i don't really question the existence of god; i also read a very pop poem by a maya angelou - the phenomenal woman - what's great about pop poetry: unlike pop music - yes... these are the lyrics and also: thank god there is no music to accompany it... i might just like it... then again: Wagner... a rarity - in that he also wrote the libretto for the operas... perhaps that's why the music feels a tad bit as an indigestion - heavy on the germanic side... but pop poetry: well... it's for people who probably wouldn't want to experience a democracy of the whole "affair"... who's a jack spicer or an al purdy in this: teasing of leashes to tug at the greatest number of acolytes - words although once: written with a blood of pigeons - this diluted ink from flight - and on some variation of flimsy paper - maya angelou doesn't resonate with me like: hell... even walt whitman doesn't resonate with me... what resonates with me is the english... tongue of many abodes: i feel sluggish and shy to have to burrow in this tongue for: no reasons really given... i'm not running off to claim a reading of louis zukofsky or a delmore schwarz... i like how the hebrews can retain status of missing the stereotype galore of: become lumber-mill owners having started off selling toothpicks... i don't question the existence of god in as much: i am a fiction nugget in what's already an apparent: loss of sensibility - that i imagine a grave and the shallow warmth of a shadow marrying itself to night: how the shadow has married itself to the sea of night and how i have: only bare minimum inclinations for the project with a thought: here and there... i have come to distrust the faculty of memory: in that... i am also purely unimaginative... i couldn't conjure you a Dumbo even if i tried... content on the restraints given: i do imagine myself in two ways: a breaking of the neck when falling on the gallows... or turning into a pickled cucumber stashed away in some obscurity... like a prison cell: even though i have done nothing so wrong as to give me justification for enduring such squalor... but that's that... in a prison cell i can imagine myself staging a coup d'etat of lying back and watching a memory cinema like "something new"...
jude law: the third day... the music hones in on the project - alias? the wicker man... so nothing new: but a welcome reinvention... i'm just wondering whether or not demdyke stair provided the music... probably not... it's the wicker man through and through...
as i sometimes digest culture: i can find a canvas to meet an outlet and it's hardly a critique: oh i'm not that rich to hold a sensible job at a newspaper where i am paid to watch television and make critique of it... would i? what a formidable platitude of expectations...
why don't i question the existence of god: teasing at a gnosticism... perhaps... at judaic phoneticism: obviously... but no... some ruth Ginsberg dies... a supreme judge... i have had one notable experience of man made law: a revision of thou shall not steal in my life... i was a witness of a theft... i was on the team of the grieved party... a witness accuser -
we were walking a car pulled up my fwend's phone was ripped from his hands: i asked for the number plates to be noted... they were... due process was furthered and i was summoned to look at mugshots... i summoned the little gremlin to court... the incident happened in the night but for lack of imagination: my memory is furnace -
in his (the gremlins') defence a photograph was used to debase my assurance from leaving pristine confrontation against the use of a mugshot... the year was: when england won the ashes... the defence presented a photograph: and argument: can you recognise this face - the picture was dated: in the days when photographs still had a vivid neon crayon of red imprinted on them: as i pointed out - two years from now i hope to be sporting a missing chin... i.e. a beard...
i don't think there was any weight to my argument... after all: the injured party didn't recognise the mugshot - i did... i don't actually know whether the drive-by phone-jacker was convicted... it's beside the point:
gravity - an unquestionable law... gravity and death - the film moon starring sam rockwell: and there i was thinking that clones would only be used to further the projects of centaurs and caesars... i was so ******* wrong... the soul destroying project of: only one authenticity left to deal with... this clone is a machine deposit... it's not a would be: futuristic project to keep death at bay... anyway...
i am sooner to find myself in the "supreme court" of a law that states itself paramount and unbiased - adjective adjective adjectives... that sort of law i can stand... but to come across... nuances... man's inhibitions... man's jurisprudence jargon of synonyms to lessen the blow: something less hoisin comforting in a marinade and: peppery / itchy / sneeze conjurer...
i will sooner come across a law of a deity: like gravity - mortality is itself a bundle of tenure possibilities / day-dreams - i will sooner come across that: yes... deism and that's because... a theist would want gravity to be bulldozered for an interlude in miracles... but i will sooner come across these laws... than... confined to a court... have to stand sober and marionette-esque pretty to specify all the plethoras of nuance... that man ordeals himself with... i.e. a theft is not a theft when... the third party recognises the culprit but the injured party doesn't... at least that's what it felt like from my experience: i didn't hear a follow up on the passing of judgement -
well... at this point i am not surprised that everything i write has a tinge of juvenilia - it's the same base project of 1 + 1 = 2 and: god exists or doesn't... i'm so far beside myself: the demiurge as a bad joke for the greek polytheists - is or isn't: question or no question: fundamentally fudge-packing and custard goo ruining a smile - best looking toward those serious orthodox closures from the russians on the topic...
