Our parents are always telling us , you have to go to school, that you'll learn everything you need to know before you're ready for the big world, and that'll you need it to get into your dream job

But now a days our education isn't about learning, its about passing
Our education now isn't the same as it used to be

It teaches us that if you're not at a certain grade level, you will not succeed
That if you don't meet a certain criteria, maybe you're not for fit the course

This education system doesn't teach us whats really important for the big world

It doesn't teach us how to live, how to do taxes or how to survive

It never taught us the living expenses or how to buy a home
Never taught us what to expect once we leave for college or how to balance our schedules

No. It only taught us homework, about a plant cell, about tangents and circumferences

It taught us that homework is more important than family
That it's more important than being a kid and having a life

It taught us that if you spend time with loved once and didn't do your work, you're setting yourself up for failure

They pile us with work it feels like we cant breath
They never once thought of the other class assignments that must be due not even 24 hours later

They make us memorise things that will no longer be important when we apply for a job

We study for hours in hopes to pass that final test that we'll soon forget

But what are we suppose to say when someone asks us how we're feeling?
We were never taught that
We never memorised an equation to help us find the answer
We were only ever taught to keep our mouths shut and do our work

Its quite funny what we learn in school now
Things more than 80% of the students will never have to use let alone see again

School was suppose to prepare us for our future
For the job choice we pick

Instead we meet and learned quadratics and plant cells
We were taught homework is what your focus should always be on

We were never taught about the future and what to do

And most importantly
We were never taught how to love ourselves and the things we should be greatful for

They've turn us into sad, mindless robots that's are more concerned about grades and passing than whats going on with the family

We lock ourselves in our rooms doing homework for 6 hours than talking to our mothers or fathers who wonder about us

We were never taught the importance of family before it was too late

Every single highschool student wishes they can turn back the clocks, but it'll never work

We were taught the hard way that you don't really know what you have until its gone
Something we weren't prepared for

They never prepared us for the future
Instead, we prepare our self for the possible failing outcome

How are we suppose to make a living for ourselves when all we have learned was the stress over homework and family?
The depression over a failed test or assignment?
The lost feeling of the lost time?

How are we suppose to love ourselves when all we do is put yourself down because of school?

This education system never prepared us for anything
Instead, this education system officially has broken all of us.

when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.

it's largely based on the introduction, drunk poetry of Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde, or Dave Bowie's heathen albums that can be treated as fully-loaded novels with missing charting song, you can champ the narratives akin to nearing ancient symphonies making Nietzsche more of a German Chopin than an idea formation, excusing himself with too maxims; yep, Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde given Nick Hornby's care for the music in what's a fluke of care for piquant fidelity, country and blues, bought at a supermarket; or avoid both and head straight for Ticlah's si hecho palante.

for some strange reason i woke up early,
usually i miss the morning staying up
till 5 or 6 a.m., like a vampire scared of sunrise,
winter is my most productive period,
summer my least productive,
spring and autumn are seasons when
magic happens, just today the oak tree was
brushing away its flowery bloom
before the fat yoke of chestnuts would fall
a few months later, the spring bloom
of pink or white was already tailored for
the excess greenery of summer, over a period
of two days the flowers withered and
the green leaves appeared.
she once complimented on my cooking skills
and my taste of music, notably *tool,
i first met her when we got together in the
student flats and two girls were *******-up
frying pancakes... the dough stuck to the
frying-pan... so i said 'you need to put some
oil into the mixture!' hey presto a Michelin star
on my attire rather than Victoria's crux
of a soldier... that's how it goes with philosophy
nothing pompous i promise you,
Plato misquoted Socrates talking about
looking funny at men who sought brothel comforts
(the norm in Amsterdam, no guilt, no tabloid spice,
o.k. o.k. Leo Getz style, 'it's like going to the gym,
she was South American, plump, she had a little nergo
boy fetch beers for her clients, she kept the window
open so passersbys could hear her moan after laughing
at my addressing her genitalia with may i taste the fleshy
floral patterns? ah ****, didn't work, you get to write
about *** and it just ends up a string of cliché
like philosophy and the maxim - prostitutes and the
Gemini lips, try kissing both at the same time);
i'd be funny-looking at the other route of philosophers,
mainly through the army, i'm all lazy eye cross-eyed with
those *******... (i do "pending" interludes since
with drunk finger playing the keyboard i tend to
delete by accident about 1 poem for each 10, heartbreaking
experience) - lost the drift, i must be in Birmingham:
no river... no flow. standard model always included
rivers for people congregating, in the countryside
a church would be enough, but for urbanity a river...
this phenomenon of canal cities like Venice is
truly staggering, call it the Maldives of the west,
the Maldives of Europe, 100 years from now
it will probably be more than a Glastonbury fashion
statement of donning farmer John's galoshes.
i've lost the plot... fun-*******-tastic!
oh yeah, the pancakes... well after falling in love
with organic experiments i learnt to love cuisine,
well d'uh cooking, my flatmate just cooked risotto
after risotto until i started pulling rice grains from my nose...
esters and perfumes, the smelly ****, like pickled cabbage,
the grand joke of british asians...
yeah sauerkraut and chicken escalopes are the grand
joke, although try shoving asian spices under your
armpits and you'll be walking the catwalk of Versace for
sure (hey man, stick has two ends!)...
it's an escalope and that's hardly the profanity of
a chicken Kiev, also called a schnitzel... but not schabowy...
you know there's this great aesthetic joke concerning
polish graffiti about the orthography of ****** / phallus
in poland? yep, the variations: huj, hój, chuj, chój...
technically they all sound the same,
they're found next to the anarchists' A and swastikas
on communist apartments.
she wanted so so much, i was at the end of the third year,
and there she is, moving out of her student accommodation
to live with me in my private flat (rented)...
i mean, great... but i'm about to sit my final exams
to get a piece of paper telling others i'm qualified...
what a ******* mess: i know a 3rd of examinable material
i was studying i'll fail, physical chemistry is not my
strong point, organic i can ace, inorganic i can do well on...
but she's there, full-on intense teen... it's a juggling
act that requires a clown, rather than a man,
i'm not saying i'm perfect, but there's too much idealism
in her that requires a hefty stash of pecunia bratus
(money trees)... ah i wish, but had i wished it
i would be writing such uninhibited poems...
up-to-speed... on today's menu!
that's the culinary abhorrence of poetry, remembering
ingredients in recipes rather than rhymes,
for example Thai green curry, and the ***** curry,
the former with spoonful of green Thai sauce to replace
the use of lemongrass, and lime leaves,
actually the limes we replaced with lemons,
the Thai sauce was added, the garlic & ginger paste used,
onions, mangetout added last to add a crispness on the bite,
new potatoes avoided, half a jar of Thai green curry paste,
Thai fish sauce, not salty enough soya sauce was added
(both light and dark), coconut milk of course, caster sugar,
chicken (well, d'uh), basil... yes... basil! lemon zest
and rice, chilli powder!
the second curry involved: cumin seeds, fennel seeds,
a cinnamon stick, garam masala, chilli powder,
turmeric, chopped tomatoes, sugar, chicken stock,
chopped coriander... all in all this is a culinary attack
of poetry, it's not clearly an ancient revenge,
but when i was younger i was instructed to memorise
a poem, aged circa 7... the poem in question was
school bell, i didn't get why we had to memorise it,
it wasn't anything spectacular, i protested,
gave an oath in swear words against my classmates,
got told off... culinary principles invoke the need
to memorise recipes rather than poems,
curbing the influence of fast-food outlets...
i rather remember the ingredient lists of dishes than poems...
indeed i did make these dishes today,
but only because i switched the radio off
and inserted bought art into the device:
Tom Petty's and the Heartbreaker's greatest hits
and !!!'s (chk chk chk's) myth takes album.

