Dec 2016
because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.
the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
for the love of doodling -
and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
websites... funny concept...
they're like a library with only blank books in them....
you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
is my writing perplexing?
isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy... i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
it was never going to work...
but that's what we're left with...
a gigantic mess... every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.
the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
for the love of doodling -
and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
websites... funny concept...
they're like a library with only blank books in them....
you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
is my writing perplexing?
isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy... i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
it was never going to work...
but that's what we're left with...
a gigantic mess... every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.
