.the right, the conservatives and all their s.j.w. / far-left antagonist complaints... hmm... i'm pretty sure that either side has ever entered the realm of poetry, i didn't even think much about it, until today, when i learned that a poet laureate, in england, earns £16 a day... and they have to play sycophant to the royal family, immerse themselves in the zeitgeist / volkgeist... what would i write, "if" laureate? i'm gagging myself with anticipation, seeing ol' charlie on a tenner or a fiver... it's not that i'm wishing lizzie off "so soon", but, her death... that's going to be, BIG... i'm just waiting to pass around the head of ol' charlie every time i purchase a whizzle of amber.

poets says the most profound things,
but there's always the nagging
leftover, the nagging delay,
a "necessary" acknowledgement,
of  the "bit that's missing"...
        poets do say the most profound
things, but there's always
that invitation to wait for
it (the profound) having to be made
profound...
acknowledged...
                the scarcity of words
is already profound, in that the scarcity
of words will be said akin
to maxim, but never will a maxim
be formed...
          poetry refines a narrator
without characters,
   poetry has abandoned characters to
reestablish the narrator beyond
a mere he said, she said
with punctuation marks,
                poetry was never concenred
with music,
  even if rhyme was considered
a part of musicology -
   poetry always was concerned with
the art of narration,
poetry never presupposed characters,
characters were always auxiliary,
attaches...
                          never the prime
demanded angle of inspection...
        poets say the most profound things,
but they say them
with an expectation that, mere
scarcity of words equates
                 to a probing maxim;
                something said, worth being
true, in its worthiness being true
by being investigated to be, true...
      as any maxim: untrue because
it's un-investigated, as always,
the said is never the replicated to
echo...
           scientific theory is
the phenomenon of echo...
            science = replica = stasis...
science is the inanimate object...
                 a foundation rock
of certainty...
the rest is but animal.
here? language outside of music
is language fathomed in sketch.
_____

imagine spewing this sort of *******,
i don't even know whether
i write from the drunken heart,
a deranged mind,
a silent tongue,
or whether i just pull these words
out of ***...
i think the latter,
      science = replica = stasis?
the **** is that?
       wouldn't we all like to claim
science to be stable?
     i would,
compared to the blind set mantra
of a religion,
on repeat, on repeat,
new convert, new believer,
new clone...
         i have one excuse...
i write everything while drinking,
that's a good excuse...
a bit like that excuse:
   some guy is bragging that
he owns a car,
    i start bragging:
      but i don't own a wheelchair...
but i get all this, that and the other...
so i retort:
  sure... you own a car...
but i don't own the m.o.t.,
i don't own a road tax,
  i don't own car insurance,
i don't own road rage incidents,
i don't own school run or
   rush hour traffic...
i also don't own the cost of repairs...
if someone like this,
bragging about owning a car,
actually lived in it,
i'd be like: sure, fair point...
but unless you own a horse
i might as well feel jealous
of you owning a ******* coffin
or a cremation urn.
   bus it or leg it...

                   it's poetry, after all,
sometimes i do write something
that i am ashamed of,
because it takes so much folly...
   you can say the most stupid things,
untrue things,
   lace everything with red = red,
or red = sort of purple,
        well, sure... what is it,
you add blue to red and it becomes...
what is it, brown, or purple?
i don't remember...
              all that matters, in the end,
is a stream of consciousness
   uninhibited spew...
                i can't take these words to
be ascribed to either heard or mind,
more related to the bowels,
having to pull them out of my ***
like a tapeworm...
   point being: better out of my ***
and onto paper,
than festering, rotting either my heart
or my mind.
    to truly die, is to anticipate,
and by anticipating, having the capacity
to empty one's heart and mind,
to find that ultimate relief,
prior to the, absolute.