it feels, given the current commentary
that i not stomping through time
writing history, grunting
the minotaur's hot ooze of breath -
what i think? one word answer -
incompetence -
        like a ******* inheritor of a
fortune, expressing a cul de sac of
said, genetic events...
                there's an aversion to
the original freudian concept of,
castration...
                    there's another,
it lies in the basin of the easily agitate
sphere of divorcing ethnicity
with history...
                              the hot-flush
of unease is ever present...
            there's nothing to think about,
really, in all certainty of the certainty
of thought...
            i am not stomping through
history, at the same time making it...
architect supreme...
         what i feel is that i am walking
on egg-shells,
             ballerina of the shadows -
    i'm not making history,
i am either into being nostalgic about
it, or am tired of studying it...
                    the question of women
is past... provided the allowances
of chess...
               medieval women were more
cut-throat than the men...
              scurrying rats is just an image,
and never an analogy...
             imagery metaphor analogue -
contradictory trinity it would seem...
        but i am still inclined to
retain the image of walking on egg shells
rather than stomping, subsequently crushing
human bones...
               the audacity of the forefathers
does not credit me, nor am i their inheritor...
i am balancing on making history:
without actually making one...
                    the eeriness of impotence
that plagues me is of english birth,
and having perfected this tongue,
marking it with the decisive origins shows
me that i cannot fathom it completely...
only in snapshot...
                           it breeds a trans-ethnic
superstition that is advertised,
                               not exactly undue...
but there this: "castration" discomfort
in speaking english without an accent that
might be distinguishable...
notably: conversations where you are
questioned, and never accepted of
the gravity of an answer being undisputed -
namely the lack of etiquette -
whereby in atomic terms:
party a. resembles ?
  while party b. resembles ! -
                           you can only ask so
many questions before there's no question
left, and the narrative leads into:
                                                      nihil / nothing.
i feel, and that is always more valuable
than i think, that i live in un-historical times,
primarily for the lack of nostalgia...
but at the same time the:
  anaemic actors who have no vitality
and merely spread the weißplage -
the white plague...
                who is to wonder why
there shouldn't be an interest in premature
depression of the young that overshadows
the scarcity of premature dementia,
when premature dementia exposes
the seemingly unreachable strata of vocab?
   to me schizophrenia implies:
inhibition, a repression...
                    the budding flower arising
from decay... a fungus growth on a ****...
but premature depression...
       these kids haven't accomplished anything!
i can understand an old man being
hypochondria-prone and melancholic in
having achieved something!
            i call forth the: weißplage...
the white plague...
                           i ought to be a man
stomping with a minotaur's hoof into
history...
                   instead i am a ballerina "dancing"
through a floor of egg shells,
attempting to not make a pipsqueak akin
to a mouse...
               i'd settle for a rat's gnashing jaw chew...
but no...
                     having acquired this language
i've also acquired its historical ailments...
i've overcome the strata of class-theory,
but i've been unable to overcome
the pathology of using this language -
even if i feel castrated for but a split second,
i am, otherwise, dragged down -
ziehennachunten...
                     it's a white plague -
      a mental virus -
  and i too was one of the people who
believe that a solipsistic membrane actually
existed, and that mental illness didn't
have a contagious element to it,
that mental illness had nothing to do with
virology... how wrong i was...
                    with the abandonment of
respecting asylums, western society
has actually invested in a lunatic contagion...
the spread of islam onto the continent
is merely a compliment of the scythe moon
emblem on a flag...
                 and it happens oh so innocently,
an ex-girlfriend calls you up while
you're on the roof, roofing,
  and she cites: hearing voices...
                    i really wish to find someone
who's interested in the virological nature
of the transmission of mental disorders...
               to finally, ******* bury,
this misconception of a rock-solid-****'s-worth
of argument to idealise on a dualism,
but actually engage with the real problem
within a dichotomy...
                 the mind-body to a mind
is no disparity -
                            the body to a mind is
an automaton rather than a mind-body...
              there is a virology and a toxicology
involved in mental illness...
    you know why charles manson exherted
more influence than all the other serial killers?!
   he played the pawns...
    he was the pontius pilate,
he washed his hands clean,
even though they were bloodied...
       in the end there is a messianic connection,
although on the roman side...
                  whereas others bloodied their
hands, he played a mind game...
             be played with plasticine -
                 which just shows history at its most
animate: with hindsight.
he was but a syringe incision,
   and a tsunami of time...
                  while the others were
   a tsunami barrage of **** -
   and in terms of time: a drop in the ocean...
which will always be barely recognisable or
heard by the waiting echo.
                         that sort of model is
the antithesis of Sisyphus...
  a gentle **** of the stone...
   and just watch the avalanche form...
hardly a mein kampf to speak of...
         he figured out the downhill -
because there was never any uphill
                 to begin with...
          my: a tsunami of time...
                      located in a space
              made by a mere needle incision.