from the simple email, to now a pitch-perfect complication
of the internet - no performance poetry found here -
performance meaning singing, meaning cascade of rhymes
to help you memorise sentences and shake your hands
about - ekphrasis (εκφρασις) - performance stand-up
but not stand-out - i'm not complaining, i'm just feeling
the fear and loathing too - or according to M. Schmidt (
no, not Martin Schmitt, the ski-jumper, but then again
the two seem almost indistinguishable when said -
counter e.g. gnome - 'nome and schmi'dt'dt'dt'tt stutter
at the end of words rather than at the beginning before
the dam gates open for the word to flow out from).
besides the point, can you imagine Kant using the phrase
a fortiori in his work that uses only a priori and
a posteriori? i only came across it today - but given
the big *** systematic approaches, you'd find it hard
to squeeze in a fortiori into the complex narrative -
an entire blackboard of mathematical proof concerning
disallowing the end product to be ∞: in philosophy that means
explaining something on a universal basis, the entire human
concern for things said, things done, things owned -
inserting the term a fortiori where once came a priori
would be a disaster for the Kantian narrative, he'd
have to write another critique all on its own to insert that phrase
among a complete systematisation of that phrase -
well the funny thing is, this expression goes in line with that
i observed about left and right, hands eyes whatever -
indefinite a- and the definite -the articles and then an ism -
i sometimes feel funny or at least embarrassed that i keep
repeating this notice from time to time -
but you would expect me to include gravity too,
or how i used to be a flower thief in spring bordering
on winter, plucking the eager flowers in the frost around
the countryside - well, i revived that practice today,
plucked two stalks of lavender (they were pinching my
nose when i walked past with a beer) and something
resembling lavender... google-moment... if only they
created apps that could tell you what flower it is you're
trying to identify, search engine impromptu -
well... it's either a coin-toss between
summersweet (clethra alnifolia) or butterfly bush
(buddleia davidii) - but it could be something else -
cigarette, beer and sniffing lavender, just my kind of night -
i swear to god i once drank a lavender-flavoured beer,
or cider... i can't remember -
but by definition, when i look at philosophy books i feel
they're much too bound to something said earlier
and followed by something to support it -
or in the case of a fortiori the expanded-upon basics,
i.e.: from a / the stronger (thing) - which means
it's a dual-carriage way of saying what you want to say:
from a stronger thing - from the stronger thing -
in real life that's like: what we get from a telescope,
or? what we get from a microscope -
stars aplenty - G-Rex 5571 in the Zodiac constellation,
U80802Z from the constellation of Poseidon -
i mean, flimsy answers - sky's the limit - then
the azure cage hovers over us during the day and
we turn to daydreams packing apples into crates -
telescope: oh airy-fairy, somewhere far far away -
microscope: got that needle and thread with you?
well, whatever we have, we know that our minds are
not build for the omni- affix when affixed to anything,
esp. god. Jews never bothered with it - there are just
as many necessary limitations of a deity as there are
as many unnecessary limitations of our freedoms -
that's how you move away from big ideas and narratives
of a Kant, with his chequers of analytic / synthetic
a priori / a posteriori and concern yourself with
knives (indefinite) and scissors (definite) articulation of
language - hell, we can go down the road much further
and say something about indirect and direct articles -
pronouns are the prime subscribers -
you wouldn't talk to a Jihadi directly as you'd talk about
him indirectly - i shared that curiosity with a local
stranger-mate in a park once walking his dog,
an ex-banker - those boom-bomb boys are being prescribed
the same thing that the Lufftwaffe pilots were prescribed
(pervitin) - but i doubt they got their hands on the pure
medical stuff, they're probably on amphetamines...
oh the R.A.F.? yeah, drunk like skunks.
but just imagine rewriting the Critique with a fortiori
and a infirmiori - disobeying "correct" definition,
as already mentioned the pronouns composed from
articles, as in condensed to indistinguishable parameters -
a fortiori - from something stronger            -
             a infirmiori - from something weaker -
(as already stated, the original definition of
  a fortiori was - from a / the stronger [thing]) -
so the articles disappear and couple themselves to the word
thing (word meaning, no grammatical classification is
really necessary, because if grammatically classified it would
be too obstructive) - but because of this lack of
grammatical classification of the word thing,
we are already associating the definitions via only the
indefinite pronoun - rather than a definite pronoun (i.e. nothing),
it would be pointless to write definitions using a definite
pronoun - well, up to a point, i suppose that
suggesting both a fortiori and a infirmiori to be defined
as: from nothing stronger and / or weaker we can create
a self-mechanistic-propeller, a way of self-overcoming that
in the end arrives as self-knowledge, obviously the
ultimate purpose - and this goes against all solipsistic despair,
as it also goes against making too many comparisons
with others, some who are weaker than us, and some who
are stronger than us - for the stronger will make light
of one set of propositions as the weaker will make light
of another set of propositions to suit their demands -
this can only be seen in light of Kantian-Darwinism,
survival of the fittest and what not -
Kant had in mind something simply said historically in
a condensed sphere of reality, Darwinism kinda did away
with historical realism, soon after the English Renaissance
after the second world war, Darwinism picked up again,
as a way to shut off the murk of the Holocaust -
Elvis did his bit, the Beatles too, but once the imagination
dried up, people decided they wanted to travel back
in time to 10,000 B.C. - and you think artistic expression
will end up a concept prog rock album, or a cute 3 minute
synthesizer song while M.T.V. turns into a 16 year old's
******* of a baby? i'm going keep the acronym, and instead
call it MORAL TELEVISION, or? how to buy a ******
or pull out early - but obviously i'd get a wisecrack comeback
from Juno - see a preacher man anywhere around here?
Kantian algebraic (big words, small people, Belgian waffles
too):                                                    ­              a. / s. after
                                           (event) x.
a. / s. prior
                                     what qualifies?
                                    - historical hindsight -
                                    - the current historical catalyst(s),
        THE BIG BANG... or as i like to call our current history,
an interchange on the words: BIG BANG BLACK HOLE...
BANG A ******* HOLE... get a BIG CLOCK...
******* HOLE... which is what it looks like at night...
two catalysts overall - and boy we're speeding
to Groundhog day - the biggest changes in history were
some celebrity's haircut - that's relative to
what happened when the Treaty of Versailles was signed;
BIG HOLE BLACK BANG (and that's thanks to dark matter) -
but to be honest, if i'm given only these two historical
vectors to work with... i'm not surprised so many
Islamic youths are disfranchised, choosing a third,
Jannah - it seems like a natural thinking process that
will never make it into popular media -
just thinking about it probably warms the heart,
obviously to an extremely violent end -
but this is gone way beyond the heliocentric and
geocentric arguments - because up there, where you
can see the earth where the hell is Copernican East
or Copernican West? it's nice to know that the earth
isn't flat... but that won't help you reaching the Panama
Canal from Portugal... will it?!

