cogito ergo alieno - as i always wondered, how does a cat constrain himself inside his head with but a meow? or a dog inhibiting a bark? then i'm left with an answer, a summary of my vocal capacities: blah.

  and for a moment i almost had,
but then another upon another
thought materialised -

and i couldn't fathom as to why
we forget -
it couldn't be by chance -
or nights with blackout drinking
antics -

  i think therefore i forget -

       after all cogito ergo sum
is only partially true; since?
  thought is crippling in some ways
to a desired translation of ergo,
a true manifestation of *sum
transcends thinking -
in that thinking is a waste of time,
it is a puritanical assertion of
raw materialism, body alone -

thought is the gateway to the soul,
and the logic of such possession
cannot logically undermine that
in descartes' terms -
     belonging to the extended "object"
that's god...

        a logic ascribed to an illogical
posit... then back to undermining
   a natural predisposition -
no soul, no god, no psychological
  fancy, or truth, for that matter.

           yet i'm unsure whether thinking
makes me forget,
or whether not thinking makes do
likewise...

               doesn't matter,
          thinking these days could be deemed
as a meta-paralysis -
                metaphysics i undertand
to be synonymous with transcendence -
**** it, thrown in a benzene ring
and add on the prefixes ortho-
        para-,
                       pata-.

    i'm not feeling this poem,
this poem is rather prosthetic, fake,
  "superstitious" -
       i must have forgotten the heart
with this one...
  
i'll just leave it as a: curiosity...
          it's nothing more than just that...
the odd case of:
        rummaging in my head
while lying in bed
  trying to conjure a maxim from
a paragraph as a magician might
conjure a white rabbit from a top hat...

    i'm pretty sure though:
i think, therefore i forget...
            so much of memory is invested
in the eyes, and the slouching of
thought...
                   i'm pretty sure i remember
best, when i'm not thinking...

                 this, that and the other:
a pile of regurgitated spaghetti
                donning a lavender vest -

  sometimes language, really, really does
look this muddled...
          maybe there's a reason for it...
some sort of depiction of
   returning to drinking,
while hangover -
with this, a very crisp and sunny
english first of december...

    i can't tell the difference whether
the alcohol affects me more
  or the cold... mind you,
i was born with a gorbachev stain
on my right shoulder-blade...
    i have an ancestry of heavy drinkers...

a ****** poem? most definitely.
a curious poem? perhaps.