i guess most of us were fooled into writing poetry on a great Pavlov canvas, indeed it's almost a pavlov experiment, but in reverse, seeing much makes people salivate less in terms of how rewards are puzzled together for the next ring of the bell / poem, and seeing little makes people salivate more in terms of how little rewards mean, except for the bell ring / poem itself.
what is it with our modern world
where melancholy used to come naturally
to old men, who at the end of life
sighed that sigh: everything accomplished,
now just a waiting game till my old
friend death will come knocking?
but now old men become demented,
and melancholy has left their orbit and
passed into the world of the young -
what a strange melancholy this is, this
melancholy without that fulfilling sigh:
everything accomplished - oh this sigh
isn't the sigh of melancholy of old age,
it's a sigh of: but so little begun!
the sighed sigh of: but so little begun!
there was a famous exploration of a theory
back in the 19th century when psychiatry
began learning humanism, when it was
decided that psychiatry could have nothing
to do with surgery, and shackles and
lobotomies - when it started to become a branch
of humanism, akin to lounge fiction books
and poetry, and philosophy, no longer
the butchering of askew behaviourism -
those were the days when the old men were
melancholic and the young were demented,
premature dementia crew they called them -
but given the fact: war is all around for glory
and for anything else to don the general's feathered
hat and magpie attracting sparkle of uniforms
adorned by precious jewels like being thanked
for the Battle of the Somme - well the slaughterhouse
rather than a battlefield - yes, near Ypres, a little
town in Belgium, where they still applaud the
"glorious" dead with a trumpet sound at a certain
hour each day under an arch - like that trumpet sound
of St. Mary's each noon, the hejnał, as the
trumpeter was running to the top of the tower
to sound the alarm of the spotted mongol horde,
yes, back then... circumcised eager warriors...
not a single ******** among them to hold them back,
circumcision doubly requiring the soft oyster
pouch of women ended up making men more
daring, more warring...
and as is usual with me, a captured moment of
digression veering off the original topic...
what is it with today's premature depression?
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
i guess most of us were fooled into writing poetry on a great Pavlov canvas, indeed it's almost a pavlov experiment, but in reverse, seeing much makes people salivate less in terms of how rewards are puzzled together for the next ring of the bell / poem, and seeing little makes people salivate more in terms of how little rewards mean, except for the bell ring / poem itself.
what is it with our modern world
where melancholy used to come naturally
to old men, who at the end of life
sighed that sigh: everything accomplished,
now just a waiting game till my old
friend death will come knocking?
but now old men become demented,
and melancholy has left their orbit and
passed into the world of the young -
what a strange melancholy this is, this
melancholy without that fulfilling sigh:
everything accomplished - oh this sigh
isn't the sigh of melancholy of old age,
it's a sigh of: but so little begun!
the sighed sigh of: but so little begun!
there was a famous exploration of a theory
back in the 19th century when psychiatry
began learning humanism, when it was
decided that psychiatry could have nothing
to do with surgery, and shackles and
lobotomies - when it started to become a branch
of humanism, akin to lounge fiction books
and poetry, and philosophy, no longer
the butchering of askew behaviourism -
those were the days when the old men were
melancholic and the young were demented,
premature dementia crew they called them -
but given the fact: war is all around for glory
and for anything else to don the general's feathered
hat and magpie attracting sparkle of uniforms
adorned by precious jewels like being thanked
for the Battle of the Somme - well the slaughterhouse
rather than a battlefield - yes, near Ypres, a little
town in Belgium, where they still applaud the
"glorious" dead with a trumpet sound at a certain
hour each day under an arch - like that trumpet sound
of St. Mary's each noon, the hejnał, as the
trumpeter was running to the top of the tower
to sound the alarm of the spotted mongol horde,
yes, back then... circumcised eager warriors...
not a single ******** among them to hold them back,
circumcision doubly requiring the soft oyster
pouch of women ended up making men more
daring, more warring...
and as is usual with me, a captured moment of
digression veering off the original topic...
what is it with today's premature depression?