.            a variant of "telepathy"...
or the acute relationship
of a schizophrenic menu
to...
   technological advancements...
invisible bypasses of sight...
lost intestine relativity
of cables...
           man on the moon...
returning...
  to the simple man,
caged...
   epitome, 1990s music...
     some think we're living
in an orwellian reality...
i can't even begin a genesis
of double-think,
without first relying myself
on the simple gesture
of either a roulette,
or a washing machine...
keep it simple,
herr zensor:
stop perplexing me as
if pretending to be
a ******* magician,
dear bureaucrat...
                    you're not Kant...
in the days when
a censor thinks he's
a magician,
and a bureaucrat thinks
he's a "somehow" philosopher?

grammarly?
seriously?
i'm drunk, and i give a ****
about how i ******* avoid
the lynch mob anti dyslexia...
but...
your average grammarly
user... first gave away
their freedom from a king
via auto-correct,
to an a.i.
   and... m'eh...
  m'eh... meritocracy?
  right...
        avoiding that,
is available too?
    smell that?
   smell that pungent scent?
no, no, it's not one of those
fashion houses doing
a take on what
an anorexic's **** looks,
let alone smells like...
     imagine:
an invisible fish...
  ghost's: rats
versus pearl jam's: rats...
counter the former...
you need that creeping
base level
     duet with drums...
like imitation of gnawing...
  sewers, dark future...
    königratte simply said:
shhhhhhh, or "acronym" grand Š...
canadian grunge can do
that to you...
you become...
   sensitive to...
what one could expect to
wrestling with one's shadow,
akin to no god but
to a titan...

- and what was given to them
on a platter...
they deflected...
they needed master a.i.
to correct their grammar...
to correct their spelling...
just when touch-screen
******* of a technology
came, they never, bothered,
to evaluate
the keyboard and a direct
translation onto a pixel /
belzeebub's eye canvas...
it's already demeaning
to have given up my
handwriting...
and if anyone were to read
each and every letter
i used to compose
a print letter with
a yours sincerely
end and signature...
i'd say:
  you signed off on a cipher.

  i mentioned telepathy, didn't i?
try, a simulation of schizophrenic
symptoms in the comments
section...
   schizophrenia "qua" telepathy
simulation,
that's what the pop comment
section in the internet "agora"
looks like...  

grammarly.... how does it work?
algorithm fed dyslexia,
modern hieroglyphs and...
nothing to do with someone
minding an acute sense of spelling
while conveying meaning
while listening to: crowded house,
weather with you.

"complex" this that, and the other...
batallion satan
and timothy looking
squint-eyed at the end of a barrel
of an M16...
  because: when was it ever
an antonym to consider
putting your head into the tip
of a canon, and putting
your head into a lion's gob?

holiday's over, gen X,
oops, i guess...
   when the pop culture hits
the curb...
   you know that there are
only outliers who keep
the already kept momentum alive...
since the everyday grey statistic
of a person,
will continue,
and preserve,
  and crack jokes about
winners,
losers,
  alpha males with a throng
of beta cucks...
     the solitary confined...
the dried-up eggs
of an inhibited female potential...
and the divorce-court
******* and parasites...

right now?
mozart?
    if i were at least 50 years old
at the end of the 20th century...
Sistine chapel and what not:
a kept "reverence"...
but nothing i could relate to,
relating to a song by
crowded house...
   or dinosaur jr....
   or blind melon...
or soul asylum
       (david priner...
seriously...
   he just looks like
paul kossoff in some angles)...

but who's talking?
  i'm 32, i'm the first of the first
youth exposed to the internet...
in the mainstream view,
microsoft chat-rooms...
bypassed myspace...
         when facebook ventured
into the university crowd,
as it spread like a wildfire
via the anti-excuse
for ad-companies:
word of mouth...
        i clocked in on last.fm...
before... the ****-storm
took off...

      i'm bemused...
comment sections of the internet,
i always find people are
confused with regards
to what a 1st person
architecture looks like
to what a 3rd person
architecture looks like,
notably without a d.m. thread...

telepathy?
       so... these people speak
simultaneously
as they type?
     telepathy?
or an avenue in imitating
a schizophrenic symptom
of "hearing voices"?
oh joy...
   until those people never
experience this ancient
bicemeral lineage
of symptoms...
how will they ever know,
made claustrophobic or
egoistic by their own:

**** sodden selves?

  personally? i admire
pontius pilate...
    of all the "characters" in
the new testament,
he's my modus operandi
source of inspiration...
    he's like that tourist,
once upon a time,
in london's trafalgar sq.,
being sold breadcrumbs
by tourist baiters...
  and then...
   the cloud of descending
pigeons...

no... baptism...
baptism does not relieve
one of the "original sin"...
what pontius pilate did
was more than john
the baptist could ever do...
the symbolism
of pontius pilate was always
more to me than
dipping a grown man
into a lake...

   satan? is it really a menacing
word?
  not if you grew up in
catholicism,
and attended a catholic mass,
when the creed is being
murmured...
   there was always,
something, morbid, beautiful,
but at the same time
menacing associated
with, pontius, pilate,
preceeded by the words:
condemned under...

    like the grand disappearing
act of man,
known to the gods:
of the mortal skew in
a momentary parabolla e.g.,
the footprints of but one man
on the shore,
and then, the grand gasp
of the sigma of: that is man,
what is man...
the heaving grip
of the "totalitarian" grand +
of the: to come
(replacement demographics).

- rigid *******...
their only love, expressed,
is hardly punctured
by punctuation marks,
notably, esp., when deviating
from the claustrophobia
of a paragraph narrative...
******* to all
the descriptive language
with, an anti-******
       of the dialogues...
leaving gaping holes,
gashing wounds
for theatre writers...
who... specialiße in dialogues
and in-between
narration of body-language
gesticulation of
a persona non grata,
           thankfully missing.

poetry? simple...
         paint me a picture;
can't paint me a picture
beside the rigidity of
a geometry?
   or a "thinking outside,
the box"?
   n'ah... let's pretend
i have a short-attention span...
or i'm, currently
fashioning myself
in symptoms of narcolepsy;
what then?

   william burroughs
tapped into this potential...
unlike tristan tzara...
he didn't pull out
snippets of newspaper
articles...
from a top-hat,
which was shoved up
the poet's ***
for the sake of the entire
cabaret voltaire outlet
of performance;

no genuine scrutiny on the by-pass,
notably anti-war...
if, war, was, clearly,
unavoidable...
mechanisms of torture...
while the rest of us
started playing an evolved
version of hide & seek...
by playing, art,
or... what's called stalling.