in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally  
my mythological birth with corporate death

managing and arranging  my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present  
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail

and in her own sky of miss marry  
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside  that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking  without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin θ of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned

then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire

and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves

the cause of spreading over of the fragrance
from our secret myrobalan to every side of the pillows
is not only such that in the morning
an empty ink-*** says to the rain-water
you are beautiful

it is also remarkable that
coming to our half-articulated  travelling
the writings carved on the granite stone
become very much ashamed also

and  taking the busy market-price of the sun-glass
in the fold of the **** cloth tied at the waist
my both hands are also marked very much
in the omnibus of the dancing-bar

such is just because it is the art and science of navigation
that pastes some earth-wave
having no number-plate
with the public
rolling down  on the mat of the summer

it is impossible
to memorise the history of  those
so much contended-hunger
so much contended-sleep

it is all right that the staff-members
of our vibgyr university are all alive  
but they are the existence of some
bio-data only

arrangement of so much smiles and tears
in the nomenclature of banana-bed of mrs sofia
is not to tell the directionlessness of her fishery products
but if the culture of the wild trees assuming figure
then there remains no separate entity of the rbcs
inside or inside-up of the veins and arteries

all are the world of cosmetic-surgery
all are the arena of displaced national integrity
that is the only way to get admitted
into the still water of the horse-race

so the making of this self-portrait of the tip-cat game
by own-hand
so is the fancy of the engagement ring of the bursar

as a result of the headache in the au fait knee-joint
all the rats on the rice-*** of margaret  
become very angry
and when they make their performance  
you can’t catch them by extending your hands

so there is this sky-blue printed sari of desdemona
now take refuge under her perfumed disaster
and it is feared that there may be the drops of sweat
on the lobes of her nose extremely devoted
that the trees become to reside in

how much confusing is that cascade
in each of whose earings the dark fortnight
and whose eden garden is so large
that all those  people with crevasses dwell there

they stay in a group of nine
neither eight nor ten
just n for 9
n is also meant for the nancy
and the narcissus
and the sensational appearance of the
nereid  

once again we rub green-chilly after pouring water
in the parched-rice on the ancient plate made of brass
it is right that the peak is separated down from the temple
but it does not hurt the priest

by the right of our walks strewed outside
we too when hiding ourselves in the regime of fire
with our intention and activities
with our standpoint
with our conduct and  behaviour
or any instant rule or direction
or our deeds
that compel the rotation of the deodorant

thus after the eye-operation
the love between you and me is now
seeing more week-ends than before
to her knee has been submitted many caws
painted in water-colour

in every corner and every hole of the body
that pulls the rickshaw the wind enters
and in every root-cause of the sufferings
the ripple of annihilation of love

from the shop of dip-swimming now
you can also purchase soundlessness  
to feel  the spirit of  chrysoberyl

now you need the work for 100 days
to gain the power you need to keep pace
with the graph of the terracotta
that may also be a long day of fasting  

then on the back of that hungry conch-shell
a globe shouts
the other’s world puts its office-water
in the fountain of cactus the roaring of which
pours so many telephone-calls into the ears

then in our market the ear-bursting sound of the generator
then in our forest-land
the bullet-fight between maoist and the joint-force

then with the enlarging and waning of our moon
are the bright fortnight the dark fortnight and the leaves of wood-apple

you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too

then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point  

but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright

then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled

the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum

to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears

then the light of the social moon  is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up

it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean  

it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too

some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair

but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses  
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan

in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera

having applied myself to two languages with different parameters of execution: writing in primarily in English, reading fiction and poetry primarily in English enabled me to gain strength in reading philosophy and conjuring up white-rabbits from a top-hat in Polnisch - i can't read philosophy in English - which explains why few interests in philosophy exist - the English have undermined the worth of philosophy, oh sure, David Hume is the rave in Scotland, because he's Scottish - but the English took to solely understanding the world via Darwinism - image deciphering accounts of how the natural order of things is attached to inanimate materials propelled by falling apples - the continental procedure is less concerning Darwinism and more akin to a mental fashion statement, as in: what's vogue these days? what's the cognitive vogue? the English "philosophers" with their rigid Darwinism are like priests - which is why they attracted biblical literal interpretation - the creationists - there's no other explanation why the creationists emerged - it was because of militant atheism, atheism without individual originality - invoked by a sense of herding the sheep to the grazing hills of nihilism - the pillar that became the crutch - of course i admire and know it's true - no Genesis story that's merely a p.s. in history is ever going to undermine the naturalist's fascination with the world in every minute detail - i'm not against that... but at this moment i was thinking of a cult idea for a naturalist - take a pornographic movie, and give it to a naturalist to assess - after all... we're just mammals - i think this could turn out to be a real daytrip for a naturalist - oh sure, it must be ease with organism that apparently do not derive any pleasure from procreation... give two beings that apparently do derive pleasure from procreation... to later debase it with the malignant forces at work in the Encyclopedia that's 120 days of *****... the naturalist narrating a pornographic scene would be bewildered as to why these highly evolved creatures are exponentially higher-up the tiers of evolution, needing so many complex adaptive techniques - boredom for one, people have created more distractions than they have created tools of necessity - but perhaps they're equal - our evolutionary drive? the thing that makes us tick is not necessarily physical discomfort - we exercise for the pleasure of physical discomfort - the drive is boredom, the fear of it drives us mad with constant ingenuity taking form - like a ballerina in a salsa bar... sadism in the aura of hot-sweat-and-coconut-***-shaking as if playing dice in Las Vegas... Don Quixote (the ballet on three days away)... we're done with the empirical satisfaction of Darwinism, we know it, we need a humanistic approach to it, something that goes against the English priesthood - Darwinism will never be vogue in continent Europe, continent Europeans just say: Egyptology is as far back as is necessary to go... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... we want to write history, not look at history as a burden and therefore try to erase it, placing ourselves in a garden of awe and glass; honestly? Darwinism is a bit like creationism - it all starts with a garden, awe, and the grand spectacle - only the other includes a need to procrastinate by doing some ritualistic mumble and Hosanna Hallelujah in the highest - and the other tries not to yawn.

