some would say that Ashley Montagu was mad..
actually everyone would, eating Chomsky,
then again the English forgot to trill ρ -
for a row row - it's pronounced hollow -
an evolutionary step in the wrong direction -
my learning of English as a language was
incubated by learning history, when i returned
from incubating it, i had no novel,
three years in Edinburgh (said Eden borough)
and i never went to the fringe festival...
nights when i prefer drinking than writing,
my mother is a housewife, i'm guessing
your mother is an aspiring sociologist,
for you the world is a treadmill on max speed,
for me every day means i am kept counting snails...
it's slow... they never bothered the man
where feminism never encouraged perpetuation...
i said i needed cushions, you said i needed stones...
here's a stone with Magdalene, throw it...
throw it at your will... i never had ******* dysfunctions
with ******... THINK ABOUT IT!
why didn't i have ******* dysfunction with ******
but i had them with you? actually, don't think about it...
you might hurt yourself... you probably will.
i swear on the zenith of mount Sinai...
this woman is an Everest... let her freeze to death,
i will not clamour a house to such heights
establishing her as a worthwhile continuum -
the English made the R glutton, forgot to trill it,
the French harked it, rhapsody became hark
po see - we call it the phlegm lettering -
so why did the English on purpose drop the trill
of the tongue rattling? the French kept the harking,
but the English forgot to trill the trrrrrrrrr illion words
unsaid, why? one of those days when drinking is
more pleasurable than writing,.. i kept the narrator
in the laboratory under tight inspection...
he said no characters deviated...
well, there were characters, but nothing
compared to Ivan, Achilles, generic types ready
to start families... the fortunate without none types...
that trilled r is not imagery of bouncing,
it's a case for a drum-roll pendulum...
now i know why i feel so alien in London,
London is an alien entity in England, compared
to Newcastle, or Hull... it's a hallucination...
it's not there... three years and i never went to the Fringe...
theatre land *******... my mother is a housewife,
time's slow slow for me, i don't have the
attachment of keeping up, halfway between
homeless and a monk... i really don't think about
a life like Rousseau's... i prefer the drink...
i just minded the fact that the English once
trilled their rho, then lost it...
that that French still hark their rhos like
rhapsodic fugitives fighting asthma...
it really doesn't matter...
atheism is not that crucial, it's not even that
severing in severance of follow-up engagements...
atheism isn't scary... it's pretty pointless
when you take up a fight against both God
and solipsism.. popularising atheism is a fight
more in the care to erase solipsism than it is to
erase god... atheism meaning an: en-grouping
is more a case of involving an individual
in its affairs, that it is to take affairs with god...
obviously militant atheism failed,
there's no consensus agreed upon to involve
anything but the crowd, the crowd is unnecessary...
politics knows this, the crowd is subterfuge...
the eloquent measure of saying things as they are:
sabotage... this night in particular?
not a lively night, not an inspirational night...
just a night for heavy drinking.
they're looking as much for the solipsist as they are
seeking god... the Gemini of artefacts,
twins introspective that constantly mingle
and never leave a still-life concern for a canvas and a
brush stroke... a second later another baby is born,
we get to keep the shapes, and we get to keep
reminding ourselves that: there are fewer and fewer
stories to tell... replaced by paparazzi epilepsy
of the flash... text when it was once narrative-form...
we forgot the bonfire narrative...
we replaced it with images, flashing images...
for a minute there i was sure we could maintain
encoding sounds, however cryptic and difficult
in the arrangements of letters...
but as i am assured there days, this wasn't to be:
we favoured images, ideograms without skeletons,
and slowly, but surely, we started to speak less
and less, or if speaking we started to experience
the attack of dementia on rhetoric...
there was a meteorite in us... we dampened
intelligence to a chop of the guillotine...
we really did undermine encoding sounds,
we really did undermine encoding sounds...
we really did undermine encoding sounds,
our undermining of encoding sounds created
the parallel of phonetic encoding that gave way
to digital acronyms and :)... this is the desecration
of the temple that would have been built...
this                                     "
is but a butterfly... but a butterfly in a tornado...
when we speak of a lack of painting on canvas,
when we speak of copyrights of handwriting
digital with us universally trapped in
Times New Roman, we speak of what's being defiled...
you can draw a moustache on a Mona Lisa...
it doesn't matter, the Mona Lisa will smile
through it more empowered... but when you desecrate
encoding sounds, not having applied diacritical
acuteness / sharpening the chisel... you have
simply allowed for a wholly immune form of former
escapades into the Caribbean scythe of harvesting trade...
soon the post-office will oblige its status of former
use as neccessary redundency,
soon the serpent eating its own tail will come into view
like a tumble-**** of where competition leaves us:
the last rat begins to gnaw at its own flesh,
the N.H.S. is gone via the Japanese oops,
old age is a problem of advancing sciences,
humanism got ***** for being too human
and not centimetre wide-enough for journalistic
sensibility that kinda wished for dictators even
though it criticised them...
sooner or later our world will become more
two-dimensional that what our immediate
ancestors experienced: a three-dimensional world...
that three-dimensional world will be no more...
reading futurism of the 20th century is like
soft-core ****... 21st realism is so far removed from
these prophets it's like watching communism reinvented,
only worse... the dogma of fierce competition and
enforced individualisation has not prepared us for
nations the size of China, or India...
at least in India street children can meet their Gulliver Oliver
for adventure among the Delhi slums:
put the rich under the microscope, and the poor
under the telescope... you'll hardly find a savanna's worth
of antelopes grazing on the workings of Patchwork Armstrong.
as any working man said: feminism is boring,
well, it's not exactly boring, i come home and my wife
is arguing with me, she says she earns more than me
and that i can't transition into being a house-husband
because the professional historians are restoring knowledge
of the Ice Age that doesn't fit into our Monday to Friday
work pattern paying the rent... no landlords in the stone
ages... evolutionary conscripts we were, by the mammalian
glands were actually insect glands...
in this metropolis few would claim a mammal to be hot blooded...
scurvy lizard tongues worshipping the Idol Babel;
it was never necessarily an architectural feat...
it culminated in what we talked about,
how we sang... you could out-build the pyramids
with the Eiffel... any time you wanted...
but given the wrist-mirror of Chinese ideograms
in matchstick translation... what came was not only
the height of the Dubai sky-scrappers...
but also the tongue that spoke... wheelchair bound
with two tonsils worth of wheels...
it sorta forgot rhyming, and rhymed to
yeah, mm, yeah... gotta ***** my *****
to get a score...
   yeah, mm, yeah... i'd love to endear that masochism
of white girls getting even with their fathers as
to why the black man tilled the cotton fields...
but i'm sorta like... got mouth-***** by the Prussians...
got **** treatment by the Russians...
cut off my genitals cut off by the Austro-Hungarians...
mm, ye'ha! cowboy in the sand gotta make a
camel cry.