grip
of any man

they try pointing us toward stillness
bribed with closure and composure
the long gone things i care to miss
could never come home sober
i was built to bleed and blush
with this heart i gently mask
of which beneath a simple touch
can bloom or
crush
or
crack

my cells forgive me thoughtlessly,
rebuild without a thank you
my science is kind
but the pendulum is
swinging
always in my mind