so onto my favourite topic... rich boy's slang -
do you really think a *prince of Egypt would speak
slave tongue Hebraic?
do you think **** & 'arry could speak Bulgarian
or Romanian? let me think... no.
they might speak French... maybe German...
but certainly not the eastern tongues -
now, whoever wrote that book wrote it in ancient
Egyptian, the chronologically speaking
yes, female genital mutilation was practised first
in Africa, notably Egypt, prior to male genital
mutilation being instigated by frustrated Abraham -
the collision was bound to happen -
see how pretty prince slang looks?
it's poetic - the rich boys call it poetry, the poor
boys call slang - which is why poor boy raps
and over uses rhyme - or perhaps rhyme is easier
to remember than free verse poetry -
rich boy brings a page on stage and recites because
he's too lazy or not bothered to memorise,
poor boy says yeah a lot in between his lyrics
without a page so he can the the bowling aisle
movement as if he's rolling in a convertible Cadillac -
sing ***! yo! ***! yo! so the chronology matches,
Eve first, Adam second - but not as in: they did it first -
later down the line they cut off the precious skin
and hence felt naked, they fell, they revised was not
to be revised - sure, the man got the favour right -
he was the winner - but at the same time, the loser -
hence the good & evil bit - we don't really know -
is it really necessary to have good *** to later have
a fickle partner and laws being in her favour via what's
called the missed prenup thought? to me it's just a literal
reading of the text - looking for laurel leaves to cover
the revision of the genitalia - not the actual genitalia per se,
just the revised versions - so if the female variation is
whatever it is - less pleasure from *** and what not,
for man that also means counting the stars and weeks
and having no pleasure from ******* when her period
arrives and you have to try a diet of **** or something -
well of course it's slightly uncomfortable with it -
but at the same time you increase your endurance with it -
a slight sadomasochism, no whips no ******* women,
no leather, no adventure, just raw meat and raw meat -
no fantasy no role play - just a little bit of skin making all
the difference - can you imagine Marquis de Sade writing
as frankly as this? well... every time i revise my thought
on the book of genesis, i obviously become a covert literal
reader of it, deciphering the eloquent slang of a prince of
Egypt would use on such "delicate" matters -
but with that being said: it becomes all the less fascinating
a myth-making engine, and given he was forced out of
his comfort zone (and i mean a comfort zone) he would
cite God as the word (reason), but by word alone and
the word only - the reasoning behind what entered the land
of Egypt as being the same as what entered the Garden
of Eden... and tempted... the temptation came with the pyramids -
oddly enough only the Eiffel Tower was higher than
the pyramids - look at the time it took man to become so bold again!
look at it! massive - and in some weird quantum physics
interpretation of the mythological past becoming the actual
future - the tower of Babel... and... yep, you guessed it:
the Burj Khalifa (or the Khalifa Tower) is its equivalent;
but ****, only the Eiffel Tower overshadowed the pyramids -
something must have happened back then then,
if man was so shy in rising his structures too far up into
the sky - but i guess the Enlightenment spurred him on...
later to crash back down with the atom phobia of the second
part of the 20th century, which in the 21st century morphed into:
well, how will wars be profitable if we drop a nuke?
e'oh! no, sorry, one nuke will make us bankrupt -
we need tanks, guns, bullets... huge bulks of them!
stockpiling nukes ended up a bit like stockpiling too much...
ah crap... don't have a good analogy - just started thinking
of a desert of sugar - sugar dunes... imagining a desert
like that... well, partially true - with the Arabs not drinking
alcohol and eating too many sweets, diabetic amputees throughout
the desert land.

This is not my poem
Sure I sat here and wrote it down,
but its not my poem.
Yes, yes I took the time to memorise it so I could see my words reflected in the expressions on your face as I read aloud...
but its not my poem.

This is your poem
You wrote this
You wrote this with your smile
the curve of your lips wrote this
the sparkle in your eyes punctuated every line and measured every pause, perfectly.
Your lips formed every word, sounded every syllable, created the melody that echos in my head as I write YOUR poem.

The rise and fall of your chest first catches my breath, then takes it away completely. Sensibilities and caution tumble down your back like rain in a warm summer shower that falls from a star filled sky, the heavens have opened. My heavens have opened. Caution is now a distant memory, like something once heard but long forgotten, something you knew you once knew but know you no longer have to remember so while there is at least an awareness of it, its passing will not be mourned.

And there, pooled in the small of your back, nestled just above the curve of your buttocks, lies hope.

The hope that the beauty I see in you, in us, in everything since we met isn't a mirage, isnt a projection of some one sided fantasy but that its real. That its as real for you as it for me and that I'm not alone. That I'm not alone in the way I feel and the way I think and the way........ the way.....the way I love. Its hope that knowing how I feel, how much I'm in love, in love with you, the hope that hearing me say out loud the very thing that I've had to fight telling you on a daily basis hasn't scared the **** out of you the way finally admitting it to you has me.
But this isn't my poem.
This is your poem.
You wrote it
and its my gift to you.

There’s many nights I wake up
and lie here and watch you sleep
and memorise each line upon your face
Scan each crease in every sheet
picture your body underneath
and fight the urge your contours for to trace

Other nights I sleep right through
and I’m lying next to you
my arms around you and your head upon my chest
with your leg laid over mine
our two bodies intertwined
at those times it seems my life, well it’s the best

But each morning when I rise
and I get to see those eyes
looking at me from across my coffee cup
it truly makes me feel
that miracles are real
and happen every day the sun comes up

**** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
take me from this wonder,
this blindness in the night.

Anger me in morning
with the refusal of ugly ***,
sleep still on our tongues,
whiskey on my breath.

