Nov 2015
indeed shakespeare, the world's a stage, but give me
the stage and not the world, give me the actor's proper
compass to define himself in the stage without
the onslaught that bothered nietzsche: imagine speaking
for the entire humanity. i have one for one, where the
"actor" owns the stage, but cares little for the world
in which things are acted according to heidegger's da sein.
inside a room sits a man, reading aloud canto xxxviii,
taking in the funny parts... with ezra's specified decor
of the trilling r, the lip numbing vibrating of m and half m (n),
just to don the evening jacket pipe and waistcoat...
all the way from idaho... losing the accent of course...
like me from the backside of poland, although nearby
the signing of the treaty of *lublin (1569)...
so there he is, sitting like a crow with a crown,
or a crown that's a crow, hunched, nonetheless eager to enjoin
with the surrounding choirs...
in the room händel's tecum principium (psalm 110) -
if händel never bothered to expatriate to
england... we'd only be left with elgar and
vaughan williams as the sole exports... what shame...
here's to the fireworks! in the room this scene... but outside
a first movement of ηoλιδες by franck...
so indeed the voodoo ****** needed for the giggle
from canto xxxviii (contrary
to what was suggested, and the suggestion
was that i could enjoy music & poetry
as much as i am now with a woman,
to prevent the waterfall from mt. ****,
the boredom, the scaly crocodile the
erasing ink of octopi... all that with a hope
for censored ****... and children and the absence
of private thinking... to appreciate it once is
not enough... and with woman of choice
only one account holds sway... tear jerker at the opera
and furthering this withstanding joy at beauty...
perhaps knowledgeable with an operatic spouse,
but no step further... in that great foundation
of life and grey matter... a tier below the merchant...
the buyer... the exchange of rotten deeds for
glistening goods - with woman the scarcity of
fed inhibitions expressed in the pure inhibitions
of sentencing blissfully haloed loneliness
into the resounding exchange of thought & voice
(esp. of someone else, once written);
no, we dare not invite profanity of such
crescendos as woman is capable of to replace
the ecstasy of the violins harps and trombones...
for indeed with a woman i'd be chained to
hear the worsened sense of symphony...
and more angina or animosity for what i prize
are relevant coordinates of executed choice
that leave no wall of my vicinity cold and
ghostly as if a dialogue with someone
was necessary; but to the poignancy of the canto:
1. the cigar-makers automation requiring recitation
to combat the capitalistic rat infestation,
known as mechanisation / automation,
according to dexter kimball,
2. because of a louse in berlin
and a greasy basturd in austria
by name francios guiseppe.
3. on account of bizschniz relations.
4. and schlossmann suggested that i stay in vienna
as stool-pigeon against the anschluss
because the austrians needed a buddha
5. der im baluba das gewitter gemacht hat...
6. kosouth (ku' shoot)
and i end with that... there's more but i cannot
spare not inviting this gentleman in smockings
who said:
i say... didn't the english forgo the use of
other europeans the necessary stressors of accent
to singular letters rather than words
or word compounding, all cockney ****-side-up?
i dare say those french bass tarts
put the ' over the e, and the papa turds on top
of the o... while our kin too to sharpening and shortening
things... taking 'em fo' d' fool...
so if there's direct correlation, my german compatriot
said... itz zys: diacritic of french with o and le v. la
is the english of would not with wouldn't.
now i think the modern fictional hannibal
has a mirror proper... without the mexican doctor (
cannibal etc.) but with this villager from idaho,
making it big in london and paris...
as all "little" villager folk do...
given there's less cosmopolitan conversation about
among the slapstick nobility humour scheming
and socialite consciousness with the odd dry martini -
given there's less of all that, where you can
go to sleep at 9pm, and wake with the roosters at 5am
(in summer), milk the cow, feed the hens, pluck an organic
tomato... and get excite about village traffic - tumble weeds
speeding, ol' mcdonald wrote a poem:
a tad bit cornish, nonetheless, the sort of nourishment
that redeems.
