Nov 2017
it's only of those hellish nights,
suddenly the alcohol is not working
as a sedative,
and you begin internalising
a berserker, and it's not looking pretty,
you're frustrated by
the fact that you left no. 9455 &
no. 9456 unsolved -
and it's hitting you like
a steam-train,
the internet connection is slow and
all you want to do is: scribble some
**** on a blank "page" of pixel -
you begin your outlet with mourning
journalists, mongering for pay
from the tech-media giants because their
print on a "real thing" worth of paper
sells less than toilet, paper!
mind you, at least wiping your ***
with a duvet worth of silk sounds much
better than wiping your *** with a newspaper...
grr...
i hate these nights,
the nights when the whiskey runs hot
in me, like blood,
and i can only think about starving or mutilating
bodies...
my only solace is a music
of groans and screams...
i hate these nights...
and to top it all off,
a revelation...
that phrase: forgive & forget...
that's really ticking me off...
love your enemy?
the **** is this trash?! ah, right,
crucifix in hand: double-jeopardy...
how can you fathom
forgiving an enemy, while at the same time
forgiving them?
i can't exactly the fathomable
synonymous affair being true...
believe when i say:
it's harder to forget than it is to love...
what the **** are you people
prescribing me, Alzheimer's?!
an ethical construct whereby i suddenly
transcend an unethical act,
by a miraculous-ness of, amnesia?!
if only forgetting were as easy
as the supposed "love"...
i can't forgive, because i can't forget,
likewise: i can't love because
i am training my memory to
endear a "said" event with true apathy...
how can you make forgiveness
fathomable with a forgetfulness?
or turn love into an act that's
peppered with an anger that dawns
upon despair?!
the only forgiveness you can
offer is the one that allows you
to actually forget...
you don't forgive and forget...
this is a case of a beyond good & good:
you do know that
allowing forgetting to take place of
forgiveness,
is much harder than allowing
love to take the place of retribution?
it's corrosive, erosive,
we already experienced the systematised
erosion of the memory faculty
by being schooled in the pointlessness
of the pythagorean theorem...
so, what's new?
you can't forgive, & forget...
the semblance of the two being
required misses the point that:
one is actually the other...
you can only forgive by forgetting...
beyond good & evil:
there's no love or hate involved...
there are but three prime
faculties of man:
imagining, thinking, memorising...
i count no others...
the god father the son man and
the congratulatory congregation
can **** my big toe when it comes
to cubic parameters of narration...
the mantras of the memory,
the thinking of the son -
and the imaginings of the father:
how this could have been,
an almost perfect, world.
i'll sooner kneel before
a guillotine than his religion
of icon upon icon upon icon
upon the blaspheming tongue,
waggling toward the gates of inferno,
masochistic in a self-righteous tone;
horrid obscure, sentenced saint of
the trans-gender abomination of:
if it weren't for the heterosexuals,
you'd have a feast; a feast of: dodo.
god, i hate these nights,
when the alcohol doesn't act like
a sedative, but, instead,
acts like oil thrown into a fire...
it's beyond agitated, it's chaotic,
and free, and clearly in the mood
for gnashing the teeth,
and, perhaps, eating
some bone marrow...
but how can you
forgive, if you can't forget?
sincerely one can only forgive:
if one can forget!
but memory is a series
of tattoos...
one is already tattooed by
the african glee or the solstice of the north...
incubating a pseudo-albino...
how can you forgive
if you can't forget?
the only true forgiveness in this
world is a forgetfulness,
but invoking an enforced
forgetfulness is the persistence
in an erosion of mental faculties that
allow you to function...
i abhor this callous carelessness of
the casual expression that's treated
as a insightful maxim...
it's horseshit littered with sweetcorn pips;
what shanty town preaching
is this?!
it's far more difficult to
forget your enemy, than it is to either love,
or hate them...
why?
memory delves into
nostalgia that delves into a remorse of
returning tide of apathy, objectivity...
it is far much harder to forget,
than it is to "forgive" - since the instructed
demand for amnesia also invokes
a sense of a "self": i.e. that which no longer
can be concrete, but transient.
i hate it when alcohol becomes
this agitating, and labours for a need for
scrupulousness...
what a ****** pairing:
i'm pretty sure the beatles learned
confucius with:
live and let live...
who the hell would still
want to listen to a *******?!
maybe, three generations from now,
people like will be classified as:
rebellious without a need to rebel,
or, part of a rebellion that only served
similar in origin and replica: iconoclasm...
this vein of thought is a stark
morphing of a cul de sac, a cave,
and a serpentine of quroboros;
the reasoning of the greeks,
was never to be married to
the "irrationality" of the hebrews...
and did you ever wonder
why the 3 magi were not figures of revenge
of the persian empire?
just wondered...
why didn't they ever call it
the crown of myrrh?
you seen myrrh?
how it grows?
there's a crown for you,
right there...
no, i will not drop the already
dead piece of meat from my jaws...
i will not b'aah b'aah when they next
light the christmas lights...
i am just about this close
to performing the ritual of:
washing my hands clean, like pontius pilate,
from the whole affair...
that's my answer to the ritual of baptism...
you either get confirmed,
or you wash your hands clean
and say: c'est la vie!
