i still think
                                           that literature's       "      "
is better assumed as
     mathematics'                             ~
or what's simply abbreviated
                                    ambiguity, sort of,
as apologetics for Heidegger is concerned -
     that there is moral ambiguity in the interpretation
  of Dasein as ecstasis about, e.g. the war in Syria:
    but is that a self-serving ecstasis for the fact per se
    or that other interpretation for concern, which
with the above mentioned notation is a lack of,
       as in for peace to resume as common sense
      and less of what's suitable away from the apathetic
route, and indeed the ecstasis to shout for forced peace
            rather than see it all as without your moral
judgement with you being no moral agent in the matters
     that themselves have to resolve, without your input.
- and it always comes like this, cute little things,
or how you can condense all the theories surrounding
the psychological trinity into superego,
or that verse by Philip Larkin
        that begins wonderfully:
they ******* up, your mum and dad
  (this be the verse) -
  and the two other bits and bobs,
the Gemini scalpels -
       depending on how you wish
to make incisions into thought (or
any other moral quality, for that matter) -
do you wish to be a surgeon,
your own man as it were, and with the ego
cut your own story?
        or perhaps you'd prefer a butcher
psychiatrist lob pork chops of you
    with his depersonalising id?
         after all, he will say:
the laws of the state demands you have
so sort of i.d. (identification credential);
only the rich, a Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany
could ever fit the programme of Herr Doktor,
         Ode Odi Oedipus            Olé!
Herr... auto-****** means i have enough
******* on my ******* that
a gentle rub of the ******* gets me all
hot & bothered and juiced up?
   after all, the maidens of Egypt have
to have theirs cut and endure docile mantras
of why, why, why.
    and please, Herr Doktor, when
will Latin actually die? they keep saying
Latin is dead, familiarly like Nietzsche's god
is dead... but Latin isn't remotely dead,
  the blimmin' alphabet is still here,
how do i know? well, d'uh, i'm using it...
you say id             i say es
   you say ego               i say self
(then you make a Frasier joke about elves)
       and we go on and on in
this cat               mouse              game,
it's all a matter of fashion,
      they all said the above Mr. N was a
great stylist, after all an aesthetician is,
   and now they blabber on as if talking
Gucci pooch'e - this is dead, that is dead,
it's a fashion industry: but less obvious,
more inclined in       what you talk about
than what        you wear.
             said,
   '            ', he said
     "        ", he thought he said,
                                 or the narrator said it for him,
                         or the narrator thought he said it
for him, when in fact he didn't say anything
    nor the fact that there was anyone to actually
  say anything at all -
                 kinda a Beckett Watt moment.
           the Watt waltz, and that truly is a mind
   ******; as i sometimes wish narration was
kept in the Irish / Polish standard of notation
- and off we went to the poll booths.
- aye, and we vetoed rather than voted.
who would have thought that two ****-heads would
make the unlikely politicised duo of escapees.
             akin to Ulysses - but i get the
picture, the hyphenated compound words not
yet approved to be actual compounds,
        cite the Oxford committee for doing
****** paperwork, or none at all to modernise
  the Anglo-Smackson.
      ****... in the real world this could be
called pimping - but here... mm hmm:
peacock exfoliation - and i know it, so it's less
smarty and cared about: just... done.
yes, it usually starts rigid, that bit about
    Latin not being dead is extremely rigid
in composition - it's a sore the size of a ****-steak
   on my forehead -
            as is my lack of desperate attempts
to applaud Delmore Schwartz attempt to bring
    Finnegans Wake (the pearl in the crown
of all things difficult) to the people and the swine...
            so he didn't think Ulysses was
difficult enough? jeeze! and this alone reads like
a modern aversion to how young people are
drawn into mutilating themselves -
                  rampant ids             less acknowledged
Larkin moments in discussion:
        or perhaps the opera of suburban happy-go-happy-do?
       kids without even the foggiest of
the lysergic acid of Hanna-Barbera
                        and the Loons -
                                the fun-go-to lunacies of
cartoon network 20th century 90s...
                                       and hell: when we actually
        lived in times of toy story toys;
                 these days i'm getting the impression
a girl is probably going to play with a ***** than
   a barbie - must be the pink and the blonde
                         matched by the how many? jokes
    in mouth as in look doppio standards of not getting it;
but of course, the many other stereotypes.
            well, us kids, back then,
                          ah...         nothing like that coming again.
       summary... in ref. to the title,
   it's next days shrapnel from the debauchery of
the previous night, or why i write drunk and sometimes
get lucky sobering up and do not indulge in the bottle
      and not write something, and end up not writing
something like William Styron's Darkness Visible,
    who also drank, but didn't write and drink,
                  drank on the sobering up note, like
this poem. well, i figured, if i don't exploit the drinking
       as a sedative unwinding and be bashful
then, resolutely, the sobering up me is still making
  that blood wine:
                          and never did liquidating
   two kilograms of caster sugar in half a litre of water
             feel like handling mercury.