Jul 2016
there no doubt about it - with each day there's always a falsetto poem, always at the end of a binge - the mind goes blank, words lose meaning, every day is like a simulation of old age - there's a method to this madness - i'm not afraid of critique concerning such poems: true virtue is unafraid of critique - for one, i can just as well criticise myself - so after each binge i end up with mediocre poems - conceding this point, words lose meaning, associations of meanings disperse - pollination in full swing - i end up writing noises - perhaps because my own silence is so chilling i have to resort to oscillation around the onomatopoeia, and all respective quasi or pseudos or pseudonyms of all required ventures - but the rewarding aspect of such writing is best summarised by a jazz drummer and a jazz teacher combined into one: the crescendo must go on - the movie? whiplash - the moment, the moment, the moment is too sudden and too short - it's essentially everything and nothing at all - always a heart-out-of-beat, at least a feeling of having a heart without the unconscious rhythmic pistons with whatever scientific explanation there is to match - they always come, the trail offs.
i didn't finish the Cantos just in order to remind myself
how i miss the time when it all began with
the second Odysseus of the 20th century -
both this disguised Odysseus of the Cantos,
and the blatant portal of time-warp beginning and ending
in Dublin - Homer's resurrection and reinvention -
perhaps all this Grecian nostalgia is what fuelled
the 20th century altogether - but how anaemic
do the Roman poets seem in comparison -
i could never write along this root toward that
tree near the Parthenon - but taking root in
the Roman tradition has only been accepted for
historical relevance only once since - without
Virgil there would have been no Dante - but still
Dante uses more accuracy of mathematics than
of spontaneity - a clarity of mind is necessary -
trinity rhymes - all clearly presented, cut up -
but no one damns him for the theological impetus -
happily prancing alongside them in hell -
through to the seemingly pointless purgatory
and then elsewhere into what can only be seen as
humanity's limit of imagination: subatomic particles
and a realm were visible to the naked eye we float
in and out of conscious states - well - if what i'm attempting
is an attempt in good faith - then my guide is no one
else than Horace - and already the style between Greek
and Roman is staggering - the selfishness of Roman poets -
the must include item: i. no Trojan horse, but a wooden
barrel of wine - no heroes, only leeches and poking fun at
them like Spartans at a drunk given undiluted Burgundy -
Roman selfishness, self-loathing and all jokes on me -
the 20th century's nostalgia for all things Greek isn't here
anymore - you will not find such legislators of a second
fancy at Ancient Helen - this century has no great conflict
of gathering - and therefore no great victory to parade with -
it's a silly century from what looks like an even sillier 80 or
so years to come - and is there a nostalgia for the Roman
past? there was a nostalgia - it's too practical to think about
it - esp. with the writing kept, even if they crucified an
important, the wrath of the supposed father was not as great
as it was with the Egyptians and the Babylonians -
Sanskrit is just as old and it survived - those two phonetic
encoding systems haven't - you can't say they were
inefficient - civilisations surrounded them - but the wrath
was too great - and they became instinct -
but perhaps the wrath for his phonetic encoding is the digital
age? a ****-stain on human interaction - or a smear
of fondue chocolate? i think the latter - imagine me running
around the publishing world like Asterix in the *twelve tasks
of - the place that sends you mad - including Hercules -
who did, managed to **** his children when his muscles weren't
up to speed with bureaucracy - oh hell, bench-press a cow -
but run with a little leaflet between offices... bonkers.
