it's just that, you have a fine evening drinking
beer, watching cats and foxes,
and the frenzy of foxes on a monday night,
and these bin-bags,
  scattered once finely bound...
      it only begins with an aphorism,
and states: you ought to throw stone...
       thaat it would be safe enough to do such a thing...
you want to throw it, you're actually one
of the "herd",
  and how it will all make sense,
if you do throw the stone...
and join the riots...
     it would make sense,
it would actually make a lot of sense,
but, frankly, it doesn't...
             father crux, mind my son dangling
son... lo! behold! we're in business...
   how god chose the tribe of jews
and how jesus made judaism pop,
and how pop-judaism paid back a status of
pop culture, created a pop culture,
and was like huh? donning sunglasses...
and how it ended jn ash... and enforced cremation...
and Auschwitz holidays...
  yeah, sure, i'm the sick one...
who hold account of holocaust deniers
when i live in the 21st century with
existential deniers, that cat food tinned
speaks more to your, ******* *******?!
you want to vox? i'll vox... i'll ******* vox
the **** out of you,
i'll give you plums for eyes and human
rights for children you'll never, ever, have!
isn't that what we do, pretend to
eavesdrop on people?
pretend they don't exist, and if they do
they are involved in ghost media of fictions
and writing books for profit?
i just read heidegger's aphorism no. 195
and i just, think, of throwig stones...
  gladness be, a memory, that i share
with nobody...
   it's easier to abuse drinking...
i'm waiting for the blood skull and bits
to make testament...
   i think that if you get struck my lightning and die...
you won the lottery...
aphorism 195 is all about the will,
throwing, or scalping,
     something that is into: which is:
that conjunction word muddle,
beginning with that, and supposedly ending
with ergo...
           what moses felt,
and if ever: held account to have a heart...
just about as apathetic in tone
as an english-woman can be...
                 i heard prostitutes talk sweeter
things in my life...
      prostitutes... bulgar women,
ukranian women...
            british women talked the talk,
walked the walk...
   and then it was all or nothing...
that i am, a boor predicting a reality...
              but i can't help giving grace
to numbers, that they somehow have to be
coerced...
  of man, thus said, to complicate
the matters further...
   aphorism 195 is nothing but the modern
case of otherwise not throwing stones
at authority... a fortiori through Christianity...
i just look at it and see:
a bunch of kids throwing stones,
how's that going to work,
where's a justification of an "argument"?
it's that demand for Greece,
ancient, and so boringly quasi-kleptomaniac
in keeping it, and the yellow-brick road...
i already said a-, before saying
a priori; i meant to say: a-h (hence the hyphen
and a subsequent loss of ha),
so a beginning without a beginning...
like i will also state with a fortiori...
and i will also say: from a strength to a weakness...
or some would say: as foretold...
   it seems the strong are weaker than the weak...
just like the original case of aristocracy,
you need healthy people to rummage,
to make things work, and you need
a sickness at the top,
you always will provide the sick to rule the strong,
that's how humanity works, the sick rule
the strong... because the sick can
and the strong are ladden with a guilty plea of
stating empathy... it's just plain sad,
since they didn't encourage us waiting in line
to meet the guillotine... so who's who's Stockholm
syndrome bargain? the times i met death,
i'm surprised i didn't write a harry potter novel!
it's breaking my heart, and its almost numbing
my *****... i will recover having read
heidegger's aphorism 195 from ponderings ii - vi...
but it will take a while...
   it's going to be as hard as an actual
break-up... but i'll manage...
   real break-ups attract too many
bothersome gnats, known as fiction writers
and i don't won't these...
those ugly ******* can disperse and earn their money
and never return; or in Hindustan
as parasites, their worthy form to be repeated
and immersed in; guess what?
my **** is tickling, how about you **** it?
******.
and yes, punctuation is a different sort of
arithmetic... it's scenery, it's danish,
it's not custard thought, more of a mood setting,
but then again, the english,
bankers of the world; they don't really get
not needing to sell a twig,
when they can't appreciate a carpenter's effort
in having made a front-door...
   pragmatism doesn't really leave you
all sparkles like it's new year's eve... does it?
  neither does 1 + 1 = 2,
  or                 wait... nope, it isn't you.
language per se is no basis for being equipped with
a dichotomy to mathematics...
      rhetoric or rubric, it doesn't matter,
you spend so much time, complicating
the mathematical pucntuation marks,
that you leave actual punctuation marks to ducks,
that gobble them, as niave as they are,
glutton on mushy-pond-soaked-bread
as you do reminding us that politics is real...
    + is as complex as a comma...
                 hyphen is more than mere minus...
it's apparently called acting...
but you know, being a "poet" you sort of realise
you're not giving "adequate" prompt...
if ever, that's what the 20th century existentialists
did, they tried to reinvent punctuation,
to give punctuation the status of arithmetic...
after all... **** acting on stage gets a cabbage thrown
at it, yes? the times when theatre was no merely
and solely applause, when people threw rotten
fruit and veg and those emotional scumbags with
the audacity to fake it.