i still remember times when boris yeltsin governed russia,
and that televisions  didn't have a remote control,
not that i'm being nostalgic as such, more a case
of admiration for the antidote of the theory
of biological evolution, the technological evolution
is much quicker, more changes in a blink of an eye,
i can look at myself as a dark ages' citizen that way.
then i open a book, and look at the world:
in words printed on a page
i see more stability than elsewhere
(even thought language, in akin relation
of comparatives with chemistry... is the most
volatile substance know to man... it's like
lithium dropped in water, most of the time,
as is due to casually phrase: inflammatory speech),
reading is the experimental focus
of a sense of stability, the letters
are laid, there on a page, and do not move,
like two rows of chess pieces either
side of a game waiting for the prologue
of either pawn or a knight, jumping over
the stiff first line of pawns:
in chess the pawns represent the narrator,
the slaughter will come, the end will come,
lucky the pawn to see off a checkmate,
but all the characters: whether knight rook
bishop queen or king are akin to the novel's
interaction of characters... the narrator a coastline
of patience and negligence paired
exposes the key emblems of the game...
slowly the eight dimensions of narration
are reduced to a frail disguise of the centre-piece,
indeed two rooks knights bishops apiece,
but soon the most manipulative piece
(the queen) is taken off... here the metaphysics
reveals that man is the weaker ***,
not a strength of a black widow or a mantis,
man the weaker *** carved from abstraction
thus being revealed...
hence the only source of man's strength is derived
from solitude... women the frenzy of shopping,
barricading each house with cooked rather
than raw meat, with even the cheapest paintings
as opposed to barren walls, all the little
idiosyncratic dips of the tongue into the most
amusing honey that's just it:
fear the tears of a woman, for in them
lies the narrative of wrath...
and no heaven wide and hell as deep can convince
a woman to act otherwise... it only took
Helen of Troy to masquerade her beauty
with a thirst for blood of the countless men...
fear the tears of woman, with woman's tears
comes her wrath... which is paradoxical when
woman becomes a mother...
only child-rearing can appease a woman's
status and the delicacies she understands to be poison
when her status is still angling a look
for the potential nest-builder for the womb
inside a womb of a private life...
those women, who are not wed and are therefore
potential philandering ******... they're the dangerous
ones... all others, upon settling their debt with
the ultimate freedom become, as it were:
caring... fortunate enough to gain with only
one golden eye socket on the ring-finger
an insight into man's whereabouts prior
to settling down...
but women who force such a fate upon any man
will turn the man into a woman she once thought
she was: barren and horrid and fiercely scorching
with inhibited fire...
that same man will show her her true self
in that essence of the collective: all woman as man
in each uniform, prior to the creation of character
with choice between each experience,
as unitary in such a sequence as is deemed necessary...
but fear a woman's tears, they might as well
be called crocodile... a drunk's tear when appreciating
beauty, only because too stone hearted sober...
fear a woman's tears... they're fake...
and are riddle with a subsequent onslaught of hate:
a blind man's retribution.