Treat me to your body
when I am true and I am good,
dance me through your questions
until you are finally understood.

I can hear your longing
though I cannot hear your voice,
you know that I choose you,
though, I never really had a choice.

Tease me with your movie scenes,
your folded, anxious legs,
a calf born into the slaughterhouse,
the conveyor-belt, the hatchling, the egg.

I was doomed to your misfit puzzle,
I was sentenced to decay,
skin seared by your magnificence,
by your gratuitous delay.

Delay from a fulfilment,
a delay from inner peace,
the incremental recovery
whilst dreaming of the sea.

Now I'm drowning in the wishing well,
in the steady clamour of home;
the pill-box in the aquifer,
the faded reference to Rome.

I can memorise your breathing
hair fawning over your chest,
there are countless decent lovers,
but you know that I loved you the best.

So **** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
I am tired of words and meaning,
those blind entries
into the night.

yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy -
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!

I was shy, my crooked-teeth, glowing front didn't fool anybody.
I was the type of awkward that made people run.
You were a typewriter: an electric storm sewing letters together,
ornate, pretending your weaving was something
that could ever be taught.
You wrote about all my wrongs.
Asked me to meet your mother.
Told me my drinks were too sweet, you were surprised I had ever
been drunk I wrote something cliche,
like how no sugar could ever match up to your coffee stained tongue,
to me you were so sweet.
I never liked poetry that rhymed.
I wanted to be someone without talking to other people,
hoped everyone would read me like a trans-Atlantic love letter,
understand every back street tragedy,
I am still learning that nobody
could ever memorise me like a paragraph. I am a closed museum.
I am breathing.
Once, I was a bundle, placed on my mother's chest.
She told me when I was born I didn't even cry,
just looked at the world like I'd been here before,
already figured her out. Carefree breathing.
She said she'd never seen anything so small
but so alive.
Sometimes I wonder if I've grown down.
I cry too much.
When I was eight my mother told me it was because I have sensitive skin..
I think about why we don't remember birth,
there are more traumatic things that happen than becoming alive.
My mother carried me nine months,
I wish I knew her reaction when she realised she was having a baby alone,
when I was six weeks old she flew us 8981 miles from my birthplace of Perth
to her childhood, a suburban, three bedroom house.
She bought a return ticket. Eighteen years on she still carries that
yellowed british airways paper around with her in her purse.
They left her job open for years.
I stopped asking if she missed the heat.
I stopped asking about half of my heritage,
I say the most convincing thing when people ask now,
I don't think I mind.
I haven't cried for months.
I grew up where the city begun to fall in love with the countryside
there was nature pulling itself out of the concrete,
like ignoring love hurts could make it any more feasible.
There was a girl, she never used to knock on my unlocked fire door,
just walked straight in every time, like she was a wildfire,
made me feel triumphant inside,
I wonder even now if that is how plant shoots feel when they break through the earth
praying upwards to the sun,
like she isn't a pin-*****,
do you think the sun knows how relevant she is,
just like some of us can't grasp how irrelevant we all are?
Have you ever thought about how many things are in existence that we can't see?
The distances can only be measured in time,
time is just a concept. We are more than numbers.
But nothing was built for us.
I wonder
if when my mother held her recycled baby against her reusable chest
if she realised that
either of us could have ever come to this.

Use canned spaghetti as thread to stitch together the frayed edge of your t-shirt. Use your t-shirt to show how you’re the coolest most-hippest, most up with the kids kid there is. Where’d you get that shirt? Online.

Bop your head to the music so they know you know this song. Harder or they won’t see you. That’s not hard enough. Neck snap! Yeah, right there. Hold still while I take a photo. Do you mind if I make this my cover photo?

Take a selfie of you crying in the bathroom and hashtag it. Snapchat it to your local MP so they know how you feel - be sure to use an emoji. #studentdebt Tears streaming down your face. (If it’s a hashtag it’s easier to emotionally process.) #policebrutality #throwbackthursday #massincaceration It’s a good thing there’s emojis for black people now. Look at how far we’ve come!

#nomakeup #vegan #crueltyfree #childslavelabour #iwokeuplikethis #campusrape #notallmen #yesallwomen #freethenipple #2k16 #mentalhealthcuts #stopkillingtranswomen #waterislife #standwithstandingrock

Have you followed Human Rights on Facebook? It’s the only way to get them. Have you seen the Ted Talk about it? In just 20 minutes you’ll know everything there is know about it.

Sorry. You don’t seem like you’re focused. You’re thirsty? Let me make you a smoothie.
I’ll put the chocolate bar in the blender whole, leave the wrapper on. Taste the tinfoil and the plastic. Eat the barcode, become the product. That’s modern life.

Don’t take out the hair or the fingernail or the Band-Aid. Don’t hide from the human components of the production line that made this Kit-Kat possible for you, kid. That’s modern life.

Go to the voting booth, refuse to choose between the diversity of 50 versions of the same smiling white man. Scrawl: **** these ******! (have no faith in none of them) That’s modern life.

With jittering teeth and goosebumps, put your toaster in the sink. Overflow it with water. You will only need a fork to get warm. Electrocution is the most economical form of heating. Be Energywise. That’s modern life.

Puff marijuana smoke through the bars into the brown faces of those who were incarcerated for doing what you freely do now. That’s modern life.

Burn your eyes on the screen. But before you do, memorise the 0800 number for the optometrist.

Post your suicide note on YikYak to save paper. No-one likes reading hard copies these days anyways. #papercuts #selfharm

Search for motivation on EBay. If you’re lucky it’ll have free shipping and arrive in 1-5 business days.

Snapchat your friend’s words of encouragement, God knows they’ve seen enough dickpics.

Take a chicken to KFC and tell them you’re sorry.

Get in the cars of the men who yell “Hey baby!”. They’ll be so surprised they wont know what to do next.

Swap your woman-chest with a man-chest and see if your ******* are still illegal.

Drive through town throwing dirt with one hand and seeds in the other. Maybe, if you do it long enough this claustrophobic concrete will be gone.

Bleed on every seat until the government pays for menstrual products.

Train seagulls to throw YOU chips.

**** a woman and a man simultaneously, so that you can be sure everyone knows you’re bisexual.

Blockade inaccessible buildings with piles of wheelchairs.

Grab time by the fabric and rip it, cuz we all know rips look really punk, and all you really are is just some young punk.

