May 2018
I don't wite poetry drunk and think
it's great, or rather: to later
think, it's great
rather, as a genuine outlet,
worth the dub: ***** poetry
(analyse that,
Ronnie K., the sentimental
psychopath),
since i could be up to no...
(and already the sealed cascade
of the original intention:
whirlwind spaghetti remnants
worth of: collage);
for Sienkiewicz really
is tedius, in the camp of writers
some dubbed:
a first class, second class writer,
i even managed to dream
that i was reading a contemporary
novel:
yet somehow the remaining
200 pages of this (circa) 800 page
novel are hanging over me
ungidested, like some farce
of the sword of Democles...
me and my necrophilic taste in
books, or rather:
catching up to: the dogma
of what youth is pushed in schools
and tested on...
and I am of the authentic opinion
that Bolesław Pruß is readable,
a 19th century story,
written in the 19th century...
Siekiewicz's romanticism is
too, inauthentic...
i could blame the weather,
cold spring mornings,
a seemingly eternal sun throughout
the day...
but the women
as unrelateable as hot sushi...
a 19th century romanticism
of a late 14th / eartly 15th century
"history":
and they said Kraszewski
was supposed to be as entertaining
as soaking stale bread in water...
beyond a doubt...
and without much to think about,
I can't imagine anyone who
writes these snippets (akin) to be
proud, and not ashamed
in some way that could better
translated / attired with the word:
barely satiated...
I almost wish it sounded
better in my head,
even though it was worth
about a worth of time
equal to that of a splinter
barely compensating a century
worth of oak, standing dumb
before its majesty.
at least a compensation though,
if I seemingly cannot fathom
"serious" literature
of the living, i also cannot fathom
poetry of the dead...
the dead can't be excused
the fickleness of the living,
as the living can't exactly
recreate the rigidness of the dead:
plus the obvious,
painstaking process of:
the missing typewriter...
not to mention:
sooner comes cinematic
version of a modern tale...
and already the undomesticated
reader making books into
bricks...
otherwise the constipated tradition
and literary hoarding of the past,
it almost dwarfs any ambition
when compared to the biblio-monolith
of, say, the Qu'ran...
no qualms for
having only read an instruction
manual, and wholeheartedly
gesticulated at the moon
and Mecca (or what's left of it)...
"satanic" credo murmurs in
a catholic church:
no way forward -
no way back...
and certainly not down
the exhausted route of becoming
a ***** for secularism...
somehow and most certainly
"somewhere"
in an existential limbo...
without a crisis:
or rather:
watching about a hundred breakdowns
per day, and not exactly
gesticulating at an exited libido
as compensation for the disorientation
of others...
but there certainly could be worse
outlets than writing drunk...
thankfully sometimes the quiet sober
opinion at 7am,
where I am, genuinely jealous
of the salat...
yet unconvertable,
bound to that infernal
religion that is: on the tip of
the tongue of an English teacher -
humanism.
no serious literature
of the living, as certainly that of
the "canonised" dead,
countered with:
no serious poetry of
of (ditto): only that of the living
and of the immediately: in transit
id est: with third party remnants...
evidently i was going to
break these "rules" / whims
by having inherited the remnants
of the Beat movement,
and invested in gathering
a necessary compedium...
a time when it almost feels like:
your average Joe and John
were not overtly politicised...
as compensation for
voting apathy,
and the unredeemable
post scriptum of nuance...
no, I don't think much of the poetry
I write drunk...
but I can certainly attest
that, with it as an outlet -
I'm far from requiring a punching
bag, bound to some chemical
rainbow of explanations,
that, for the most part:
act like placebos;
came the people happy in their
misery...
came the people gluttonous
in their happiness...
only that the former
had the better humour,
since the latter,
very much akin to their politics:
perhaps sarcasm is the lowest
form of wit,
but given sarcasm in a subtle
way... without ridicule...
it's still better than snarly
conservative humour...
for some reason...
without pointing out the obvious:
having to laugh
at jokes of an angry man...
turns out a crying clown
is thrice as funny.
it's great, or rather: to later
think, it's great
rather, as a genuine outlet,
worth the dub: ***** poetry
(analyse that,
Ronnie K., the sentimental
psychopath),
since i could be up to no...
