why is pixel-white seen as a medium where you're "speaking"? i guess that's due to the immediacy, and bypassing orthodox publishing contracts... i'm not talking... i'm thinking... the difference between the age-old white of canvas used in publishing has changed... in a blink of an eye... the poorest of the poor have now attained a monopoly on the medium... which is why visual art had to become elitist, because artists could never fathom the freedom of having obtained such a freedom of the once monopolised medium of a crisp white page... and yanking the donkey further... i have no intention in treating this as me talking... the talking part is bound to the comment section... and once again, we can bypass the monopoly of literacy with the freedom of the medium also bypassed... i'm not talking... i'm thinking... the talking is done in the comment section... this isn't a care for an intellectual shoot-out... but why in the word do i have to write this, and be remindful? oh wait, now i know: i didn't have to chop a single tree down to then write on it pressed down as paper... but then i wouldn't have... because, if i had enough wine and château... i'd be writing a Dumas novel.
i feel like writing less and less the days,
3 weeks spent in Poland
exhausted me with talking and reading,
and having the rest of the world
alomost forgotten, among the pines
in a wood, with neatly fallen snow...
i can almost hear the words: you should
go back, then!
yes, and having lost investment in
22 years living in england, and perfecting
the tongue...
had i not perfected the tongue,
i wouldn't see the maggots engaging in crowds
across the western world...
what a sight...
should they only be two serpents entwined...
but this is a world much different from 2007...
it's hard to pick-at an almost shared ethnicty
with the people of the Isles...
the Romans are dead, yet we share the same
alphabetical arrangement...
i'm not even ahead of my times,
i write less and less every day,
because as my irish "friend" once suggested,
that i known language like i might
slurp custard, that i should be bound to my
local community of Poles in England...
i guess like Seven Kings is basically Paddy
O'clock... drowning his sorrows: while
i spend the same hours, infuriating my passions...
and i get the only narrative available to us
these days, i get how darwinism has killed of
subjectivity, we're about to build a robot,
and how we don't like feeling that much...
i get that...
but i spent 22 yeasrs in these lands...
why am so entrenched to give birth to
the one i had at "home", but feel no care to return
to the place?
edging toward the third bottle of wine
on an empty stomach, and i write this...
apparently you can feed your heart that took
to being an apple thrice-over to attract a satanic bite...
the dalai lama is a *refugee, what a grand
title, better than the pope could hope to be...
i am an exile, and the worst reasons for exile
are economic...
but no dumb-bound irishman can really
call that: i too was on the titanic, to better land sown!
i love the scots, spent three years in Edinburgh,
but the society i came to live in, the society i was
schooled in? i remember only 1 englishman
in the school... the rest were primarily irish...
terrible gnats...
i live in england and it became to late
to meet an englishman...
i'd sooner meet one abroad...
i mean, if you knew someone from youth
and he says to you: you be better off with your kin...
my kin? my kin? on foreign soil?
and what? create these pocket like blisters, these
crab scabs of existence, so that i might live in
England but never learn the tongue?
this paddy hadn't even read Joyce, and i had,
and he tells me to be like him, a wasps' nest
kind of existence... the Poles have but one motto:
never congregate in exile... the 'rish evidently
didn't learn that motto... so they congregated...
and started doing the mating pigeon strutt
of a puffed up chest... like skunks they marched...
i mean, who the **** does that?
i go to Cheltenham and everyone finds my "accent"
undecipherable...
this coming from the same guy that couldn't
flick a lighter or cite the alphabet...
i can go to Cheltenham and become lost
in the crowd... i'll go to a poetry reading and
stand, and clap and encore aloud when the poet
finishes...
i wish i could go back to the native... land...
and go back to a: life, as usual...
but when you have lived 22 years in exile and
the most constructive years up to aged 8...
you dread the reality of being a child once,
and having idealised the life back where,
communism was dying... esp. given that your
grandparents have a steady pension,
and your father can't hope for one with
the state being applauding him for the efforts,
that the state and the worker are no longer
bound to an umbilical chord when pension age strikes...
not since 2007, when it all began...
i can't be seen with the words of accusation
against my antagonist in any place nearing
a protest, i'd be scrapped-heaped and lost to the usual
comparison that men are:
with celibacy intact: shoot anywhere other than
the ******, and you're wasting yourself...
but i wasn't circumcised, sure enough,
if you're circumcised and shoot that load into
a tissue... well... you sorta did touch
the philosophers' stone with your phallus...