i really do miss the Cantos - the feel of them - the obscurity of
some of the references i'm not ashamed to admit -
or just the sheer ease on the eyes as is the case with any poem -
(a poem a day keeps both the psychiatrist and the optometrist
away) - so yeah, plenty of apples - and poetry, supreme democracy -
i could reread them, but i'm of a democratic cult -
i have to allow someone else to borrow me their shoes -
tom verlaine's album around - a rare gem, doesn't get listened
to a lot, but unlike other music, it's not something you'd
listen to in a gym, something that's a pleasant but mundane
distraction of pop metal pop rock or pop pop - the o of adore -
as suggested by a Scottish music shop assistant / owner in
Edinburgh - that magic city of where the 21st century's heart
of the literary scene resides - forget Paris, it's too much of
a little Casablanca - the Algiers of the North (Edinburgh being
Athens of the north) - i admit it'll be hard not to be nostalgic
about the 20th century let alone Ancient Helen -
but as the monkey said: got to push on and meet Darwin -
silly hands, silly feet, silly tail... and i'm not wearing Gucci
without Brazilian wax job all over, except for appropriate
places - sure - we'll just wait for the Apache hairdresser -
we only to scalping. however, there is a subversive thing
i want to mention (never mind that i already wanted to stick
in Thesaurus Rex on the matter): Kant (yawn) -
started analysing English aged 8 -
started synthesising English also aged 8 (a few weeks
if not months, from nothing, to gut sprechen -
piuma'h not pooma'h (Puma) -
but it took me 20 odd years of unconditional surrender
to the language, 20 years of synthesising it - blind -
to come across another chance to analyse it -
the difference being it became analytical a posteriori -
that's the thing with philosophers, they have spaghetti
for brains, tangles, they over-complicate things, but sometimes
they get it right, and you read them and then end up
using their labyrinths to find secret passages at places
like Versailles that Louis XIV used between visits to his
concubines - that was the trick, the upper-hand on the Arabian
practice - amuse yourself by not owning them -
but technically owning them - concubine power - the sixth
Spice Girl - dirrrty spice - but yeah, 20 years to get a second
stab at the analysis of the English language -
20 years of synthesis will do that to you, like any chemist
might feel, aged 20 does an analytical study, something
new and never done before, then he lands a job at a
pharmaceutical company and has to synthesise and synthesise
and synthesise the same thing over and over again -
20 years pass, aged 40 he gets another chance to analyse something
that it's just quality control - i know there are puritans out
there who'd lash out at what i'm using here -
but i want the practical side of philosophy, nothing overloaded
with words, theories, knowledge whatever that means -
i know crude, but necessary - a priori (from the earlier):
well, i wasn't a mute aged 8, proof?
an etymological void about to be filled: w środe poszłem do
lasu (on wednesday i went to the woods) - etymology here,
i'm sure of it - etymology or the resemblance of
a Thesaurus Rex roar - a piquant case of synonyms -
środa (wednesday), originally? derived from środek:
the centre - oh look... friday thursday ś tuesday monday -
the days off don't count, we all know that.
etymological spontaneity then, i wouldn't force myself
to practice a detailed inquiry using it - spare of the moment
thing... more pleasant that way;
but as you can see i am at the point of analytical a posteriori:
clearly shown by what i've already noticed in nuances
of the English language - i won't go through what i've
noticed - but having crossed the threshold of
analysing English after having automated synthesising it
for so long, i would naturally end up writing poetry -
the 21st century kind - look ahead! said Columbus,
but please have a sacred respect for your memory as
your own citizen with Friday on Bermuda -
treat memory like a potent hallucinogenic drug -
after all... the state doesn't respect your memory, at school
they cram in all those pointless things you have to
memorise - arithmetic, spelling (well both are kinda useful),
but so much else you will not care to remember -
it's not about how important you think you are when
you're not given there's 8 billion of us - don't get
fooled by this self-importance gimmick - look at what
the education system of the state is eroding... yes... your
memory - so you forget yourself at the happiest of times...
memory is more sacred than thinking and can be
more potent than an Amazonian or a Swiss hallucinogenic.
i didn't finish the Cantos just in order to remind myself
how i miss the time when it all began with
the second Odysseus of the 20th century -
both this disguised Odysseus of the Cantos,
and the blatant portal of time-warp beginning and ending
in Dublin - Homer's resurrection and reinvention -
perhaps all this Grecian nostalgia is what fuelled
the 20th century altogether - but how anaemic
do the Roman poets seem in comparison -
i could never write along this root toward that
tree near the Parthenon - but taking root in
the Roman tradition has only been accepted for
historical relevance only once since - without
Virgil there would have been no Dante - but still
Dante uses more accuracy of mathematics than
of spontaneity - a clarity of mind is necessary -
trinity rhymes - all clearly presented, cut up -
but no one damns him for the theological impetus -
happily prancing alongside them in hell -
through to the seemingly pointless purgatory
and then elsewhere into what can only be seen as
humanity's limit of imagination: subatomic particles
and a realm were visible to the naked eye we float
in and out of conscious states - well - if what i'm attempting
is an attempt in good faith - then my guide is no one
else than Horace - and already the style between Greek
and Roman is staggering - the selfishness of Roman poets -
the must include item: i. no Trojan horse, but a wooden
barrel of wine - no heroes, only leeches and poking fun at
them like Spartans at a drunk given undiluted Burgundy -
Roman selfishness, self-loathing and all jokes on me -
the 20th century's nostalgia for all things Greek isn't here
anymore - you will not find such legislators of a second
fancy at Ancient Helen - this century has no great conflict
of gathering - and therefore no great victory to parade with -
it's a silly century from what looks like an even sillier 80 or
so years to come - and is there a nostalgia for the Roman
past? there was a nostalgia - it's too practical to think about
it - esp. with the writing kept, even if they crucified an
important, the wrath of the supposed father was not as great
as it was with the Egyptians and the Babylonians -
Sanskrit is just as old and it survived - those two phonetic
encoding systems haven't - you can't say they were
inefficient - civilisations surrounded them - but the wrath
was too great - and they became instinct -
but perhaps the wrath for his phonetic encoding is the digital
age? a ****-stain on human interaction - or a smear
of fondue chocolate? i think the latter - imagine me running
around the publishing world like Asterix in the *twelve tasks
of - the place that sends you mad - including Hercules -
who did, managed to **** his children when his muscles weren't
up to speed with bureaucracy - oh hell, bench-press a cow -
but run with a little leaflet between offices... bonkers.
