the minute you write on the other side of the napkin... the fold, you get into tattooing a Braille itchiness.

the napkin is a variant of compressed wood...
it's not a piece of paper...
you could wipe you *** with a napkin,
but that's hardly considerate of your ***
being as hard-edged to do so, likewise,
with a piece of paper.

intro done, the loadage...

it's almost bewildering that we employ so
many people to talk,
but not a single person to listen -
   so many people are paid to talk
but no one is paid to listen, so the crowd moves away.
language, as poetry:
in the modern application of it, is already trying
to do the Alcatraz (summed up and staring
Clinging Eastwood Cry Baby, or Baby's got
a Burner, or Hot-Draw! **** me, that's
adventurous!)          diversion tactic (you might
still be reading this mea culpa of mea culpas
that's prescription drugging you into digging
into the classic novella)...
escaping the Alcatraz       /     straitjacket
of conforming to recognisable forms of poetry -
i say fake! to the person who uses metaphor
announcing the use of...
                 i want uninhibited poetry,
i want poetry that bumps into poetic techniques
unconditionally, strangers in queue-ball
antics on the street getting cravat or guillotine
standards for lottery...
           but conscious conformity?
                  get me jack-in-the-box to ola a hello
once more to revive Sherlock Hitchcock...
                   any phobia is atomic,
the world is created from little fears,
            emerging into the big fear: a life not lived...
but then there's an antidote to that:
       if given a miniscule life... don't fear it...
examine it... at least you can then become entertained
by theatricals ascribed to the greater lives...
or have beens.
                     i want uninhibited poetry...
when i say poetry i want opera, not graffiti...
   which is to say: being conscious - premeditating
the use of, e.g. a metaphor...
          it's not good enough, i don't want to read
poetry as recognised as poetry, or poetry
recognising itself as such, i want to see the automaton,
i want to see an art so well engraved in the
provider of such enticement as to paint
as a decorator might paint, even within the framework
of a monochromacy... the parts he misses in
covering a bleak wall of white to be redone...
again, and again...
    but what i expect of poets?
a gamble... only *one attempt... any second or third
attempt i deem incomprehensible in terms of
beginning in the thirst place... ya: thirst.
i want to see thirst: the bulging larynx more ready
to gulp water in a desert than entice saying
something, meaning the latter has no power
over conjuring an oasis, or a fatamorgana.
continued?
           but everyday usage...
applies no similar acknowledgement of orientating
grammar, to be conscious of certain words as being
nouns does suppose an obstruction for the fluidity
of language... there's the everyday fluidity of
language than transcends such emulations
      of acquiring a desirable stoppage forwarding
dogma... yet poetry is bound to a dogma of
applying distinctive orientations,
to suggest that a piece of scribbling is actually
poetry.
does one (kingly pronoun collective,
meaning with entourage) thus say:
to fall in love also equates to celebrations of
Valentine's day,
or to go to war also means: waving a bayonet?
to generally emphasise...
  man was not established with this system
of encouraged "learning" tactics...
           there's no point talking evolution
when man is stagnate, sedimentary,
upkeeper of the status quo...
                   which almost insults the man
that encoded sounds in runes...
             perhaps the rune-encoder didn't
end up encoding while donning spectacles?
the emphasis is on making language more
fluid, and therefore acceptable,
   rather than what's advertised as this
solace-space of sofa, duvans, and free-spirited
******-load of artificial smiles.
oh, mind you, artificial intelligence has
not emotion, a bit like a woman on her
first extra terrestrial date...
                    with honing: having no
emotion means there's no conscience -
meaning crafting an artificial intelligence has
not ontological basin in man -
as man has no ontology to begin with...
  just as god as no ontology to begin with,
since we're already in his deviation from
the beggars' question: to no greater pleasure
has it been to create something without
man's thought in it.
     but not only is traditional poetry respected,
as in stressing an awareness of metaphor
or pun, as a sense of desirable technique
with even more desired identifiers...
      but then language per se, can't see
why someone writing a rubric sentence
need to grammatically categorise and give unto
their use of language a miser dissector...
        for example: the tradition of writing letters,
reduced to a pseudo-postcard form
         of the email...
              the formal begins with: dear ms. judy
the informal begins with: hey yoyo!
                    there's no dear ms. smith
(or the careless mrs. smith -
get on with it, the waltz and ballroom died
   when we groped under too many chandeliers
and gagged for the *******'s reproach
to dating) -
            as with the lateral diversion:
the internet not see as a possible place of
thinking has reduced the possibility of expressing
thought, into a conglomerate
         of seemingly necessary conversationism.
i'm not talking: i always thought that a white
page, whether in shrunk oaken or pixelated
and written upon: was the double-standard
expression of surrender...
formal letter writing was replaced by robots...
all the letters we ever get (via email)
are informal...
       addressed to no one exactly,
beginning with hi, hi, hello...
               give us a ******* handshake
rather than this pristine tofugu...
yep, that, and then ******... but that's how it
avalanches... you write on a napkin on
one of the sides, you turn it over
and then you realise you tattooed something
akin to Braille onto it.