you can do ever so little, and ever so much,
of what's worth in life, and still leave this world
a paced
              defunct of woman -
undernourished
                              scraping
along into old age with
deviating ideals that were never
there -
             happy are those who die
young, happiest of all are those prescribing
wisdom having only lived the belittling
set years, and
                       happiest
equating subjectivity with pessimism:
     the heaviest of tolls, craving the life
less lived, but otherwise engaging in a fulfilling life,
of that which is assured a comparison:
                                          ultimatum: live...
      the 11th commandment:
                       you shall live...
which debunks all the other alternatives,
as: well, a bit of anything can give you a bit of both;
hence beauty and the untouchables -
                     hence the concept of money
and chisel gold and readied stone -
           if ever a trans-valuation of things, then there...
and only there... terra limbo -
                    whereby xenophobia reaches
the approach en masse - and isn't skin deep,
but a soul's depth, when the answer is assimilated -
when the skin attacked rejoices with jazz
and blues... what can the embedded attack provision
to answer with? i suppose poetry,
the silent homicide - a cancerous growth -
or the rekindled pyramid, medicinal cataract -
because when the skin tone is attacked,
the soul recuperates and answers with glorification;
but when hue and hue match versus...
there's little to answer with... you just simply reply:
you sick *******... i hope your mother dies a painful
death. Pontius Pilate said as much...
and you keep repeating that phrase into what people
know best about aspiring to individual proclamation:
bat i disciplina! they know nothing more,
the west can glorify preaching individuality -
but look how many lives are at stake when the realisation comes
back and says: it was a shambles...
we failed... we only achieved a revenue of investing
in a Mozart under dictators... all we're getting
is a throng of amateurs! we will never get uniqueness
among men when we treat all men as being unique -
most plumbers are content with being simply plumbers,
if you rule them by the anticipatory suggestion of
being poets... a. you won't get any poets,
and b. you won't get any plumbers!
                     i'm writing from experience,
and you know what that does to your argument:
it doubles-up reducing the "intelligent" person to your
level of expertise - tease, not ties -
                                        i wish i could return to my
former level of health,
                              as a roofer -
                                   i'd give each and every one of these
poems the rite of passage of being ethnically clotting
              tomorrow - and simply eradicate them like vermin;
i swear to god, i would... which is why all my agony lies
within saying: but your society got robbed off
a competent construction worker, or a chemist..
but you did't want a poet... because you wanted some
middle-class shanty of a woman to provision Wren's
enterprise...
                       good luck, or Sanskrit 卐.