Sep 2016
i once had two sessions with a west end
psychologist - a woman in her 50s or 60s...
she brewed chamomile tea (cha cha cha?
or cat? this aesthetic is a real burden for
some people - too many particulars to
remember - i blame the missing diacritical
marks, inviting the monopoly of
phonetic encoding, which put off the
people who are famous, because they never
wrote anything) - we spoke the first time
within the designated time-frame, a session
of an hour... i told her about a dream i had:
i am sitting with a boy in my room,
a hellish figure, gluttonous and burnt walks
in, behind him an artist's representation of
schizophrenia - the sole medical condition
that's abused by politics - shame really...
it means there's an authentic loss of understanding
what was once known as premature dementia -
long gone the ancient days of old age being
equated with melancholy - come forth the modern
age and old age being demented - as if to say
nothing was ever accomplished in the first place,
come old age: still no melancholy concerning
fulfilled accomplishments - i'm guessing 100
crosswords later, you'd get that...
about the same time when people are drawn away
from political language, and invited to play
games... bad move... whoever invented language
games never cared for the crucible of language's
essential purpose - to elevate, to elevate...
so this second session lasted well over 4 hours...
she really became a leech -
i told her about that dream, about those two
hellish figures, the boy sitting next to me just said:
this is Allah... so who the **** is this ***
accompanying him? i heard the story that Allah
has no accomplices... who's that?!
the rarity of a dream... so we talked for 4 hours about
this that and the other sipping chamomile tea...
buttery tea i call it...
i'd eat a tonne of grass
to epitomise the muscles of horses, just to get
the right picture... then all the world went to ****...
quiet distinctly the memory of leaving one
of the two sessions, walking in the humid air of
west London, a woman dragging her caravan of
shopping bags... almost started weeping while
i passed her...
but what curiosity came when
psychologist said something encrypted in her sway
away from dogmatism -
she said to me: the police are looking
for a Greek...
i swear to god, i sometimes don't know
what people are talking about, it just fazes me,
fizzes in my insides and comes out as merely: huh?
the police are looking for a Greek.
who's the Greek? do i know him?
you sure they're not looking for a Roman?
i used to do this trick when i reached the body
image zenith of finger down my throat,
and regurgitate chocolate - by the end i trained
my esophagus to the point where i was regurgitating
like if i were at a Roman food ****...
it just came naturally...
well, then i thought: **** it... can't be bothered,
i'm not getting any *****, and i'm putting all that work in...
it's not worth it... let me get back into shape
with a lamb's torso... it really wasn't worth it...
still, the session was supposed to last an hour,
we started talking for 4... she got the money,
i just begat dim... and the light-bulb moment never came...
it's funny, because i was actually hiding a very simple
answer... but i did inspect the whole psychological spectrum...
didn't leave the practice any smarter,
i actually became smarter having experienced the rich boy's
treatment: psychology... and the poor boy's treatment:
psychiatry... but i didn't leave the two
any wiser... they really weren't that different
from zoological studies...
rich boy treatment didn't involve pills...
poor boy's treatment did...
my treatment just involved a drug of my choice
(a sleeping pill), alcohol - because i'd be raving mad
if i did have some sort of outlet - and a painkiller -
perfect night's sleep - and no Freudian ******* about
dreams having meaning - i need sleep,
i don't need exploration of meaning that life designates
into some ******-pharmacological revision of the 1960s -
if you take acid wide-awake, there you are,
obstacles everywhere, nowhere is safe...
dreams are like taking l.s.d. but in a controlled
environment: the unconscious...
it's safe: the police are looking for a Greek?
what's that about? well, i guess 4 hours spent talking with
me is enough to produce such a random expression -
subsequently i have been profiled by the police:
one time lamenting in my garden,
another time ******* in an alley,
another time drinking beer on a bench in the centre of town,
another time finishing a can of beer outside a shop
in the outer-suburbia -
oh right, another time being driven home in one of their cars,
those vans with cages, after being poisoned by warm
***** in a club and getting a Vladimir Klitschko handshake
to the cheek - stepped off the bus and landed face down
on the pavement - warm ***** is horrid enough,
warm ***** that's spiked? that's another.
i'm wondering: do these people even know *******
someone, or am i experiencing one murderous ******
after another? it's just getting silly... it's like they're testing
the grounds for something shocking to jellyfish their *****
straight up to the moon: whizz-kids my ****.
