you box it silly, until you get to speak to it...
you box, box, box box it into pretty, you box it into
something resembling a francis bacon...
can you even imagine, feeling this much?
and then get to write about it all, by way of treating it
a mush? i'm sure that hardly
resembles the sitter, but that hardly
matters... look at that masterpiece of a
boxed face? looks blurry, i admit...
but that keeps it as art, and i find that to be...
most necessary... for i find the most recurrent
theme as: just ordinary;
everything just being as numerous
and countless, and reproducible as the
phenomenon of spring,
    that frail thing that needs to bloom
and later die... what a horrid escapade
to give it a metaphor akin to vivaldi...
sparrows... sparrows? seriously?!
   it's just that autumn, and its scents,
and its fruits... that auburn, that khaki:
if ever orff met vivaldi, he would call
autumn: the reviver!
spring is something that exists in th realm
of dr. seuss... i.e. mainly children...
or that great dumb joy of dogs...
   same ****, different cover.
- i listen to what could be best described
as neo-**** music (nietzsche did that,
introduced the hyphen at the beginning
of a paragraph, within the realm of the paragraph,
that seriously needs to be deploit within
poetry, with no paragraph, as a
whimsical call to changing the subject,
and retaining the object form, and repressing
psychiatric investment in, what they
later call a: "person". so i guess that's
- - - - - and me somehow closing the bracket
like i might keep to that romeo & juliet phrase
of palms and monks and kiss kiss moosh?
  ****...                         d'uh.               )
because i'm the one with testicles...
and how world war ii taught be something...
that i wasn't too keen to learn about in the first place...
maybe the celt in you feels i should
have shut-up and sailed on a titanic
failure...
        yeah, like that ship...
     or how ᚠ and ᚦ.... and how θ and φ
are almost identical,
revisionists with a care to revive the latin
grapheme of æ... should look toward anywhere
but here... like that grand mythical
marriage of Adam and Eve... that gave
us umlaut and macron?
how could life, if that alone, but merely dialogue
with someone become simple,
after a father wrote something akin to finnegans wake
to a daughter? it's my ex-girfriend,
she calls me up while i'm doing an industrial-sized roof
(tar, felt, slabs, *******)
and comes up with: i'm hearing voices! i'm hearing voices!
you're not going to read proust, that's for sure;
and historically speaking, that was a movement,
not something done solo...
literally a bunch of squaters that mattered
in the birth of the 20th century.
        - me neither give, nor have a bother;
we already presume to have had it sideways
with the colon and the |... whatever that represents.
          but aren't the ᚠ and ᚦ... θ and φ
identical concerns?
  you wait and watch something else encoded
having this tenacity to suddenly implode...
you'll be left wishing a moustache is
about all you could ever grow...
                   therion thermometer.. philo...
thinker, phlegm... what's with wh and why
isn't it... doing anything?
the combination of t h and p h is
too, well... bewildering to me...
thermometer, pharmacy...
ph, th... v / d -e point...
               i once called language something
that could well be mistaken to imply
approximation...  phantom, pantomine,
tantilising, infantile, in that... d d do duplex
done...
              we know the myth that philosophers
are doers and not thinkers,
we know the best ones are not exactly literate,
or if they are, they don't bother the sophism
of implosion... they just explode onto the world
and are like: hey man!
but can someone please explain to me why
ᚠθᚦφ exists? i must have just written F, four times...
and read about fifty slang terms on the internet
to say:
really?! y.h.w.h. is just a ghetto acronym written
on a brick wall? like the internet?
         ᚠθᚦφ is probably just the same,
the way people keep making an oath, or adding
the emphasis as if they spotted a comet...
      it's just fe fe, fe fe -
or ef ef, ef ef          depending which copernican
side of it you come from to congregate
in the land of the "setting sun".
                l e f t t o r i g h t
                  t f e l o t t h g i r
they meet somewhere, and sprechen lingua franco...
perhaps like Sicily, in the times of
that liberty magnet that was Fredrick II
from the Hahenschtaufen haus...
i have to do it... akin to       n
                                         w      e
                                              s... look at that...
what a beautiful acronym...
  it's not even a case of being ignorant...
  but it seems to be the general idea of a compass
these days...
                 and to think, to have the sheer
concern to make the effort to read...
which is the only reason why i resort to having
the same effort to write,
  or where two roads meet...
or what's called the fork... funny that...
three arms and a leg to stand on...
                                                     ᚠ
                                              ᚦ           θ
                                                     φ
i reduce modern vulgarity for not enough
fucky-fucky... some reduce it to the tourism
of Taiwan...
   and how Taiwan is perfectly adaptable for
a heretical christian revival, or the confused pronoun
case of almost parasitical invitation...
you hear it all the time in england,
english men going to taiwan and looking for
pretty clay, behemoths...
      right now i wish i was listening to the news
in poland... ****! at least it would be easier
******* from conservative catholic grannies
than this oddity, that really needs a second david bowie...
i can't do it... i see paying for the absurdity of ***
is fine... walking into a shop
    and buying chewing gum... a ******* would
buy more things than i ever could...
or care to want...
               a woman might go and buy perfume...
all i need is some water, and soap...
  just as rare as finding a keen reader of kraszewski,
or a tatarkiewicz... too many people read marx,
it's starting to eat me up...
         i'm starting to see a work by marx like
i might see a bench pressing corner in a gym...
                          or a crucifix; get all vampiric
and angry goo that constantly seems to recoil into
siesmic fits of violence, always minding
the lord of mosquitos... and never... Beelzebub...
bled on the cross, talked wine-to-blood
at the last supper, didn't he? so he's not
                                     the lord of mosquitos?
the wars we had because of it...
    thankfully... to inact progress...
               as all hell is blamed for doing:
or rather imroving... oh don't mind me, i'll have
to wait 2000 years for someone to recognise me,
as i did, j. c. nazareth, lord of mosquitos and
countless wars to finally freeze chickens
                      and ice-cream; cabbage? fresh!