i never understood why people have to treat all
writing as raw: crude oil, for example,
and never the refined product -
far from championing several books,
i like the pendulum of power having read them
reside with me, like any literary critic:
who primarily dissuades someone from
grabbing the ******* / reins, as it were -
there's a problem, but thinking about it
gives no solution, because, as most people realise
that thinking is, essentially, a luxury,
a comfort zone, mostly eradicated by
quasi-Buddhism of the west: mindfulness,
tech detox, you name it... i treat thinking
like i might do sitting on a sofa - it's not that
we're not thinking, it's the notion that thinking
somehow solves all the awkward verb ventures
by primarily being occupied with nouns -
apparently no one has heard of day-dreaming
and said: thinking coagulates all the cognitive
faculties together, and if you can escape daydreaming
Freud will catch you - thus said:
never trust an Egyptian with a triangle and a square...
bad move... you have to realise the audaciousness
of man to bring forth a wrath of that magnitude
that you end up either lying about it,
putting on the glove of Coptic Christianity and
later Islam... or accepting it as, well: given
the timescale and 24 hour north east west south
relevance of being hooked like on ******
the back-burner (sort of speak) and imitate
******* strokes standing-up beside the wailing wall...
   usher in the time-bomb - spatially we're
used to the hydrogen mushroom, now the advent
of the time-bomb of ageing Japan and ****-soaked
Brits gagging for some humanity -
             as of now, the state robs... it doesn't provide,
it robs.
              there are problems and i have no solution,
the **** it attitude works, if your hero is
some *** by the name of Diogenes:
                oddly enough the Nazarene did nothing
spectacular - this Greek *** was bothered by
fashionable ladies sitting in his kennel urn with dogs,
that Jewish guy? a *** that bothers others,
well... wayward fro, toward'e Golgotha -
or how English was written ridiculously without
diacritic marks, perpetuated, oddly enough,
by trademark grammaclasm (oh sure,
they still bend their knees at the sight of an icon,
sharing indulgence with the cardinals accordingly
in Russian, rev. simony and i too think
Ezra was justifiably a grand economist at heart) -
i just don't understand how people expect
all written material to be based upon easy arithmetic,
there's more arithmetic involved in putting
a      r     i     θ      m     e       t      i      c
together than it is putting
1     18    9     6    13      5      20    9      3
and he ****** them for gematria -
oddly a ridiculous gematria result, let's say
$6,000,000,000 doesn't translate as Napoleon,
a rich chum of a chimp cross-dressing in a shopping-mall...
so they should have been looking at grammar
than inventing this "magic" calculator -
anything to do with the above in bold?
   both θ (theta)    and φ (phi) have the numerical
value of 6 - using the PLAIN LATIN TEXT.
anyone can reach up to this level of bog stench -
          what, the, hell, is, going, on?!
oh, i assure you, i'm actually aware of myself
writing this, i'm not that (much) hooked on the topic,
i can retract and tell you: just a passing fancy -
topically a rainbow, silver for the magpie's jealousy,
the myth goes: magpies are the werewolves of the sky,
although they ****** a greedy glee sparkle at
a silver spoon: i might as well have written
a Persian proverb having written that...
with me there this... as already written,
and a whiskey sharpshooter and creedence clearwater
revival... i'm not bothered about someone claiming
this to be theirs... all i see is puppet strings attached
to their tongues... waggle waggle yeah,
       waggle waggle blah...
                                               lies have short legs,
or let's say: stumps for legs...
                                                   lying
is the moral equivalent of dwarfism - short
tempered asking(s) for wants of similar literary
gifts / curses - assuredly - i don't know why people
want most of anyone's writing output to not lick
something akin to J. Joyce's Finnegans Wake -
and not expect someone having read such a feast
to not feel inclined to remember it, in turn,
by fleeing from conventional blockbuster
ex narrator - i wasn't even planning to write
a self-help book, or instruction manuals for Ikea
to assemble a table... you got the map,
but you don't have a compass... well... better sit it out
till sunset to know where the west is...
                          any help from Copernican imagery,
         i wouldn't expect... having an image of
our gentle blue orb will not save you from the 2 dimensional
representation of where you need to go;
conclusively? con ex narrator? ex personae: thespian
                                                                         dabbling.