but here i am, after all that - and i've picked up
essential Kierkegaard - you know... i think he's the first
man to create novels out of philosophy, he's actually
the first philosophical novelist... swear to god,
Nietzsche is nothing by comparison, i too could utter
maxim after maxim and later an aphorism or two...
but to write philosophy like a novel, Kierkegaard if your
man, your safest bet...
he writes philosophy like a novel,
it just flows and flows out of him, if Nietzsche
is a poet-philosopher, then Kierkegaard is a novelist /
philosopher (yep, Zeus' lightning rod slash is just
as important as the hyphen compound -
which means the latter received all the appeal
that poetic hearts retain the most abhorred shadows:
that of women... horrid stuff) -
he was a true philosophical novelist.
i guess the other thing to point out:
i'll be known as the corrupter of old age -
have no idea why children, animals and esp. old
people approach me while i'm minding my own business
on park benches, smoking and drinking a beer -
but as it's said about western society: they simply
don't know how to drink *****! they haven't the foggiest!
ice cold, ice cold! warm ***** is horrid!
this isn't whiskey, that wheat perfume...
you don't lounge with *****... ice cold... shot after shot
in between nibbles...
and the drinking culture is even
worse, come to think about it in England...
no hot food, nibbles, crisps,
chocolate... who... the... ****... drinks... alcohol...
of... that... calibre... and... nibbles... on... chocolate?!
meat... meat, meat!
ah but wait...
this country never experienced a Mongolian horde...
they're keen on the 19th century *******...
the days when now wearing a hat was considered
a mental illness...
they barely translated Descartes
into: he's not proving his existence,
he's saying something akin to:
how thinking waterfalls' cascades into
either being, or non-being:
hence the one side bravado and chauvinism,
and the other side shy sacred creature -
if you're conscious of thought
you won't shy away from it -
with so much sensual /
empirical ******* it's hard not to think,
and the more it's easier to think, the harder it is
to be - so we have the apples
and pears of Jacob -
or as some old geezer once said (and rightly):
all the idiots have the confidence, while
the intelligentsia has all the doubts -
guess that leaves the politicians as having
all the necessary denials: primarily?
the denial of not lying.
psychologist - a woman in her 50s or 60s...
she brewed chamomile tea (cha cha cha?
or cat? this aesthetic is a real burden for
some people - too many particulars to
remember - i blame the missing diacritical
marks, inviting the monopoly of
phonetic encoding, which put off the
people who are famous, because they never
wrote anything) - we spoke the first time
within the designated time-frame, a session
of an hour... i told her about a dream i had:
i am sitting with a boy in my room,
a hellish figure, gluttonous and burnt walks
in, behind him an artist's representation of
schizophrenia - the sole medical condition
that's abused by politics - shame really...
it means there's an authentic loss of understanding
what was once known as premature dementia -
long gone the ancient days of old age being
equated with melancholy - come forth the modern
age and old age being demented - as if to say
nothing was ever accomplished in the first place,
come old age: still no melancholy concerning
fulfilled accomplishments - i'm guessing 100
crosswords later, you'd get that...
about the same time when people are drawn away
from political language, and invited to play
games... bad move... whoever invented language
games never cared for the crucible of language's
essential purpose - to elevate, to elevate...
so this second session lasted well over 4 hours...
she really became a leech -
i told her about that dream, about those two
hellish figures, the boy sitting next to me just said:
this is Allah... so who the **** is this ***
accompanying him? i heard the story that Allah
has no accomplices... who's that?!
the rarity of a dream... so we talked for 4 hours about
this that and the other sipping chamomile tea...
buttery tea i call it...
i'd eat a tonne of grass
to epitomise the muscles of horses, just to get
the right picture... then all the world went to ****...
quiet distinctly the memory of leaving one
of the two sessions, walking in the humid air of
west London, a woman dragging her caravan of
shopping bags... almost started weeping while
i passed her...
but what curiosity came when
psychologist said something encrypted in her sway
away from dogmatism -
she said to me: the police are looking
for a Greek...
i swear to god, i sometimes don't know
what people are talking about, it just fazes me,
fizzes in my insides and comes out as merely: huh?
the police are looking for a Greek.
who's the Greek? do i know him?
you sure they're not looking for a Roman?