Turn on the TV and switch off your brain,
tune into Jezza as you fade out the shame,
point at his cattle, and laugh at their pain,
forget their faces,
cos’ they all look the same.
Memorise headlines, forgetting you’re smart,
the news screaming fear, as this world ‘falls apart’
hating your neighbour’s a good place to start,
he’s likely a ****, or a bomber  
at heart.
‘England Expects’ is their asinine bray,
as they talk up the players on ‘Match of the Day’
before posting on Twitter that one of em’s gay.
‘Oh we lost in the semis?’
Start feigning dismay.
Forget about stress, skip working hard,
you can lend owt till payday, or just get a new card,
it doesn’t matter, if your credit is barred,
say you slipped in reception,
and hit your knee hard.
Now! Vital News! Our cameras have spied,
the markings of botox on that celebrity bride.
Maybe it’s scandal, there’s no rush to decide,
you’ve opened the box,
and its trapped you inside.

Cheeks flushed,
Heart rushed,
Words pushed
Down our necks

Force fed garbage
We don't want to hear
*******- flowing through our veins
Like mud
Chewing on bitter cud
But we need it,
We need to learn it -
Memorise the words
So white men can put us in
Boxes.
Tick
or
Cross.

his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing

i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth

my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand

i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks

galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in


freckles.

like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise

you only crave what you know cannot be.

the form might be that of a poem, but to be honest,
it has nothing poetic to it -
                  i wanted to feel angry -
to vent anger out,    i drank during the daytime:
daytime and drinking?
                                                       ­         bad idea.
                               daytime drinking
and fasting and smoking
and coffee? a doubled-up bad idea...
         but i wanted to feel
a wrathful voice... i got bored of my otherwise
gentlemanly attire and what not,
i wanted to waste my tongue into
anger... best propeller of the act?
drink during daytime...
                          when night falls,
the lazy one comes out.
                   consider this -
some use language to encrypt, not
to to simply memorise rhyming and
bounce bounce the bubbly pink ball
on stage...
                    Pavlov's lapping tongue
of a dog overheating -
             philosophy deals with
double phonetic encryption,
                  that's a psychological reevaluation
of what language is, from the standard
of the three tier cake:      consciousness,
                                      s­ub-  " and un- "    -
again Christianity plays a great deal with
the point of a trinity -
                               that's the secular version,
a populist version for each individual
regardless of the church's credo -
                    but as i was saying:
philosophy deals with a doubled variation
of phonetic encoding:
                      primarily for one reason:
this is primer for idea forming -
               isn't it?
                             the first level is that of
being able to read the encoding -
   like a music score...
                                   to write a s k
              and then say the word: ask.
but the second tier of encoding sound is
to translate it into optics -
                   the basis of idea forming -
not the basis of making sounds, but to peer
more deeply into any sort of narrative -
sometimes a single word can pull
the gravity of thought
                                 away from the narrator
ego, and into the realm of the id:
        which doesn't narrated, but
    conjures up ideas: to me the source of
all "magic" formulae -
                          here again, a classic plagiarism
working on the basis of a trinity -
          i dare say dualism is so unfashionable
to most people, as is monism -
             people prefer triangles to explain
their psychological life,
          and circles to explain the physical life...
   dualism is out of fashion that
it would seem to be more (dangerously) fashionable
to be of split-mind - but never mind that -
romanticising any medical condition is
a faux pas.
                                i was spurred on
by reading a review of O'Hara's poetry,
namely the poem sardines -
                  the reviewer writes how the poet
'actually writes his poem by breaking down
language into its most basic units - words.'
well... technically this is where the other point
of phonetic encoding comes in, the third tier...
words aren't as basic as you might think -
they reside in the realm of meaning,
but also a realm of being bound to a thesaurus -
(apologies, i'm not trying to be pedantic,
  you might see where this might be going,
in terms of sharpening the point of
               what's language and
the basics of language - yes, a niche topic,
as usual, pedants ahoy)
                          words are components
(or compounds)... letters are units, akin to
mathematical digits...
                          but then again,
kilometres are units -
                                 as are miles and hours...
surely then if worded
                   the representation would be that
of a/z                             rather than
                                   p/o/r/r/i/d/g/e          
      a/z seems like a better basis for unitary
conceptualisation of language
                        using a, b, c... z as the basic
units of language... yes... much more so than words...
            because the third tier of encoding
is based primarily on letters,
                                       yes, we know the
plight of the Palestinians, but the Jews have something
i want, and use, quiet frequently,
although with variation - there's no
              toying about with gematria -
i don't accept this method of investigation -
              i find absolute futility in it -
not that i can't grasp it, but i find it useless -
         it's this third tier where ideas are formed
without any distinct orthodoxy -
                           so:
tier 1. phonetically encoding a s k to say: ask
tier 2. phonetically encoding a s k to think:
                                      what am i going to ask for?
tier 3. phonetically encoding a s k to then
            (primarily) venture into encoding
                                              a s k i n g f o r p a t i e n c e.
we're not dealing with Chinese ideograms,
    we're dealing with a linear juxtaposition encoding
   e.g.
     a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p (q r s t u v w x y z)
the bracket? i first learned the English alphabet
as a sing-along... to my memory i forgot the rhythm
of the song (i was 7 at the time) and subsequently
             the rest of the sequence... but that doesn't
necessarily mean my vocabulary suffered because of it...
still linear juxtaposition encoding, as above, only
         n y m p h  (x y s t)
                             a b c d e f g i j k l o q r s t u v w x z
                   (a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r u v w z)
                                           e x o t i c s (friz)
          a b d f g j k l q r u v w x z
                              (a b c d e g h j k l m n o p q u v w)
                 ...
                                    
     ...
                         (b c e g
                                                            - interlude -
   well, technically, you could say that diacritical
marks are used for the purpose of dissecting
words into syllables, that's not to say
          latin compound fixations on meaningful
  prefixes, such as: aqua-        or omni-
                   (yes, the etymological section
of the dictionary is the most interesting part
of that book - as counter to Darwinism,
                     or something less intrinsic with
visuals, and focused more on a shorter history
of mankind, the less ridiculous time-frame,
         or history without Alexanders and Socrates -
                  SS... the English hasn't fixed
the notation of pluralism here...
            something akin to ß      or σ          or     ς
                    is begging to come out of this problem...
lets just say the ending variation of sigma denotes
the plural, so, etymology, or history without
       Alexanders and Socrateς / cruder or more
masculine Socrateç... Tess' - as in: it belongs to Theresa)
        as Plato noted, i too, like Socrates
are investigating how my name ought to be written,
by the looks of it, from what i discovered
               i apply diacritics as syllable identifiers,
or: how to cut words up -
   ergo? even though this is not orthodox,
my name, should be written as
                   Máteuš -
                                               the acute a
stresses the cutting up of the word, i.e. the first
syllable is identified, primarily because diacritics
stress non-prefixes, i.e. simpler variations of
what a prefix is (a loan word), or a sound that
has an ancient meaning, for example pre-
or pro-, meaning the word was forced into the shackles
of being accompanied by a hyphen
when the ancient tongue disintegrated and its grammar
was no longer adequate to accommodate
the barbarian tongues of the north...  
so it has come to this: diacritical marks are not
exactly aesthetic concerns where not writing an
acute o but rather u is displeasing to the eyes...
      it's about seeing where the syllable incision has
been made... shame the English never adopted it...
but then again: the Empire blah blah blah, Star Wars
blah blah blah... special relationship with America
blah blah blah... that old chestnut -
                  or can anyone forget their eccentricity
of doth and         all that Canterbury *******?
   or even Shakespeare's English?
                                  i'm on it... well,
apologies... internet encrypting, acronyms and
eight and L8 for late. it was never adopted -
        and never will be... ****-naked Charlie
and ****-floral-naked Angie...
              sitting in a tree, one two, one two three.