suddenly the alcohol is not working
as a sedative,
and you begin internalising
a berserker, and it's not looking pretty,
you're frustrated by
the fact that you left no. 9455 &
no. 9456 unsolved -
and it's hitting you like
a steam-train,
the internet connection is slow and
all you want to do is: scribble some
**** on a blank "page" of pixel -
you begin your outlet with mourning
journalists, mongering for pay
from the tech-media giants because their
print on a "real thing" worth of paper
sells less than toilet, paper!
mind you, at least wiping your ***
with a duvet worth of silk sounds much
better than wiping your *** with a newspaper...
grr...
i hate these nights,
the nights when the whiskey runs hot
in me, like blood,
and i can only think about starving or mutilating
bodies...
my only solace is a music
of groans and screams...
i hate these nights...
and to top it all off,
a revelation...
that phrase: forgive & forget...
that's really ticking me off...
love your enemy?
the **** is this trash?! ah, right,
crucifix in hand: double-jeopardy...
how can you fathom
forgiving an enemy, while at the same time
forgiving them?
i can't exactly the fathomable
synonymous affair being true...
believe when i say:
it's harder to forget than it is to love...
what the **** are you people
prescribing me, Alzheimer's?!
an ethical construct whereby i suddenly
transcend an unethical act,
by a miraculous-ness of, amnesia?!
if only forgetting were as easy
as the supposed "love"...
i can't forgive, because i can't forget,
likewise: i can't love because
i am training my memory to
endear a "said" event with true apathy...
how can you make forgiveness
fathomable with a forgetfulness?
or turn love into an act that's
peppered with an anger that dawns
upon despair?!
the only forgiveness you can
offer is the one that allows you
to actually forget...
you don't forgive and forget...
this is a case of a beyond good & good:
you do know that
allowing forgetting to take place of
forgiveness,
is much harder than allowing
love to take the place of retribution?
it's corrosive, erosive,
we already experienced the systematised
erosion of the memory faculty
by being schooled in the pointlessness
of the pythagorean theorem...
so, what's new?
you can't forgive, & forget...
the semblance of the two being
required misses the point that:
one is actually the other...
you can only forgive by forgetting...
beyond good & evil:
there's no love or hate involved...
there are but three prime
faculties of man:
imagining, thinking, memorising...
i count no others...
the god father the son man and
the congratulatory congregation
can **** my big toe when it comes
to cubic parameters of narration...
the mantras of the memory,
the thinking of the son -
and the imaginings of the father:
how this could have been,
an almost perfect, world.
i'll sooner kneel before
a guillotine than his religion
of icon upon icon upon icon
upon the blaspheming tongue,
waggling toward the gates of inferno,
masochistic in a self-righteous tone;
horrid obscure, sentenced saint of
the trans-gender abomination of:
if it weren't for the heterosexuals,
you'd have a feast; a feast of: dodo.
god, i hate these nights,
when the alcohol doesn't act like
a sedative, but, instead,
acts like oil thrown into a fire...
it's beyond agitated, it's chaotic,
and free, and clearly in the mood
for gnashing the teeth,
and, perhaps, eating
some bone marrow...
but how can you
forgive, if you can't forget?
sincerely one can only forgive:
if one can forget!
but memory is a series
of tattoos...
one is already tattooed by
the african glee or the solstice of the north...
incubating a pseudo-albino...
how can you forgive
if you can't forget?
the only true forgiveness in this
world is a forgetfulness,
but invoking an enforced
forgetfulness is the persistence
in an erosion of mental faculties that
allow you to function...
i abhor this callous carelessness of
the casual expression that's treated
as a insightful maxim...
it's horseshit littered with sweetcorn pips;
what shanty town preaching
is this?!
it's far more difficult to
forget your enemy, than it is to either love,
or hate them...
why?
memory delves into
nostalgia that delves into a remorse of
returning tide of apathy, objectivity...
it is far much harder to forget,
than it is to "forgive" - since the instructed
demand for amnesia also invokes
a sense of a "self": i.e. that which no longer
can be concrete, but transient.
i hate it when alcohol becomes
this agitating, and labours for a need for
scrupulousness...
what a ****** pairing:
i'm pretty sure the beatles learned
confucius with:
live and let live...
who the hell would still
want to listen to a *******?!
maybe, three generations from now,
people like will be classified as:
rebellious without a need to rebel,
or, part of a rebellion that only served
similar in origin and replica: iconoclasm...
this vein of thought is a stark
morphing of a cul de sac, a cave,
and a serpentine of quroboros;
the reasoning of the greeks,
was never to be married to
the "irrationality" of the hebrews...
and did you ever wonder
why the 3 magi were not figures of revenge
of the persian empire?
just wondered...
why didn't they ever call it
the crown of myrrh?
you seen myrrh?
how it grows?
there's a crown for you,
right there...
no, i will not drop the already
dead piece of meat from my jaws...
i will not b'aah b'aah when they next
light the christmas lights...
i am just about this close
to performing the ritual of:
washing my hands clean, like pontius pilate,
from the whole affair...
that's my answer to the ritual of baptism...
you either get confirmed,
or you wash your hands clean
and say: c'est la vie!