****! ****! the deadpool movie is ****!
and i can't say that the dada art movment
is worth nothing... the girl, this blonde from Seattle
mentions nothing of cubism...
modern art isn't useless...
i can't be epileptic bound to faint before
a mona lisa... i can't do that... but dada wasn't
anything anti-art, of whatever movement...
dada was anti-war... dada was an anti-war
movement.... it ensured that art be equated with
the whole futility of human endeavour...
art will make no sense if there's no heroism
and men sit in trenches with wet socks and wet
cigarettes and rats will they ever walk the same
on the marble pavement of Florence...
dada was anti-war... dada wasn't
anti-impressionism or anything like that...
it's when artists started experiencing mental illness,
a psychic relapse into dough, dull, and lullaby
worth nothing...
it's about the time that dada
emerged (world war i) that warfare had to turn
to guerilla warfare for some sense of Mars enduring...
i thought people might think it stupid
during the Napoleonic wars... walking up to your
enemy and at point blank range shooting them down...
so no eastern martial arts agility...
no wars makes the same sense as the depravity to
reproduce: eager soldiers... given there are none
to replace the numbers.
yet, that language of darwinism, that objectivity,
that language of: no will unless the will of the species,
a species akin to comparison with ant or other
worthy comparative multiplier of insect worth...
i get it... meaning i feel nothing for the examples
surrounding me, and i get hyper-sensitive about
the theory...
which is a great shame that i feel
no great feat before me when looking upon a woman....
but then again i could merely qualify as
a ***** talking... because that's easier done...
and you'd think that bilingualism wasn't such
a proper, well, it is, among the poor...
it's a real... a REAL! a real threat!
for some reason i get the feeling that Polish
has to become a bit like outdated Gaelic...
a great story over campfire... that we once might
have spoken it...
i still speak the **** tongue
because i like listening to folk songs...
but hey! that's my private life... i can still
talk English to you in that grand social-contract of
ensuring we interact... evidently that was the least
liked possibility...
i was expected to forget it...
and integrated with the ******* Paddies in England
and speak Polish: no more!
i don't want to forget Polish in the same
way that the English don't want to learn
a foreign language, and have the empire upon
which the night never sets upon:
you're telling me it's not bound to perpetual
daylight working your way from Alaska, New Zealand,
South Africa and England?
insomniac empire not there?
i swear i could see it for a minute...
oh, my bad... maybe it was really all about
a drunken night in Dooblin...
as i remember, not since 2007 has everything
been so: bonkers...
it's just a case of trying to claim why
my native country ejected me from it...
or why my parents thought it was necessary to
flee...
but then i can ask any question
i want and will never get a good reply...
now that i speak the language i don't
know how to erase 22 years of incubation...
i can drink as many wine bottles and whiskey
bottles, but it never does it justice...
and will continue to do so...
when i get my answers...
and, as it looks like...
i'm bound to be prone to being blamed for a tsunami
than take a blame for having friendship-binds
when growing up,
because the a.i. needed improvement,
and that Barabbas lived no life spectacular after
being admonished by the crowd prior
to the desecration of the tetragrammaton by
the crucifx wielder.
well, this would appear a world salad for a paddy...
given that words for him are all merely verbs
and none address pondering them as nouns
to reach a nuance...
and a delay worthy of 2000 years...
but then again...
what do i know...
once i was the lost to pounce
on the argument, now i seem to be the first
to say anything...
but here's the therapy...
people can speak such a godly narrative
and incorporate it from ants to humans,
bypassing the mammals the prime mammal
is making extinct... and taking no impression from
fellow mammal... bypassing the mammalian
category, for the sake of number, and argue oh so well
many intended arguments... ants...
and then get ****** over by an avalanche...
and then wonder with the non-bewildered chemists:
dunno... physics?!
humanism is trapped in the greatest robbery of
the human heart, if it once belonged by the crucifix,
and with due need, become humbled...
it's now under the ******* microscope and "ennobled",
pride hardened...
it's an objectivity that doesn't encompass all
categories... i can so much about ants having perfected
its hierarchy... and i try to imitate...
sure, it works...
i have no need for subjective scientists that
poets are... i need more plumbers... but, wait...
i have to import them from Poland...
because i actually no actual
pill for objective anaesthesia to be implemented
given that i have the same automaton tendency to
feel, as i have to think, as i therefore have to reciprocate
by being existent...
but then again being prescribed
the shadow theories of darwinism, while turning
epileptic with paparazzis dumbing me at the catwalk,
work together... they're not mutually exlcusive...
mutual exclusiveness is the argument usured in
by moral relativism, whereby moral relativism believes
in the non-existence of mutual inclusvieness...
inclusivelly the standard bearers are bound to
the coordinate functions of (+, -),
exclusivelly the standard bearers are bound to
the coordinate functions of (x, ÷)...
meaning that inclusviely: 1, 2, 3, includes 4...
1 + 1 = 2... 2 + 1 = 3...
the near proximity... adding and substracting
are less abstract than multiplying and dividing...
they do interact, the two factions...
it's not magic, it's the limitation of my ability
to use language... philosophy really is about being
able to reach a limit of having all possible
competence with language morphed from
phonos to the rightly defined logos, as that
which encounters optics and the higher optics of
cognitive experience; deemed thought,
or the moral compass... and how rarely thought
is not bound to it being a moral compass,
how many times the moral compass
exists, pointing toward the θ / N...
and the -ought is merely squandered to fiction,
and other such pleasures... and rarely
asked to be done to the moral principal that
overshadows mere naturalistic observations...
trans-category... we, the pinnacle of mammal,
behave like no mammal...
once again i'll hear the retortion:
infantile argument!
it has always been infantile and
delusional, haven't you noticed?
i find it strange to be living in times of
such rational, truly gifted "adults"...
i could swear to be looking at the current civilisation
as a kind of kindergarten.
but then... why bother argue the point further,
when you can laugh, drinking the third bottle of
your home-made wine?