/

or rather, how Iuistita blinded Vensus:                  
                
i could almost have forgotten how volume
amassing james newton howard's
score for the film unbreakable is -
    the only, (tearful joy enters),
super-hero movie that i still cry over...

           perhaps it's the music,
perhaps it's the themes in images bound,
whatever the hell it is,
            the introspective doubt riddled
hero,
         and the retrospective denial
riddled by the villain -
  the clarity of evil: with a past,
  with the muddled sight of good:
      trapped in an inmoveable present,
some say: that's one aspect of the many
omni- traits...

god forbid those ******* playing
an imaginary violin, thinking mere talk
is what brings the depth of a sadness
that begins to laugh, suffocating,
a suffocating laughter, before allowing
a tear to drop with the ease of
an oak leaf at autumn's zenith...
           there is no talk of sadness,
as there is no talk of joy,
    if it does not speak without the technicality
of the wordsmiths...

  just like mathematics does away
with words, so too does music -
         to appreciate the language that
can transcend both tongue, breath and ego!
o what joy, to relinquish one's soul,
in order to have a heart,
   entombed in these crypts of
   a perpetuated echo of music...
vibrating walls of a labyrinth that are seemingly
on the verge of vibrating into
a collapse, revealing an endless, dull,
plateau.

           or rather as Iuistita said
                                                       to Venus -
     'it is either you, blind to your
own image,
    or it is to be the fate of each love
that approaches you, to be blinded -
   as if the curse of Medussa was shared
                      between the two of you;
but answer me, Vensus,
                           how can both justice,
and love, be blind?
   are we to inquire into what a love that
sees looks like?
                 take example with:
                              Narcissus and Prudentia;
then look at me,
              in my judgement i teach
of jurisprudence, yet i hold no book
to govern such an endeavour,
                     and for that i am cursed,
with a judge, a judgement, king solomon
is long gone dead, instead:
               the jury, and the drawing of
the shortest straw;
              as it is with you, as some say:
o fickle love.'

yet how can we live in a world where both
justice, and love is blind?
              for fear of death it would seem,
as men in their dying moments provide
the cinema for death,
                whether in the waking hour,
or whether asleep: the last dream -
                                          death sees.

it would seem that both men of keen
hearing, as those who are deaf,
   unite under the banner of hearing,
or rather seeing an opera:
                  as hard it is for man to hear
the words to conjure meaning,
   so too: imagine a deaf man attempting
lip-reading an opera singer...
    if only to touch the vibrating
tonsil...

       i too thought i'd write something "ingenious"
to counter hearing about the alt. right
and what not...
            a bright spark lit up: aha!
   crypto-nationalism!
                without prior to literature...
the concept dates as far back as 2012
   in academic papers...
                             ****** ****** *******...
and here i was, thinking it was going
to be "original"...
                  because what is crypto-nationalism?
well... could bilingualism explain
what hides inside of me?
   the tongue is already slave to the host,
           it's mind already the master of
the parasite...
                           my body,
                              trapped in a three
dimensional mirror where a third figure
arises,
              grave-digger, a necromancy
solidified by a library of only the dead who
have passed...
               not as some "magic"...
                         a library that i own demands
i frequent graveyards,
     by day, by night,
           to remind myself of the reality
of my possessions, as a bibliophile (that is)...

among the english oak,
    or the east continental birch and pine forests
a gentle foot, suddenly turns into
a minotaur's stomping ground...

what good there is, it doubts,
              what eveil there is, it denies...
for the former, consumed by at present
time: inertia, unmoving, trapped in icons,
statues and texts,
for the latter, consumed by at present time:
a prodding into the past and subsequently
into the future - stretching,
                the grand orchestra of atoms -
for what good is as inertia:
            is what evil is as, synergy.
                                                                       /