printing 20 copies of a cirriculum vitae...
tomorrow's london job convention,
and i'm...
                    criticism of one's writing,
writing per se,
              i never actually like anything
i write,
   on the odd occassion:
the process of doing it...
                                                  mid-30s...
regrets?
     don't know...
                 is there anything worth
the attention of regret?
                     i have the c.v. in my face...
and i'm thinking...
          half a nurture of lies,
half a nurture of truth...
     tomorrow i'll play the inquisitive child
with it...
    i just figured...
if only a job as a trash collector...
or...
      an executioner...
    something that requires
    eager,                            itchy hands...
of the latter?
   not from a perspective of pleasure,
derived from sadism...
   i just had to pick up a posthumous
bukowski publication
   and think to myself:
    when it comes to novels,
i will never reread them...
   i don't know how people manage
to reread books,
   then again:
   i can be found rewatching movies...
but...
i guess that's why i gravitated
toward poetry...
   like painting,
   like blinking...
   a poem? oh a poem i can
reread, over and over again...
until... i'm still staging an
anti-pedagogy practice of memorißing
poems -
that famous memory
  errosive substance...
   no... i won't memoriße
a poem...
   for the simple fact that,
i'll sooner return to it,
reread it,
   and experience a pondering
tool...
       who doesn't like poems
                          like strait-jackets?
oh, they're "out-there"...
they usually rhyme...
   or they make the application
of poetic technique
                              overtly known...
sometimes i'm less
a "poet" and more: a butcher...
   i'm given raw language,
i reply with raw, language:
pork chops, chicken thighs,
you name it...
          as ever:
   metaphor is no release,
  but a constricting glutton blob
of exhausted patience
   when it should serve one,
   to speak directly,
on matters of no transcendent potential.
- but i guess that's why
poetry appeals to me...
   like painting, like anything,
suddenly the gargantuan
blocked-toilet
    of human traffic under democratic
conditions...
where is the authenticity of fame
when...
   the only "authenticity" of fame
  is best served by a posthumous revelation...
otherwise?
  the current selfie of
                  a isa longwell...
**** me, i was looking for
what can be best described as
the "hollowed-out" Y in english...
i couldn't find it...
   ply, dry... it wasn't there...
i had to look up something in welsh...
there! there! the ******'s there!
     ddu meddwl yn
                                ngoleuni

sorrow: tristwch
     pride: balchder -

you know what helps with
the welsh W?   the ****** Ł...
   and you know what
helps with the welsh CH?
       no... it's not chitty chitty bang bang...
it's not chatter...
   it's... akin to the ****** CH...
hem... hem... hem...
not a hark...
              a dried out ha-sound...

chwerthin (h'łer'θin)
                θ / φ / F...
            to θink about θou(gh)t per se...
is a lessening of the awe construct /
motivation,
within the confines
of the genesis of φilosoφy.
          
           llawenydd (joy)...
oh sure, sure...
   all the ****** surnames are bad...
they have, "too many"
consonants...
   i'm reading a few words
in Welsh and i'm thinking...
great sparring partners...

        i could actually pull of
a decent Welsh
                  pronunciation...
      well...
they're hardly what the English
joke is about:
about pushing a sheep off a cliff...
and...
     sheep-*******
         (ddafad-rhyw)...
        (rył - masculine
   past participle of
           of: ryć -
                      to burrow;
  ryła? feminine
past participle of... ryć:
    which is gender neutral);

finally,
   my phonetic counterpart...
at what point was making
an insult the terms
of agreement for expressing
being endearing?
   right about now...
   as with the picts being...
                             bagpipe *******...

   this sort of language?
                   i'll need to find something
akin to being a *******
lumberjack...
     or something that can allow me
to not...
                  bump into people...
i could very much do
away with being a warden in
a lighthouse...
             to do something,
that is absolutely necessary...
   but doesn't entertain
  the debilitating circumstances
     of some variation of hierarchy...
safety pin commandos,
paperclip generals...
      whatever you call them...
at this point?
  who the who would want
to be an α-male...
    when... all that opposite ***
attention, also implies
                           a β-male drag?
imagine a job...
where...
you're as indispensable as a *******
hammer... in a sea of nails,
and countless canvases of
planks of wood.