i really do miss the Cantos - the feel of them - the obscurity of
some of the references i'm not ashamed to admit -
or just the sheer ease on the eyes as is the case with any poem -
(a poem a day keeps both the psychiatrist and the optometrist
away) - so yeah, plenty of apples - and poetry, supreme democracy -
i could reread them, but i'm of a democratic cult -
i have to allow someone else to borrow me their shoes -
tom verlaine's album around - a rare gem, doesn't get listened
to a lot, but unlike other music, it's not something you'd
listen to in a gym, something that's a pleasant but mundane
distraction of pop metal pop rock or pop pop - the o of adore -
as suggested by a Scottish music shop assistant / owner in
Edinburgh - that magic city of where the 21st century's heart
of the literary scene resides - forget Paris, it's too much of
a little Casablanca - the Algiers of the North (Edinburgh being
Athens of the north) - i admit it'll be hard not to be nostalgic
about the 20th century let alone Ancient Helen -
but as the monkey said: got to push on and meet Darwin -
silly hands, silly feet, silly tail... and i'm not wearing Gucci
without Brazilian wax job all over, except for appropriate
places - sure - we'll just wait for the Apache hairdresser -
we only to scalping. however, there is a subversive thing
i want to mention (never mind that i already wanted to stick
in Thesaurus Rex on the matter): Kant (yawn) -
started analysing English aged 8 -
started synthesising English also aged 8 (a few weeks
if not months, from nothing, to gut sprechen -
piuma'h not pooma'h (Puma) -
but it took me 20 odd years of unconditional surrender
to the language, 20 years of synthesising it - blind -
to come across another chance to analyse it -
the difference being it became analytical a posteriori -
that's the thing with philosophers, they have spaghetti
for brains, tangles, they over-complicate things, but sometimes
they get it right, and you read them and then end up
using their labyrinths to find secret passages at places
like Versailles that Louis XIV used between visits to his
concubines - that was the trick, the upper-hand on the Arabian
practice - amuse yourself by not owning them -
but technically owning them - concubine power - the sixth
Spice Girl - dirrrty spice - but yeah, 20 years to get a second
stab at the analysis of the English language -
20 years of synthesis will do that to you, like any chemist
might feel, aged 20 does an analytical study, something
new and never done before, then he lands a job at a
pharmaceutical company and has to synthesise and synthesise
and synthesise the same thing over and over again -
20 years pass, aged 40 he gets another chance to analyse something
that it's just quality control - i know there are puritans out
there who'd lash out at what i'm using here -
but i want the practical side of philosophy, nothing overloaded
with words, theories, knowledge whatever that means -
i know crude, but necessary - a priori (from the earlier):
well, i wasn't a mute aged 8, proof?
an etymological void about to be filled: w środe poszłem do
lasu (on wednesday i went to the woods) - etymology here,
i'm sure of it - etymology or the resemblance of
a Thesaurus Rex roar - a piquant case of synonyms -
środa (wednesday), originally? derived from środek:
the centre - oh look... friday thursday ś tuesday monday -
the days off don't count, we all know that.
etymological spontaneity then, i wouldn't force myself
to practice a detailed inquiry using it - spare of the moment
thing... more pleasant that way;
but as you can see i am at the point of analytical a posteriori:
clearly shown by what i've already noticed in nuances
of the English language - i won't go through what i've
noticed - but having crossed the threshold of
analysing English after having automated synthesising it
for so long, i would naturally end up writing poetry -
the 21st century kind - look ahead! said Columbus,
but please have a sacred respect for your memory as
your own citizen with Friday on Bermuda -
treat memory like a potent hallucinogenic drug -
after all... the state doesn't respect your memory, at school
they cram in all those pointless things you have to
memorise - arithmetic, spelling (well both are kinda useful),
but so much else you will not care to remember -
it's not about how important you think you are when
you're not given there's 8 billion of us - don't get
fooled by this self-importance gimmick - look at what
the education system of the state is eroding... yes... your
memory - so you forget yourself at the happiest of times...
memory is more sacred than thinking and can be
more potent than an Amazonian or a Swiss hallucinogenic.
