Nov 2017
i once grew a beard to never glimpse at the sight of my chin, a year later: i can't see my neck!
it's always handy to keep a piece of toilet
paper, oh, sorry, journalism at hand...
just this overarching sense of how journalists
have no ambition to stretch it into
a novel category of blah blah -
or the audacity of curbed haiku -
and the immediate numbing interlude
of the many hiatuses that come their way...
which is why i find poetry to be
the equivalent of: spring cleaning,
levelling all the junk of narrative -
i want the idea, which is poetic:
less strain on the eyes than a paragraph,
yet still so potent in reminding me of:
claustrophobia -
so little words, yet so much sea.
- yet i have to have some journalism
handy...
although it encompasses but
a day, its over-inflammatory caricature of
novels or alternatives -
its toilet paper quality -
it's supposed lack of... *clinging,
it's immediate devaluation due to the reason
that: there has to be a story tomorrow,
even though today a story was promoted
from the realm of journalism
into a realm of history...
let's face it, journalists
are maddened by the fact that they write
for a living, are scared of poetry and are
told: fiction is session of yoga
in a steam room!
i love journalism -
it keeps me "informed", but at the same time
help me forget, which allows me to
read a book...
in front of me is a loaf of bread,
but it's handy to have a few crumbs
from the previous reading loiter...
which is a noun for a previous
verb of doing, by noun be, i.e.
the one imitating knitting with
his excessive pride in mandible thumbs...
journalism is great for that...
airy fairy hardly ima-gínary
(that hyphen and the acute iota add up
to - in diacritical arithmetic of
syllable dissection as: imagee-canary)....
but that's beside my fascination,
i live a pretty rustic life -
then again, the simpler life breeds
the most impassioned pleasures derived
from what others would deem: mundane.
akin to ancient greece...
i once sported long hair like a spartan...
now i have my ****** ***** to entertain my
grooming "gallantry" (dict. meaning
no. 2, hence the dissociating no. 1 literal) -
i just think journalists are keeping me
informed about the fancies, lusts and debaucheries
of ancient Athens...
on the skirmish lines of
where the metropolis ends and the countryside
begins, i'm far from the urbane
fiddling, squatting, swindling,
squandering neurotics of
what you think predicates i think...
these journalists reveal a world of the ancient
lure of the unnerved and the revealing
taste for unconscious sabotage...
and since there's no what in
the fact that i think, there's only me thinking
as a placebo artefact of what could have been
what you think is of no consequence -
alas, journalism tells as otherwise...
which is why having even the most
uninviting, minuscule effort from the medium
at hand, can allow you to, quiet frankly:
relax.
i live among foxes -
i am on the periphery of civilisation -
among the feral kind -
i have no urban ambitions -
but in my youth i have noted a clear
distinction between translating ancient greece
into modern, english society...
these journalists recount an athenian life -
i live a spartan life...
i simply watch them trip up on their
own faeces and hubris with a unforgiving sense
of delight...
primarily their affairs and conundrums with
the use of technology...
my mantra was always:
go in, do what the *******'re supposed
to do and... get the **** out before
they can say: aliceinwonderlandthepornmovie;
i might as well call it:
the return of anthropologists -
but i'm afraid it's too late to revise this
society with anthropology -
since we're not studying aliens
anymore: but alienation -
every time i travel into
central london i'm walking into a zoo,
the same apparent cages, bars and tranquillisers...
notably on the weekend -
an **** fest of
disembodiment, rattled with
a zombie perfume of a rotten sense of:
the lost art of imagination.
it's always handy to keep a piece of toilet
paper, oh, sorry, journalism at hand...
just this overarching sense of how journalists
have no ambition to stretch it into
a novel category of blah blah -
or the audacity of curbed haiku -
and the immediate numbing interlude
of the many hiatuses that come their way...
which is why i find poetry to be
the equivalent of: spring cleaning,
levelling all the junk of narrative -
i want the idea, which is poetic:
less strain on the eyes than a paragraph,
yet still so potent in reminding me of:
claustrophobia -
so little words, yet so much sea.
- yet i have to have some journalism
handy...
although it encompasses but
a day, its over-inflammatory caricature of
novels or alternatives -
its toilet paper quality -
it's supposed lack of... *clinging,
it's immediate devaluation due to the reason
that: there has to be a story tomorrow,
even though today a story was promoted
from the realm of journalism
into a realm of history...
let's face it, journalists
are maddened by the fact that they write
for a living, are scared of poetry and are
told: fiction is session of yoga
in a steam room!
i love journalism -
it keeps me "informed", but at the same time
help me forget, which allows me to
read a book...
in front of me is a loaf of bread,
but it's handy to have a few crumbs
from the previous reading loiter...
which is a noun for a previous
verb of doing, by noun be, i.e.
the one imitating knitting with
his excessive pride in mandible thumbs...
journalism is great for that...
airy fairy hardly ima-gínary
(that hyphen and the acute iota add up
to - in diacritical arithmetic of
syllable dissection as: imagee-canary)....
but that's beside my fascination,
i live a pretty rustic life -
then again, the simpler life breeds
the most impassioned pleasures derived
from what others would deem: mundane.
akin to ancient greece...
i once sported long hair like a spartan...
now i have my ****** ***** to entertain my
grooming "gallantry" (dict. meaning
no. 2, hence the dissociating no. 1 literal) -
i just think journalists are keeping me
informed about the fancies, lusts and debaucheries
of ancient Athens...
on the skirmish lines of
where the metropolis ends and the countryside
begins, i'm far from the urbane
fiddling, squatting, swindling,
squandering neurotics of
what you think predicates i think...
these journalists reveal a world of the ancient
lure of the unnerved and the revealing
taste for unconscious sabotage...
and since there's no what in
the fact that i think, there's only me thinking
as a placebo artefact of what could have been
what you think is of no consequence -
alas, journalism tells as otherwise...
which is why having even the most
uninviting, minuscule effort from the medium
at hand, can allow you to, quiet frankly:
relax.
i live among foxes -
i am on the periphery of civilisation -
among the feral kind -
i have no urban ambitions -
but in my youth i have noted a clear
distinction between translating ancient greece
into modern, english society...
these journalists recount an athenian life -
i live a spartan life...
i simply watch them trip up on their
own faeces and hubris with a unforgiving sense
of delight...
primarily their affairs and conundrums with
the use of technology...
my mantra was always:
go in, do what the *******'re supposed
to do and... get the **** out before
they can say: aliceinwonderlandthepornmovie;
i might as well call it:
the return of anthropologists -
but i'm afraid it's too late to revise this
society with anthropology -
since we're not studying aliens
anymore: but alienation -
every time i travel into
central london i'm walking into a zoo,
the same apparent cages, bars and tranquillisers...
notably on the weekend -
an **** fest of
disembodiment, rattled with
a zombie perfume of a rotten sense of:
the lost art of imagination.
