onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.*

after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
   in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
    to be read, esp. by me,
    so it seems i'm looking for
    an orator; a bit like chopin
    looking for a pianist
    to play the silencer notes
    of scores, written in the realm
    of chaos of surd musical notation,
    gangrene on the page;
    readily amputated,
    i never write to speak it,
    i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
    for me - sounds cruel,
    but i guess kindness comes at a price.
    he's just a pianist and gets to be called
    an artist - let' just say he's a learned
    decipherer of scores...
    london was built on grime & grit...
    liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
    my heart was left in scotland...
    i never write for oration -
    i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
    of the old college (of law).
    honestly, the thinking of musical composers
    always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
    of near-to-miss theological theory of
    predestination working in them,
    the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
    or a cello, decipher it and note it down
    in the universal language of music,
    forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
    of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
    i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
    and i am unabashed by it...
    my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
    i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
    the parameters of punctuation...
    i'm not jealous of prose writers,
    they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
    they define the longevity of the **** thing,
    i possess power over yawns and impromptus
    of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.