the purposive practice of misnomer-ism, the no-strings-attached poetry, a ****-buddy so to speak, one such example: lechery in a coffin, purposive, purposely using misnomers, hence misnomer-ism, no-string-attached - i might use the wrong word from time to time, but at least i'm not using the wrong intentions to do so.*

after writing something worthy to be deemed
abstract, whatever takes your fancy,
say you enγaγe in something out of the oρδinary,
a chance, a hollowed out tree -
what stiff poetry this has come to be,
all i wanted to write is that after writing
something complex i'm rewarded with nothing
except a chance breeze in my head
that does chores in tidying up my mind -
it does it so well that i end up without a single
thought entering my mind - it's like non-purposive
buδδhiστ meditation - write something
complicated and then reap the reward:
absent minded watching aeroplanes in three
tiers of prior to the satellites' orbits -
now i can truly sit back and puff, drink strawberry
Pimms with lemonade and prosper
with the words: well, if i had a woman i'd have
to earn and let her spend, cosy home with a dog,
a bouquet of roses, and pristine clean with
scented candles in the evening - i swear, money
was created in favour of women,
all i do with mine is... well, i'm just about to pop
out for a bottle of whiskey and two beers -
tomorrow i'll be hunting for a council one-bedroom
flat - mind you, i feel no aesthetic gimmick,
i was born in Communist blocks, i know how
the English prize their shops and their semi-detached
villas; mind you, it doesn't take a beautiful view,
a hotel, the Alps to write something beautiful,
it doesn't take Venice, it doesn't even take the Cliché
(Paris) to get started - i suppose you need
a boring life to have a book in you, i didn't start
writing because my life was interesting, god forbid
if i had... i'm surprised Casanova gave up
the day-job of womanising and settled for a pen & paper;
why didn't he continue? i'm sure lechery only
kicks off in the coffin, there are diamond diggers out
there i'm told - so i decided: to live the most
uneventful life imaginable, the most boring of lives,
i'm sure a part of me will benefit from it -
namely writing, i'll be able to scrutinise everything
more keenly, as writing will be sole event in my
otherwise uneventful life, some days i'll turn on
Radio 4 and listen to blah blah... the best plan is to
have no plan... and once in a while i'll a **** poem like
this one, ****? oh yes, forceful poem to just pass
the time before sunset (plus, i bought a pair of
headphones for £1.00, yep, £1.00, imported from India,
they work perfectly when attached to an iMac,
perfect electrical synchronisation, they produce cheap
sound with other objects, my mp3 player plays
a softer and less loud sound when the headphones
are attached, as does my laptop, meaning:
i need the music loud... loud!) - so indeed, write something
complicated and you sit there, in an imaginary
mansion of luxury that not thinking is.