arbeit macht frei: would be a question imposed by the workaholics - which is never a never real question... to write toward a tongue that will never be spoken that only eyes will decipher... i never read what i write... as i write what i see i automate on the basic principle of: extending beyond the friction of the digits - fugazi *******! fugazi jackson *******... a half smoked cigarette in my lips starting to draw ms. amber's wetting - nothing like smoking tobacco via a soaked filter stinking of maple syrup of a bourbon...
but that the topic remains: the laws of men and all of man's nuances... at least there was something akin to keeping sanity with: all are equal before death and a ledge... aren't all... equal? all are equal before death: death the court jester of the versailles of heavens... death the joker death cry me a clown... cry me ****** frictions that can become an eternal smile! death no bomb death the joke death of deaths and death's ashore sunbathing on the tide of the Styx with imitation of Thames...
evelyn waugh's gilbert pinfold's ordeal... pushed to the limits of a stress membrane being breached: a claustrophobia of any and all ego projects: akin to egoism - my metaphor for the schizoid "adventure": or what it was first: a promising future via bilingualism...
but that man has these laws... his own graces and his own demises - the hindering bias for: money juggling and monkey rendering the concept of honest work: in the service sector can there be an authenticity of work? with all the loitering and keeping up appearances "in between"...
i bellow with a mule's agony of a last breathable breath to source the vanity of cyclopses - i no longer can hear anything for the worth of these letters and these words just automate themselves: i see auroras of a congestion that allows me to escape this poorly lit night sky... a moonless night promenade...
i hyperventilate with a purpose to only pursue a vanity that's the least: that it doesn't rhyme and propose a fire for the invitation of stressor memory bundles... my little corner of impatience becomes: a penitent proof of... worthless unimaginative spell-binding... but at the same time i am lost should i come across a formal lingo...
a language of translation or a language of: feral and honest locality - that which has to be preserved for some ulterior this that and the other... it's no surprise that charles dickens isn't celebrated on the continent... should he be? i'd like for him to be celebrated: don pickwick...
just how man passes laws... this jury on the possible irregularities of the heavenly spheres... the arthritis of the glue that stands firmest when the moon swallows a shower of meteors... gobbles them down with a pauper's glee... that there must be a dinosaur graveyard and: no-brainer explanation for the meteor - how an why this meteor that killed off the dinosaurs hasn't been romanticised and given a name...
hell: call a ***** a ***** a screwdriver a camel jockey... even if the name for earth: is this same blunt: earth... that the moon is still a bland scythe... bleeding gums murphy... but it would be nice to have a name for such an event - Mr. Oppenheimer - the meteor that killed off the dinosaurs... how's that? there's a mt. everest... there's a name for a turtle of a rock that's Ayrs in How-Stray-La-La.... i can call an atom a proton a neutron and an electron... there's hydrogen and there's helium... i can give names to: even though my authentic materialistic atheism sensibility doesn't permit me like some vanguard vegan / jacobin mention... Kronos or Hyperion...
**** for thought: big bang... is pristine in it being: so uninviting to resonate with: well... it does... all murders of the modern... i'd like to call the meteor that killed off the dinosaurs and ushered in the advent of the spider monkeys: the **** simils and the **** sepia and the **** sapiens as...
same old same old variation of caucasian in mishaps - some grandfather mandarin - some father mongol - some turk of a son... whittle ******* of brides that's part Viennese pastry and part London gluttonies of the broken bones pie...
i'm here for the party: are you here for the party? we're here for the party! i couldn't imagine myself as anything more than an extension of the primo party project: eating the culinary half-oyster of an egg that's a poultry-abortion... i love it! i love it so much i scramble it... i poach it... i soft and hard boil it... i even add a scallion from time to time... i'm here for the party... here's to... still using language that never bothered to settle down to tow a mute... buttonz of galore...
well... it could have helped to conjure up a parthenon of sorts... a get-together of imaginary side projects - but the modern sensible man this highly elevated man wrestling with some also unseen microscopic and tuning his worth to an argument for: more more more... i'm actually devastated by this new guise of atheistically prone materialistic sensibility: a word salad or just some forever golgotha custard come about from crushing bones...
i was sensible once... when i knew of joseph stalin: the little georgian that hijacked the russians... or adolph ******: the austrian that hijacked the germans... i was sensible once... this is no time to be sensible... this is a time to be: wholly pointless and incessant! why wait?!