(and already the sealed cascade
of the original intention:
whirlwind spaghetti remnants
worth of: collage);
for Sienkiewicz really
is tedius, in the camp of writers
some dubbed:
a first class, second class writer,
i even managed to dream
that i was reading a contemporary
novel:
yet somehow the remaining
200 pages of this (circa) 800 page
novel are hanging over me
ungidested, like some farce
of the sword of Democles...
me and my necrophilic taste in
books, or rather:
catching up to: the dogma
of what youth is pushed in schools
and tested on...
and I am of the authentic opinion
that Bolesław Pruß is readable,
a 19th century story,
written in the 19th century...
Siekiewicz's romanticism is
too, inauthentic...
i could blame the weather,
cold spring mornings,
a seemingly eternal sun throughout
the day...
but the women
as unrelateable as hot sushi...
a 19th century romanticism
of a late 14th / eartly 15th century
"history":
and they said Kraszewski
was supposed to be as entertaining
as soaking stale bread in water...
beyond a doubt...
and without much to think about,
I can't imagine anyone who
writes these snippets (akin) to be
proud, and not ashamed
in some way that could better
translated / attired with the word:
barely satiated...
I almost wish it sounded
better in my head,
even though it was worth
about a worth of time
equal to that of a splinter
barely compensating a century
worth of oak, standing dumb
before its majesty.
at least a compensation though,
if I seemingly cannot fathom
"serious" literature
of the living, i also cannot fathom
poetry of the dead...
the dead can't be excused
the fickleness of the living,
as the living can't exactly
recreate the rigidness of the dead:
plus the obvious,
painstaking process of:
the missing typewriter...
not to mention:
sooner comes cinematic
version of a modern tale...
and already the undomesticated
reader making books into
bricks...
otherwise the constipated tradition
and literary hoarding of the past,
it almost dwarfs any ambition
when compared to the biblio-monolith
of, say, the Qu'ran...
no qualms for
having only read an instruction
manual, and wholeheartedly
gesticulated at the moon
and Mecca (or what's left of it)...
"satanic" credo murmurs in
a catholic church:
no way forward -
no way back...
and certainly not down
the exhausted route of becoming
a ***** for secularism...
somehow and most certainly
"somewhere"
in an existential limbo...
without a crisis:
or rather:
watching about a hundred breakdowns
per day, and not exactly
gesticulating at an exited libido
as compensation for the disorientation
of others...
but there certainly could be worse
outlets than writing drunk...
thankfully sometimes the quiet sober
opinion at 7am,
where I am, genuinely jealous
of the salat...
yet unconvertable,
bound to that infernal
religion that is: on the tip of
the tongue of an English teacher -
humanism.
no serious literature
of the living, as certainly that of
the "canonised" dead,
countered with:
no serious poetry of
of (ditto): only that of the living
and of the immediately: in transit
id est: with third party remnants...
evidently i was going to
break these "rules" / whims
by having inherited the remnants
of the Beat movement,
and invested in gathering
a necessary compedium...
a time when it almost feels like:
your average Joe and John
were not overtly politicised...
as compensation for
voting apathy,
and the unredeemable
post scriptum of nuance...
no, I don't think much of the poetry
I write drunk...
but I can certainly attest
that, with it as an outlet -
I'm far from requiring a punching
bag, bound to some chemical
rainbow of explanations,
that, for the most part:
act like placebos;
came the people happy in their
misery...
came the people gluttonous
in their happiness...
only that the former
had the better humour,
since the latter,
very much akin to their politics:
perhaps sarcasm is the lowest
form of wit,
but given sarcasm in a subtle
way... without ridicule...
it's still better than snarly
conservative humour...
for some reason...
without pointing out the obvious:
having to laugh
at jokes of an angry man...
turns out a crying clown
is thrice as funny.
