when i die, i'll relinquish so many riches...
that even king solomon would be envious.*

a reinterpretation of rené magritte -
man in a suit with an apple disguising him -
student with dreads and some
artsy fartsy clothes with a traffic cone
to disguise his face.

why do people cling to poetry?
its innocence - people loath poets who
rebel against poetic innocence,
they still want much technique
and little resolve - they want cute
rhyming, cute topic matters,
when the serious arts that allow
no strain provide prodigious outputs
that are later morphed into genius
(genius being prodigious output
in free-fall, spirit of gravity),
the poets concern themselves
about who's the most naive of them all:
poem poem on the page, who's the
most naive of them all?
you see, defining genius in poetry
is equated to the extent of emotional turmoil,
the less of it, the more ideal, technique prone
the output is... the more of it?
well... e.g.

yes, the english do not read philosophy,
they're too practical for that,
so practical in fact that their practicality
stems from creating problems,
rather than solving them,
they're the ones that say:
we care not for philosophical matters,
we care for practical matters,
we rather not abstract real matters
with unreal solutions,
but rather negate unreal matters
with bureaucratic solutions -
basically handing hot coal from
one person to another until the hot coal
becomes hot ****, and then thickens
and becomes un-fascinating for even the
congregation of flies.

but of course you know it stemmed back
from darwinism plaguing writing,
the necessary clear-cut plot, so everyone
knows what's going on... writing,
esp. fiction, is still just about drawing straight lines...
not circles, not squares... straight lines,
lucidity of some congestion of character intersection
with the narrator trapped in parallelism
of either allowing or obstructing tangents of
characters to involve the narrator into
being disguised.

but of course, you weren't the one punching
a brick wall when home office officers
came to take your father and mother,
handcuffed them and took them to the police station
while you were left in the room,
looking tearfully blank at a wall,
with one of the home office enforces coming
in and saying the words: 'you have a nice computer',
then turning around with... not an evil eye,
but a death eye stare... you were ~10 at the time,
shifted back to your fatherland to become
quasi autistic in silence...
only because your father provided an honest
hand for an honest profession,
while the niqab ***** multiplied in tax havens
of taxpayers' rented accommodation
in west london...

or as mickey mouse and donald would say:
make america déjà vu again... again again?
no, make america déjà vu:
rocky ***** balboa robocop sequel no. 17...
the imagination has to die at some point,
might as well be now.