  - post-interlude -

              (b c e g...
                                           i really can't be bothered
   trying to finish this little scrabble -
           i mean, looking up words
                       so i'm left with the last possible letter,
or no letter at all...
                                  what with
    the six vowels a, e, i, o, u, (y)
                                                  nymph as a word (though)
is the closest you'll get to the pronunciation of
     y (why)               in                   Polish...
                            ny-                 or -ymph
                                 obviously cut off the μ and φ...
but if you're really bored...
                  you could probably finish that
little game... for no reason, whatsoever -
        as already stated i'm more interested in things
contained in the interlude, but then again games like
this provide the capacity to abstract and return
with actual application of an idea.

and what boredom would arise - if man's mind could
teach of overcoming this sometimes woken oddity
self-inherent in our surroundings -
what materialistic bombast,
what atheistic pomp of
argumentative "certainty" -
       what a firm hold of the heart,
whether guided by the sway
of either love, or doubt -
  what purpose, what adventure
would man make of,
this: be but nothing, other than
something resembling a zoo?
   from what i heard: in terms
of the development of the brain:
imagination comes first -
   thought comes second -
but memory comes last -
imagination at such an early
age is not the ability to conjure
make-believe:
   but a was of refining the image,
or shape, or differentiate them,
in order to later integrate them...
if imagination clouds our sight,
then memory blinds it...
  i believe the new-born is born
"blind"... all and every single one
of them...
            as thought enters through
a sense of hearing second,
   it then translates itself into
     optical scrutiny,
    whereby there's a difference between
the literate T... the word table...
and the actual geometry of a table...
but there is a hierarchy:
   imagination... not something akin
to the imagination of children
inventing games...
  after all... the elders of the child also
invent games:
   profitable games,
      using nothing but geometry -
a sphere, a ball...
               two H goals either side
             of an egg-shaped inflatable.
strange how memory is both
a tool to remember, but also to forget...
memory has the capacity
    to "create" while at the same time
erasing, either lived: or thought out content...
nostalgia: memoria est res non grata -
                memory is not welcome -
and how does the collective approach work?
well... it begins in
the education system...
      you have to memorise!
                 and given the already self-erasing
nature of the cognitive faculty
that memory is...
      pneumatic drilling...
              and the self-imposed "censor" -
                        the brainchild of dementia...
but if you want to attack and collectivise
a species: attack what develops last: first!
teach the unit rubrics of alphabet,
   of names without limit of being contained,
rebellious in ****, but hardly
comprehensive, rather fickle, given
any linguistic fashion, zeitgeist and later
extinction as you might...
        transparent etymology, or that: lost
forever and never unearthed in this
linguistic archeology...
               but attack the faculty of memory
first...
   by the time you've done that,
and people are taught to be fickle -
   to have to remember, then to automatically
forget, to have to remember for an examination:
then to later automatically forget...
what comes later?
    what never actually came: thinking!
what came later was "thinking" as in
delving into the abyss of the narrative,
or could always and would always be waiting
for narration...
      but then imagination descends
and mingles with memory...
          given that memory is the faculty
  that "writes" what-is-and-was,
                         memory enters and mingles
with it (akin to the idea of space-time unison dip) -
to "write" what-isn't-and-what-could-be...
             but the byproduct is hardly
what-isn't-and-what-could-be, bur rather:
     what-was-and-what-couldn't-have-been...
by now thinking is a bemused spectator...
   hence the idea of philosophy:
  begins in awe: ends up with empedocles
jumping into mount etna...
        and if diogenes of sinope died
by holding his breath?
     he must have died while holding his breath,
but also being cross-eyed (trying to look
at the tip of his nose): to imitate the idea
of being underwater.
but that's how it appears to be:
1st comes space, and the differentiation and
later integration of it, to establish the medium
of immediate-spacial coordination without
the geometric abstract -
as does 2nd come neither space, nor time,
but some sort of medium, which is goverened
by impulsive forces, the 6th elemental,
   a vibrating impulse to stagger into motion,
a type of music, the impregnation of the mush
of soap like basis for the brain guiding
an "electric" shove: listening to words -
   making the ears hear -
              euclid and the second stage of
the woken pentagon -
                but 3rd comes memory,
        and this is where time enters the awakening
of the ranunculus alba (white tadpole) -
and society attacks this first,
drills people with abstract memory attacks -
    coupled with the ontology of memory being
that akin to natural selection: in that -
it's rather random...
                   we have nothing but
                 selective memorisation -
perhaps what we choose to memorise -
or having a natural knack for the ability
      to memorise, and become skilled workers -
whatever it might be...
    memory is the least of the three stated
cognitive functions automaton-based -
                  hence school... revision, revision...
the fact that it is the most lazy cognitive
faculty, is because it has an implosive demand
for existing: to erase itself...
          when imagination is like a vector,
i.e. from today (coordinates 0, 0) -
where do you see yourself in 5 years
                                  (coordinates 23, 70)?
and thinking really has to mediate these two
bothercome faculties, all the time,
while also dealing with its own selfish effort
to coincide with them...
                    narratives - at its own peril
     of hiding a degeneration process that comes
to some, but not all...
   but comes nonetheless, in one form
or another...
                            man was never to be blessed
with old age...
                       perhaps blessed with
a mortality and the hope of immortal craft -
but never, with old age;
i can't remember how many times
   i've listened to my grandfather tell the same
stories...
                 memory is a fickle *****...
i prefer that idea than the english version
of: life's a *****, and then you die...
               i prefer what i already
stated... memory is a fickle *****,
   imagination is sometimes like
       a dried out lake or a tug & pull game
with a camel...
   and thought is just one step away
from dreaming / a lazy ******* that waits
for someone with a name like alexander fleming.

