(.) - living in the times when,
all variants of the form of fiction,
whether in the medium
of movie, or books,
allows the reader,
or the viewer,
to become comfortable in
his or her sense of
the: predictable outcome,
predictable narrative
                     "cul de sacs"...
modern fiction
and oh: so many predictable
conclusions...
a micro-cosmos
of prophesy that always...
becomes... a faked...
         "cliff-hanger"...
poetry as rigid as
  a journalistic account...
                        scripted and safe...
this language could
be so much more,
       if it only allowed itself
to be harvested
by 1st time users,
        who were not born into
the shackles of 2nd time users...
those immigrant parents
who discarded their
mutterzunge...
   and...
   plain in sight...
the longing of their children,
whereby:
   english was
was never enough to begin
with,
but to live
with a psychic dissonance
matched-up
to the reality of, a time,
and this,
multi-cultural
claustrophic concept of space;
there's no point
asking me to be coherent...
better look for
a "sudoku" of rigid
paragraph rubrics,
coherent, mundane conversations
between characters:
which a schizophrenic
symptom can't even ascribe
a venture into theatre...
anna maria jopek: droga na południe
vs.
   simply red: holding back
the years
vs.
spandau ballet: true
vs.
    diana krall: peel me a grape
vs. sade: smooth operator...
****... ginger ninja all the time...
a nostalgia...
   that can only transcend
a craft of finding time in
a dismembered form of a painting...
and bad spelling...
or simply for the album stars...
sure, sure,
i'll make english the language
akin to a spiderweb...
as long as i am the spider
at its centre...
never to be usurped from my use
of it, by some censorship-*****
of a litigated presence
of also drown me in
    sea of silence...
   by scripting how i am
to imitate drowning
   with this: and every other
gargantuan gurgle of visible lettering;
side-ways up with
no immediate fetish for
  hierogylphs of egypt,
and the modern digital "egypt"...
like...
   i am looking for the modern
Rosetta stone...
     it began with :)
                                  and ended...
well... it never really ended...
   and...
music from back then...
it's not even nostalgia...
   apparently a soulless entity
like a.i. and a devil's dozen
of music producers,
can tap into writing art...
based upon the data of mood swings...
on the pure abstract of
chemical reaction basics
of the brain...
   memory... as far as i am
concerned...
   is in direct conflict with
the chemical workings of the brain...
of the brain in situ,
for whatever is the concerning
investigation...
of... getting your music
for free... bypassing the radio
medium...
sure...
             'ere you go...
go forth... and...
            perhaps... you can...
manage to multiply,
and if not? eh, no big loss.