i used to do this trick when i reached the body
image zenith of finger down my throat,
and regurgitate chocolate - by the end i trained
my esophagus to the point where i was regurgitating
like if i were at a Roman food ****...
it just came naturally...
well, then i thought: **** it... can't be bothered,
i'm not getting any *****, and i'm putting all that work in...
it's not worth it... let me get back into shape
with a lamb's torso... it really wasn't worth it...
still, the session was supposed to last an hour,
we started talking for 4... she got the money,
i just begat dim... and the light-bulb moment never came...
it's funny, because i was actually hiding a very simple
answer... but i did inspect the whole psychological spectrum...
didn't leave the practice any smarter,
i actually became smarter having experienced the rich boy's
treatment: psychology... and the poor boy's treatment:
psychiatry... but i didn't leave the two
any wiser... they really weren't that different
from zoological studies...
rich boy treatment didn't involve pills...
poor boy's treatment did...
my treatment just involved a drug of my choice
(a sleeping pill), alcohol - because i'd be raving mad
if i did have some sort of outlet - and a painkiller -
perfect night's sleep - and no Freudian ******* about
dreams having meaning - i need sleep,
i don't need exploration of meaning that life designates
into some ******-pharmacological revision of the 1960s -
if you take acid wide-awake, there you are,
obstacles everywhere, nowhere is safe...
dreams are like taking l.s.d. but in a controlled
environment: the unconscious...
it's safe: the police are looking for a Greek?
what's that about? well, i guess 4 hours spent talking with
me is enough to produce such a random expression -
subsequently i have been profiled by the police:
one time lamenting in my garden,
another time ******* in an alley,
another time drinking beer on a bench in the centre of town,
another time finishing a can of beer outside a shop
in the outer-suburbia -
oh right, another time being driven home in one of their cars,
those vans with cages, after being poisoned by warm
***** in a club and getting a Vladimir Klitschko handshake
to the cheek - stepped off the bus and landed face down
on the pavement - warm ***** is horrid enough,
warm ***** that's spiked? that's another.
i'm wondering: do these people even know *******
someone, or am i experiencing one murderous ******
after another? it's just getting silly... it's like they're testing
the grounds for something shocking to jellyfish their *****
straight up to the moon: whizz-kids my ****.
but here i am, after all that - and i've picked up
essential Kierkegaard - you know... i think he's the first
man to create novels out of philosophy, he's actually
the first philosophical novelist... swear to god,
Nietzsche is nothing by comparison, i too could utter
maxim after maxim and later an aphorism or two...
but to write philosophy like a novel, Kierkegaard if your
man, your safest bet...
he writes philosophy like a novel,
it just flows and flows out of him, if Nietzsche
is a poet-philosopher, then Kierkegaard is a novelist /
philosopher (yep, Zeus' lightning rod slash is just
as important as the hyphen compound -
which means the latter received all the appeal
that poetic hearts retain the most abhorred shadows:
that of women... horrid stuff) -
he was a true philosophical novelist.
i guess the other thing to point out:
i'll be known as the corrupter of old age -
have no idea why children, animals and esp. old
people approach me while i'm minding my own business
on park benches, smoking and drinking a beer -
but as it's said about western society: they simply
don't know how to drink *****! they haven't the foggiest!
ice cold, ice cold! warm ***** is horrid!
this isn't whiskey, that wheat perfume...
you don't lounge with *****... ice cold... shot after shot
in between nibbles...
and the drinking culture is even
worse, come to think about it in England...
no hot food, nibbles, crisps,
chocolate... who... the... ****... drinks... alcohol...
of... that... calibre... and... nibbles... on... chocolate?!
meat... meat, meat!
ah but wait...
this country never experienced a Mongolian horde...
they're keen on the 19th century *******...
the days when now wearing a hat was considered
a mental illness...
they barely translated Descartes
into: he's not proving his existence,
he's saying something akin to:
how thinking waterfalls' cascades into
either being, or non-being:
hence the one side bravado and chauvinism,
and the other side shy sacred creature -
if you're conscious of thought
you won't shy away from it -
with so much sensual /
empirical ******* it's hard not to think,
and the more it's easier to think, the harder it is
to be - so we have the apples
and pears of Jacob -
or as some old geezer once said (and rightly):
all the idiots have the confidence, while
the intelligentsia has all the doubts -
guess that leaves the politicians as having
all the necessary denials: primarily?
the denial of not lying.