I study your face every chance I get
Count the lines on your forehead
Memorise the curve of your lip

I take mental polaroids
To pin up around my mirror
So I can keep every angle
And every expression
Just in case

Just in case you go
Or somehow I forget you

Just in case I can't remember
How alive you look in this very moment
Or the rich chocolate of your eyes
In case I forget the stubble on your cheek
Or the inhibitions of that wide smile

I could take a thousand pictures
I could write a million poems
But I can never quite capture
The life I see in you

I like to lick the window
he said
Whenever I see somebody
passing by
It's just my way
of saying*  Hi
I'd like to chat to them
but today I'm beat
I can't seem to stay
upon my feet
so I dragged a chair
which was such a feat
from dining room
to bedroom
and I didn't cheat
I actually left the room
for a moment in time
I love the new curtains
by the way
the fabric is sublime
but next time you decide
to rearrange the outside
could you give me a heads up
so I don't run and hide
so I can memorise
the exact amount of steps
I need to take
from bedroom to the out world
so I don't panic
when I try to escape
from the toaster
which asked me
if I was hungry
or the TV that invited me
to sit down and watch
a show or three
I don't like it when they talk to me
I just want to sit by the window
next to the bed
and lick all those people
walking by
**who managed to escape
from their head

pressure
makes up society
makes up reality
clouding our vision

nothing is real anymore
where is imagination?
inspiration?
indication?

indication that we are still human
we don't want to memorise
things we despise
just to get a prize

pressure is all around us
we want to be the best
and beat the rest
and face the test

we will lose who we are
what we feel
what we think
what are we programmed to be?

so many people
names unsaid, forgotten
became the best
but crumbled with the rest
because of pressure
to become the best

feminism is sexist in that it does not really acknowledge the house-husband, the aesthetic of work has changed, we don't need people to work like mules with a scythe in the wheat fields, we have tractors and combines, and yet there's no respectability for the house-husband, unlike the once famous role of the housewife - and yes, the aesthetic of work has changed, more trades have become mechanised and i agree that she should be out there making things look more and more pretty... but alas, seeking the role of being a house-husband reduces you to alcoholism... but hey, i'm cool with that - so after all the major wars have been fought, world war iii would never take place, nor the fears of the cold war ripening even to a lukewarm temperature, we sided with the war of the sexes... and it turns out, given our perfected system of reproduction that means we'll never become extinct, it just takes two guys and a surrogate mother to live on - because the classical fancy became exhausted by keeping the memory of Shakespeare for too long, reducing him to an educational tool, rather than a breath of inspiration.*

unavailable for the past few days,
sorting out poems,
having to go to the local shops
to buy apple cider and beer for
the fudge sauce for the streak steaks
and chips and asparagus;
it's hard to criticise christianity these
days without falling into a
cliché of nietzsche - so it's easier
to fall into the other famous cliché of his:
who the hell put woman in the kitchen?
she can't cook! ain't that something,
i do miss the mist of vapour and
the thickening of a sauce that asks for
two cups of ketchup... that's not going
to work, maximum 2 tablespoons, pushing 3,
and yes and no: 1 teaspoon of sugar (1/4 cup of sugar),
1 cup of apple cider (1/2 a cup of apple cider),
1 cup of beer (3/4 cup of beer),
1 tablespoon of yellow mustard - perhaps a bit
of mustard powder too,
2 tablespoons of lemon juice,
1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce,
1 tablespoon of cayenne pepper,
1 tablespoon of paprika,
butter onion oil garlic... so the bracket quantities were
in the original, the ketchup is still up for
a parliamentary debate -
after all, smoking cigarettes does makes your
palette more sensitive to the two viruses
that are stranded as too spicy & too salty, hey presto
grilled new york strip steak with beer,
cider and missing molasses - so now tell me,
why bother memorising poetry and eating in
restaurants, when you can just let poems be
and memorise a (hopefully) yummy recipe?

given the digitalisation, i've become less a poet and a lesser entertainer, and more a drug-dealer.

where do you levitate with this, hmm?
well infected mushroom's *dracul,
the laughter,
                                             the laughter,
you're lost for words, making Descartes modern:
cogito ergo rideo - both are verbs meaning both are
active ingredients - therefore being a mathematical
modulator akin to + or ÷, thus the twins nearby -
tell a joke without actually telling one
and laugh - fork in the road
****'s sake concerning thinking
as proof of existence:
make it out as: i think therefore i laugh,
give thinking a higher tier of expression
other than from crafting a theory of relativity
to not crafting one and reduced to menial
tasks the sri lankans would gladly accept -
still the chicken moon, the cloudiness
and the laughter, not self-love mind you,
and still the lighthouse warring with the cliffs
to spare a ship -
i just said a joke and laughed, there was no
joke to be heard for 5 miles apart to be made apparent,
but still the laughter came -
i ended up reading an article about the pharmacological
prince - pains and aches - died aged 57 -
indeed think therefore laugh rather than
be spotted thinking as a way to qualify yourself
to be recipient of stars and sun, moon and tides -
it came when i thought too much, having dislodged myself
from making choices i let thought scream narrative!,
and the only narration worth expressing came
with laughter - it didn't come with hideouts
of thought coupled with existence having lost
the pleasures of cartesian thinking not having
discovered the theory of relativity -
thinking as basis for being conscious became hidden,
no longer a twinned analogue for parallel comparisons,
existence needed some emotive expression
against the apathetic sum, it was necessary to
craft thinking into an existential parameter greater
than a unit recipient of being aligned with
                    the planetary chronology
             of mercury, venus, earth, mars, jupiter
                 and horoscopes defying geometrics -
laughter sprinted to be minded -
                          above existence per se, which
thinking is not part of, per se, since no one can prove
thinking exists akin to the proof for the existence of god -
car crash, ******, slaving, i can tell you
callousness exists, that slavery exists -
but i can't tell you thinking exists -
given the example and the murk custard of
hallucinations, the ****** of the senses
                                     and intuition... i.e.
too many particulars to be minded,
in terms of evaluation
particulars are governed by thought,
              while universals are governed by god;
i know poets hardly memorise their output -
they have a page with scribbles in-front of them
rather than having memorised their lyrics with love
and contentment and a guitar -
we can't be theatrical to say the least -
poets are not engaged with arenas and epilepsy
inducing stage lights, their instrument is a page
rather than a guitar - what's missing is the self-love
akin to memorisation - but as i say:
you can never know if you wrote a good poem
if you haven't written a 1000 ****** ones.