the stage and not the world, give me the actor's proper
compass to define himself in the stage without
the onslaught that bothered nietzsche: imagine speaking
for the entire humanity. i have one for one, where the
"actor" owns the stage, but cares little for the world
in which things are acted according to heidegger's da sein.
inside a room sits a man, reading aloud canto xxxviii,
taking in the funny parts... with ezra's specified decor
of the trilling r, the lip numbing vibrating of m and half m (n),
just to don the evening jacket pipe and waistcoat...
all the way from idaho... losing the accent of course...
like me from the backside of poland, although nearby
the signing of the treaty of *lublin (1569)...
so there he is, sitting like a crow with a crown,
or a crown that's a crow, hunched, nonetheless eager to enjoin
with the surrounding choirs...
in the room händel's tecum principium (psalm 110) -
if händel never bothered to expatriate to
england... we'd only be left with elgar and
vaughan williams as the sole exports... what shame...
here's to the fireworks! in the room this scene... but outside
a first movement of ηoλιδες by franck...
so indeed the voodoo ****** needed for the giggle
from canto xxxviii (contrary
to what was suggested, and the suggestion
was that i could enjoy music & poetry
as much as i am now with a woman,
to prevent the waterfall from mt. ****,
the boredom, the scaly crocodile the
erasing ink of octopi... all that with a hope
for censored ****... and children and the absence
of private thinking... to appreciate it once is
not enough... and with woman of choice
only one account holds sway... tear jerker at the opera
and furthering this withstanding joy at beauty...
perhaps knowledgeable with an operatic spouse,
but no step further... in that great foundation
of life and grey matter... a tier below the merchant...
the buyer... the exchange of rotten deeds for
glistening goods - with woman the scarcity of
fed inhibitions expressed in the pure inhibitions
of sentencing blissfully haloed loneliness
into the resounding exchange of thought & voice
(esp. of someone else, once written);
no, we dare not invite profanity of such
crescendos as woman is capable of to replace
the ecstasy of the violins harps and trombones...
for indeed with a woman i'd be chained to
hear the worsened sense of symphony...
and more angina or animosity for what i prize
are relevant coordinates of executed choice
that leave no wall of my vicinity cold and
ghostly as if a dialogue with someone
was necessary; but to the poignancy of the canto:
1. the cigar-makers automation requiring recitation
to combat the capitalistic rat infestation,
known as mechanisation / automation,
according to dexter kimball,
2. because of a louse in berlin
and a greasy basturd in austria
by name francios guiseppe.
3. on account of bizschniz relations.
4. and schlossmann suggested that i stay in vienna
as stool-pigeon against the anschluss
because the austrians needed a buddha
5. der im baluba das gewitter gemacht hat...
6. kosouth (ku' shoot)
and i end with that... there's more but i cannot
spare not inviting this gentleman in smockings
who said:
i say... didn't the english forgo the use of
other europeans the necessary stressors of accent
to singular letters rather than words
or word compounding, all cockney ****-side-up?
i dare say those french bass tarts
put the ' over the e, and the papa turds on top
of the o... while our kin too to sharpening and shortening
things... taking 'em fo' d' fool...
so if there's direct correlation, my german compatriot
said... itz zys: diacritic of french with o and le v. la
is the english of would not with wouldn't.
now i think the modern fictional hannibal
has a mirror proper... without the mexican doctor (
cannibal etc.) but with this villager from idaho,
making it big in london and paris...
as all "little" villager folk do...
given there's less cosmopolitan conversation about
among the slapstick nobility humour scheming
and socialite consciousness with the odd dry martini -
given there's less of all that, where you can
go to sleep at 9pm, and wake with the roosters at 5am
(in summer), milk the cow, feed the hens, pluck an organic
tomato... and get excite about village traffic - tumble weeds
speeding, ol' mcdonald wrote a poem:
a tad bit cornish, nonetheless, the sort of nourishment
that redeems.
