hard to write poetry these days: when it's a monopoly of lies... and like a homeless man had explained his predicament to me: my mother told me to never tell a lie... as original as the sin as original as plagiarising and you will be like the gods, knowing the diffrence, between good and evil; even I can undrstand the subtleness of an ingenious lie... but not when it's obvious, and esp. sickly-candy-choking and all but: a depiction of a desperate loss of idealism: that synonym of innocence... who is to say that German Idealism, was not the awaiting guillotine hanging before the 20th century Mongolian repaganism of the Germans? echoes of the skull pyramids of Baghdad... tsunami of fame bulging against the immovable rigidness of a people in number, some listening to BBC 4's the Archers... a past time worth the attention span of one summer month... whatever this Anglo Idealism is brewing, the scenes of the aftermath are alredy poking their Hydra heads through... the aftermath is premature unlike that of German Idealism, which took, so much longer to precipitate... hardly a reason to write poetry, better start calling it excerpts from a book that doesn't exist in head, print or tattoo... and never will... too many tornadoes skim reading the horizon to be both hysterical and cool groove Aspen thrill loaded Luke... but this blatant lie: that has as much originality working behind the scenes, as a dog's bark has consonant clutches of the crutches of canines, supporting the uniform mammalian vowel construct of exercising ba thing vowels... catching shrapnel, chiselling bone and exfoliating wet lungs... cul d sac of minds and tongues working on an already overworked canvas of people... as much as excavating the origins of a handshake, when calibrating the persistent script of Romans, who, apparently only survived, sombre and delinquent, and should they remind the current people of their bulimic ******, no more in question as to why: no laxatives were used, other than the "name" of the father (index) and of the son (middle) - fingers - shoved down the head of the osesaphagus to agitate it, like a seagull chic might agitate its parent to regurgitate partly digested food.