Aug 2016
what with the everyday? spoiled brats locked up in their bedrooms where they think their individuality would matter in China... like **** it would... up comes the atheistic harvester and you get 1 billion obedient citizens, not in the west, with it counter-constructive anarchism that butterfly-punches the status quo, and in the words of Freddy Mercury - the show and the show offs march on.
and how many truthful poets will you find here?
or elsewhere?
every look at them as idle idealists? ever think
why they write about the essentials like they might
later write about kettles? love and love-hungry
heartaches are like a shopping spree in a supermarket
for them... they hide in shadows wearing masks -
they hide in shadows wearing masks -
i repeated myself because that's how prose fiction
is usually quoted by critics: finding a needle
in a haystack and nothing else, talk of fried eggs
on toast as one Sudanese rebel said to
a marine in Black Hawk Down: you live long and
boring lives; you reach old age not as a celebratory
march into the grave... but as a march into
the Hostel chambers of sadism... nothing to celebrate,
unless you've got all that science to later lie
in your excrement and gangrene... whoop whoop!
tug that steam-engine klaxon of Thomas for castrato's
release of opera with the steam.
back to the unit of family, you know why these poets
fake love as they might fake a statue from the Renaissance?
it's not about gym membership and:
god is dead, born the dietitian -
i'm not that much of a boorish bore to mention kcal
of a glass of milk of a tomato -
(self-conscious moment, listening to the radio,
piquant sadism, ****! i can't change the song or
even replay it... pain... pain... pain) -
my father sometimes argues with my mother aiming
his argument at me... third person party,
a child's involvement in family life:
the reason why they ****** and gave birth to you...
hiding behind Oedipus won't help,
the more you give yourself to memory,
the less you imagine (in the pop realm)
or theorise (in the education realm, the ****'s pretty much
the same, theory is like imagination,
it's just that the latter gets a bigger following) -
my mother is visiting her mother, gone for 3 months solid
if not more... being a woman (which is a crucial point),
she used to have a regime of cleaning the house
every day... i'm in charge of domestic chores and cooking...
i clean the house once a week... 2 cats.. after a week
the house looks like it has been lived in...
with her cleaning regime it just looks like a hotel...
my father's line: this isn't a hotel.
now i get it... he wasn't scolding me, he was scolding his
life-partner... i don't get reprimands for not cleaning
the house every day... i brush my teeth with a pea-sized
amount of toothpaste *once a day, this mouth
ain't a ***** toilet... no nicotine staining for 3 years...
get used to it. i'm not going to make a dentist happy -
buckle on teeth of a horse smiling exposing the gums...
knee high! so you see... honouring your parents isn't
exactly having a million on your bank-account
so that you can pay for their stay at the home for the elderly...
it sometime's just investing a little introspection into
the unit that you're part of... no point locking yourself
up with Chinese society against you and you with only
a begging chance at becoming a karaoke fest with only
one original song written by someone that ain't you.
i clean the house once a week,
i'm not a woman... i live in a house, not a hotel...
remember what i told you about the un-diagnosed o.c.d.?
2 cats, so the fur (obviously).
but my father plays ping-pong argument with my mother
through me... we've been alone for a few months...
and i hear no complaints about the household *******...
just the odd tale from the construction industry in England,
Romanians that gladly sleep on sites and work 7 days a week,
how Poles rebel against the golfers / "managers" visiting
sites under their responsibility once a month for 15 minutes...
the daily depression you won't find on youtube...
so you ask me why i retort with words like leprechaun
fascists? from those stories... don't worry, western society
idealises too much, they think they suddenly sprouted angelic
wings... you think these poets are being honest?
i think they're idealising, blind-dating their way into the choir
of pristine white virginity of having no absolute effect
on the world, that they've already changed.
and how many truthful poets will you find here?
or elsewhere?
every look at them as idle idealists? ever think
why they write about the essentials like they might
later write about kettles? love and love-hungry
heartaches are like a shopping spree in a supermarket
for them... they hide in shadows wearing masks -
they hide in shadows wearing masks -
i repeated myself because that's how prose fiction
is usually quoted by critics: finding a needle
in a haystack and nothing else, talk of fried eggs
on toast as one Sudanese rebel said to
a marine in Black Hawk Down: you live long and
boring lives; you reach old age not as a celebratory
march into the grave... but as a march into
the Hostel chambers of sadism... nothing to celebrate,
unless you've got all that science to later lie
in your excrement and gangrene... whoop whoop!
tug that steam-engine klaxon of Thomas for castrato's
release of opera with the steam.
back to the unit of family, you know why these poets
fake love as they might fake a statue from the Renaissance?
it's not about gym membership and:
god is dead, born the dietitian -
i'm not that much of a boorish bore to mention kcal
of a glass of milk of a tomato -
(self-conscious moment, listening to the radio,
piquant sadism, ****! i can't change the song or
even replay it... pain... pain... pain) -
my father sometimes argues with my mother aiming
his argument at me... third person party,
a child's involvement in family life:
the reason why they ****** and gave birth to you...
hiding behind Oedipus won't help,
the more you give yourself to memory,
the less you imagine (in the pop realm)
or theorise (in the education realm, the ****'s pretty much
the same, theory is like imagination,
it's just that the latter gets a bigger following) -
my mother is visiting her mother, gone for 3 months solid
if not more... being a woman (which is a crucial point),
she used to have a regime of cleaning the house
every day... i'm in charge of domestic chores and cooking...
i clean the house once a week... 2 cats.. after a week
the house looks like it has been lived in...
with her cleaning regime it just looks like a hotel...
my father's line: this isn't a hotel.
now i get it... he wasn't scolding me, he was scolding his
life-partner... i don't get reprimands for not cleaning
the house every day... i brush my teeth with a pea-sized
amount of toothpaste *once a day, this mouth
ain't a ***** toilet... no nicotine staining for 3 years...
get used to it. i'm not going to make a dentist happy -
buckle on teeth of a horse smiling exposing the gums...
knee high! so you see... honouring your parents isn't
exactly having a million on your bank-account
so that you can pay for their stay at the home for the elderly...
it sometime's just investing a little introspection into
the unit that you're part of... no point locking yourself
up with Chinese society against you and you with only
a begging chance at becoming a karaoke fest with only
one original song written by someone that ain't you.
i clean the house once a week,
i'm not a woman... i live in a house, not a hotel...
remember what i told you about the un-diagnosed o.c.d.?
2 cats, so the fur (obviously).
but my father plays ping-pong argument with my mother
through me... we've been alone for a few months...
and i hear no complaints about the household *******...
just the odd tale from the construction industry in England,
Romanians that gladly sleep on sites and work 7 days a week,
how Poles rebel against the golfers / "managers" visiting
sites under their responsibility once a month for 15 minutes...
the daily depression you won't find on youtube...
so you ask me why i retort with words like leprechaun
fascists? from those stories... don't worry, western society
idealises too much, they think they suddenly sprouted angelic
wings... you think these poets are being honest?
i think they're idealising, blind-dating their way into the choir
of pristine white virginity of having no absolute effect
on the world, that they've already changed.
