/the late 20th century scorn of art as: ars pro se - for itself... thank god celebrity culture took off, the vanguard too to the trenches... remained in the trenches... and died from a wound inflicted by their own shadow touching their bodies... imagine Narcissus talking to his reflection... post-scriptum of the selfie... fame and celebrity as a perpetuating implosion of parasitical exhaustion... the parasite of the parasite: atomised vogue whims and the five winds... at least ars pro se is a depiction of movement, an inheritance abbreviation... thanks to celebrity "culture" / membrane... we can at least fathom, the complete picture, of an imploding cube geometry... happenstance, or hypered-instance? to vote Michael Faraday as the modern Prometheus, who stole the lightning bolt from, Olypmus? up in the air, like you just don't care, etc.

post-colonial inheritance
tax... or, legacy...
                when the pride
was being infringed upon,
one *******
was nibbling at the Ottoman
postscriptum
   not exactly bothered
by Helga the Valkrye's
                           chastity
            investment bouncing
payroll guarantee...
              once you hear a Bulgarian
******* giggle...
    you hear a giddy schoolgirl,
giggle...
             and the rest rests,
all eternally, sealed inconclusively
upon an: amen.
           no Holocaust has happened
and still I find myself lodged
in a language without
a contemporary to talk crass
bullshitting with extra skid marks'
worth of carcass whipping:
       American Beauty is,
beyond a film, the summary of the 20th,
harbinger of the 21st century,
a take on Tora! Tora! Tora!
                    suddenly 10 years
within a century elongate
beyond the confines of
a century within a millenium...
          and there, really is,
enough time crafted in the vain
hope importune unearthing:
to feel less obliged to stress
a comfort, in a body that might
resemble a well-worn sofa
    ****-stink...
                    yet I still don't know
what I'm not supposed to align myself
to when some ****** will
not even bother to cite me
Herbie Hancock...
                rap took to the clothing
line, and dried,
     like some obscurity of youth,
and the once savvy toolkit
of slang, lost, reminiscent,
                  bothered by acronyms
that never and would not catch on...
funny, talking to WHITE...
  immune to a colonial past...
              a bit like talking to a Russian,
or a Beethoven in his prime...
   comes in 'un 'ere,
  'n' 'uickly leaves via the ò'very...
    baba watunga, neß pàs?

widely or rather wildly exaggerated:
post-colonial stress disorder,
conscripted? anyone who isn't or can't
be, veteran material...
    counter-thesis of growing mushrooms...
namely pulverised,
by excesses of information...
namely?
    21st propaganda is not exactly
the content, of, said, detergent advertisement...
but... pulverising non-(s)top...
      insomniac mushrooms...

modern Japan and F. D. Roosevelt's America
are synonyms...
Mongolia never makes it into
the conglomerate mafiosos' newsreel...
     sleeping people are
compensated by not engaging
in this... game that only leads
into a pit, of farcical exhaustion....
               each year, that supposed
"holy" land,
     becomes a variant of the same
pile of rubble...
           the odd olive, and the odd
lemon tree...
          and then an attempt to
rekindle the concept of the fireplace,
with the already static
     fringe buzz of t.v.,

Americans and their ******* acronyms...
romeo alpha mammoth Sistine
       elephant: and a cherub in a *******
pantry...

           how glad I am,
able to tell the diffrence between
a Nigerian and a Kenyan...
              perhaps...
the opportune moment will come...
hell...
   by then I'll be far gone,
entrenched in a thought labyrinth
spanning the hearth of Siberia...

    the mind: simultaneously
a prison, and an escape plan.